Shusha, Armenia

A few kilometers south of the regional capital of Stepanakert was the town of Shusha. Nestled in the Karabakh mountains, the town was home to only 8,000 people. Many had fled westward to Stepanakert during the 1978 war, to what had become a hub for transportation and communications and trade. What was left of Shusha was a farming town, and the Abbasian family owned a small farmhouse on the outskirts. It lay upon an ancient road, winding through the mountains. The squat, green building was built at the top of a hill overlooking a valley below - today it was shrouded in the April fog and a light rain had fallen recently. The region was certainly lush, unlike the deserts of West Armenia that Haroud Abbasian had just returned from. He had taken a train from Yerevan to Stepanakert that zipped around Lake Sevan to the mountainous Lachin Corridor - the only route through the mountains that formed the natural provincial border between the Artsakh and Erivan regions. Their father had been there to meet them at the Stepanakert train station, welcoming his son with a bear hug and a pat on the back. After their greetings, the family piled into their beat-up, rear-engined jalopy of a sedan and began the hour's drive to their hometown.

Haroud was still exuberant over the parade. He had ridden in the tank with Zokarski and company, waving a saber around and tossing sweets to children. After the parade was over, he drank with his friends one last time before his mother urged him to get to the train station. By nightfall, he was sound asleep in the rattling car and headed back home. Administratively, the Army was separating him - his company had been deactivated earlier in the week and he was technically now a reservist. Practically, it meant he could go home. He would end up mailing his documents to Yerevan at a later date. For now, his career in lumber awaited. Shusha was home to many forests, all of which were on the verge of being eagerly exploited by companies slowly let loose from national control. Lumber was important for rebuilding, and Haroud had been a truck driver for the Shusha Lumber Company before his deployment. With the new spots in actual, physical lumberjack jobs, Haroud was planning to get a start in sometime in the next week. He figured that lumber would provide an exciting career - danger, exercise, and travel. Many of his friends had mixed feelings about leaving the service: Haroud felt the same, mostly because he didn't want a job in an office somewhere. Combat - or, more specifically, adrenaline - was a high that many couldn't live without.

The sedan pulled into the rocky driveway on the hill and the family piled out. Haroud's little sister went toddling to the house as he watched, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His father, dressed in his western garb of a sweater over a dress shirt and tie, came up behind him. He smiled warmly at his son and then looked back at the house. It was two stories tall and had a wooden porch facing the valley. A metal awning came over the driveway as a sort of open garage, with bicycles on racks in front of it. Everything was as picturesque as can be, right down to the meticulously tended garden the Haroud's mother had almost certainly slaved away at to impress him when he arrived. He had the mind to tell her that anything was better than a sandy trench or a rattling armored vehicle, but the flowers did indeed look amazing. So he kept his mouth shut as he entered the house. The door opened up and a shape moved from within: Haroud's dog had leaped out from the entrance and sprung straight towards her boy. The Alabai Shepherd rammed her head straight into Haroud's stomach, effecting a stumble backwards. Then she moved to leap up onto her hind feet and flail her paws onto the son's chest. She whined her high-pitched crying whine, overjoyed to finally see Haroud home again.

"Yes, hi! Hello, puppy girl!" Haroud cooed. "How has little Arev been? How have you been?"

The dog panted and whined, trying to lick Haroud's neck and face. She was a big dog, for sure. She went up to his chest on her hind legs.

"She's grown," Haroud's father said. "She was a puppy when you left, remember!"

"And she's much better than our goats that we used to have for company," Haroud grinned. "I wish we had a dog just like little Arev."

"She's so excited!" called out Haroud's sister. "She almost knocked you over!"

"She did better than the Turks could," joked Haroud's father. "Not a scratch on you until you come home and Arev cuts your forearm."

Haroud smiled at his father, then looked down at his wrist to see a tiny scratch that didn't even bleed. "Oh, boy, you're lethal!" teased Haroud to the dog. "You're worth the whole Turkish Army put together!"

Arev dropped back down to all fours and rubbed her head on Haroud's uniform pants. Almost immediately, her black-and-white fur began to stick to the fabric and Haroud remembered that no outfit is complete without a healthy coat of dog hair - something that he had thankfully lacked during his stay in Erzurum. NCOs were never fans of deviation from the uniform standard, much less anything that could possibly degrade their appearance and turn him into a "useless piece of dishonorable shit." So he reached down to scratch Arev's ears while commanding her to sit. Calmed down and more at ease now that the initial excitement had subsided from her short attention span, the dog obeyed. With the pet sufficiently satisfied with Haroud's return, the son made his way up the hill and into his family's house while the dog padded along in tow. The green building towered above the road below, white roof gently sloped towards the southern mountains. A porch made its way around the exterior underneath an awning. It was truly picturesque. Windows with varied curtains looked down upon the hill, and a small yellow flag hung besides the front door. It bore a single black star denoting Haroud's deployment - an increasingly-popular item to display in front of patriotic houses. As the family entered, Haroud's mother tore it off the wall and bundled it underneath her arm. Her son was home again.

The living room was filled with the smell of freshly-brewed coffee, the cups clustered on top of an ancient silver platter from the early 19th century. This was located on top of a handcarved wooden coffee table that had been bought in Stepanakert many years ago. This was atop a dulled Armenian carpet that was something of a family heirloom. A sofa sat to the immediate right of the door at the far left of the room, directly opposite a smoldering fireplace. Photographs hung from the wall behind the sofa, depicting the family and their ancestors in a chronological order. Framed on the coffee table was a framed, sepia-tinted photograph featuring Haroud in his battledress, helmet draped lazily over the side of his head, holding his arm around a shirtless David Goverian's shoulder. Sitting on the floor was Zokarski, also shirtless and helmeted and grinning for the camera while holding a light machine gun in his lap. Haroud had noticed the picture almost immediately and remembered that he had sent it to his mother almost six months ago. A small handwritten note accompanied the pose of three friends, reading: "Dear mother: I found the best comrades in arms that a man could ask for. It's not so bad on the front, anyways. November, 1979." Picking it up, he smiled warmly and remembered the friends that he had left behind when he left. Was Goverian still in a hospital somewhere? He had been blinded by shell fragments, so possibly. Haroud decided that he would need to find him when he had the chance.

Haroud's mother had returned from the kitchen with a platter of small cakes to place on the table with the coffee. She looked up at Haroud, noticing his stiff posture and smiling. "Oh, come now!" she insisted. "You're no longer in the Army. Relax a little!"

"Oh, right," Haroud noted somewhat embarrassingly. "Sorry, I'm used to being told what to do all the time."

"Then sit down on the sofa, sweetie," said his mother. She sat down on the far side of the sofa and gave a pat for her son to sit next to her. Then, in her sweetly accented voice, she said: "I have so much to tell you about. Nine months is a long time."

Sevan, Armenia

Yaglian lived in an apartment building at the end of a circular plaza atop a hill at Joint Base Sevan Lake. His top-floor room had everything he could have needed: a bed, a radio, a kitchenette, some space, and a roommate who worked the night shift. The walls of Yaglian's room was decorated with some movie posters and a large, bullet-riddled Chechen flag draped across the wall next to his door. He had acquired the peculiar item from the contraband of a captured militant and decided to take it with him to display. If others did it, why couldn't he? Underneath the Chechen flag was the militant's Tsarist-era rifle - a Kalash. Those certainly were uncommon around Chechens, so Yaglian decided to "liberate" that as well. The rifle was supported by a shelf that he had built for it: the trophy rack that exuded victory despite the fact that his front had largely been shafted into obscurity. There was no romance in guarding the border and occasionally arresting meth traffickers. And now he was in an even more mundane position as he stood guard around an Army and Air Force runway in the middle of the tri-base area of Yerevan, Sevan, and Gyumri.

The Saturday began early for Yaglian as he fried some dough on his gas stove in his fatigue pants and undershirt while listening to some of the local radio. The soft, melodious tone of Armenian folk instrumentals filled the air and went out the windows, open to the warm spring air. The smell of frying dough, indeed, complemented the relaxed atmosphere. Yaglian's roommate, who had stumbled in an hour ago smelling of dirt and marsh with an explanation that he had inexplicably fallen out of the bed of a pickup truck while on his way back home, was sleeping in his boxers on the couch and drooling over the nice upholstery. The roommate was a Greek who spoke little Armenian, often gesturing his way through conversations while Yaglian attempted to pantomime what he was trying to convey. There seemed to be a lot of such personnel in the military, grouped oftentimes into their own units for cohesion. Now that the war was over, Yaglian was fairly sure that many of the Greeks and Russians were going to be discharged unless they could integrate with the regular army. He had heard rumors, though, of an organization in the planning stages: a regiment composed solely of foreigners. But that was just the rumor mill, and nobody could actually care. Discharge or segregation: Yaglian cared little. Maybe his new roommate wouldn't drool over the couch while his BDUs sat, smelling like rotten marsh in the laundry hamper. However, Yaglian's musings were interrupted by the dinging of his little mechanical egg-timer, and the dough was ready to be eaten.

Breakfast went by quickly as Yaglian ate fast as to not disturb the sleeping Greek in his living room. Dusting off the powdered sugar from his telnyashka's striped fabric, he decided to check the mail: he had sent a letter out to a few clubs the previous Wednesday to ask if they could schedule him in for a Saturday night performance. He didn't know what to expect, though: would his contributions to the musical fusions be applauded? Already he had picked up some ideas from the stuff his roommate listened to. He had heard the sounds of Ethiopia, of Syria, of Georgia. Sevan was an immigrant town, producing a culture distinctly its own. This is why he had requested a transfer here, even if the job was terrible and his career had pretty much ended. He had been feeling conflicted about his musical career, however. It'd be silly of him to think that he'd turn out to be a star. He'd just as likely be a starving artist. But the chance was still there, and Yaglian was trying his best to seize the day. After all, if he failed he'd still be living comfortably with a Corporal's paycheck for the next few years and if he succeeded he'd be snorting cocaine off of prostitutes in the luxury hotels downtown. He often joked that there was no way he could lose. And his dream was revealed to be closer than he thought when he saw a letter in his apartment's mailbox from a club on the outskirts of the city: it was the Dead Soldier's Den.

They had agreed to take him for the night, seeing as they needed an act to perform after one of their performers had been rendered unavailable. There had been a murder nearby the other day, and Yaglian wondered if that might have been it. But there was no reason to dwell on it: the Corporal had his foot in the door. And with the letter in hand, Yaglian climbed the stairs back to his apartment and slept on the couch for a few hours. He was on at eleven, Saturday night. He had plenty of time.

Stockholm, Sweden
Birgit sat at his desk, coldly looking into the blue eyes of Damian, the finance minister. It was clear enough that Damian was unsettled and took effort to avoid Birgit’s eyes. Damian continued normally, despite desperately hoping the glare was all he would receive from Birgit, “Look Birgit, we just can’t do it, Cen still has influence and the move is too soon, and besides that it’s just not economically viable we might well lose money on the endeavour.”

Birgit sighed and his cold gaze was blocked by a hand that clasped his face, and when the fingers peeled off and Birgit’s eyes came again into view they had forgotten the cold gaze in favour of a look more disturbing coming from Birgit, disappointment. “Damian we did all of this because you said that it as the only way to stop war. If we don’t re-open trade with the North Finns then we will never be able to rebuild the public trust.” Birgit spun the chair to the side and stepped out with a creak, put a hand to his chin and looked back at Damian, “When did you care about Cen anyway? Certainly not when we betrayed everything we believed in for a change to do what the nation needed; tell me is that you have your fancy chair now? Was that all you wanted Damian? You were willing to break every law, every trust to get here and that was all you wanted!” Birgits tone became more harsh and violent and he took the hand from his chin and slammed it into the desk with a thud and levelled his eyes to Damien’s, “I will not pull back the proposal, and if you try to stop it Damian know that even as my friend I am willing to take us both down if we can’t do what we did this all for!”

The sudden change to anger and rage took Damian off guard and he jerked back, nearly falling from his chair when Birgit slammed the desk, it took a moment but Damian quickly recollected himself and rose out of his own chair. Of course Birgit’s eyes followed him all the way up and Damian protested, “Birgit please, you have no right to accuse me of that, I am the same man that I was then, I want the same thing as you, and I care about Cen now because he is right Birgit, North Finland has nothing to offer us for now. We did this for peace and we will have it Birgit, we just have to wait!” Damian sighed and lowered his voice, “If you want to ham fist the proposal though go ahead, but the consequences will be on you Birgit, when our economy stops this growth the people love you for don’t expect to be able to fake another election.” Damian opened the large oak door and wordlessly walked out of the room, leaving Birgit angry with his hand red on the table.

Birgit returned to his chair and sat there for long enough that the light shining though his blinds failed, though he was too deep in his own mind to notice. He eventually stood up and noticed the worlds outside, he uttered, “Damn… Well Damian I guess we will see if you are willing to betray me.”

Stockholm, Board of Defense
Dolf straightened his tie and stood up from the cushioned seat in the white sparsely decorated office (excluding the dominating portrait of Sweden’s first president) as he heard the door creak open. In walked the secretary of Defense Carin Svenson who was shortly followed by General Dirk Egon. The secretary extended his hand and Dolf followed suite. The secretary finished the handshake and walked to the seat behind his desk; he sat and signalled for Dolf and the General to do so as well.

The General sat at the seat immediately to the left of Dolf who took off his air force cap and waited for the secretary to begin. Perhaps a bit casually the secretary asked, “Was the drive down long Colonel? I hear that base can be a bit of a drive from the General here.”

Dolf politely responded, “It is sir, but I came as soon as I got the message to report here, I apologize in advance if I seem tired.”

The secretary responded, “No trouble at all.” He then pulled some glasses from the frontal pocket on his brown suit and put them around his narrow head, the glasses resting just above his ears near the balding on the top of his head. He continued after pulling out a document and looking at it for a moment, “The General here says the plane preforms well already? Excellent. You can imagine we are all a bit relived here that we are finally getting our air force up to modern standards. However, that relief has come with a bit of excitement and many in the Riksdag are advising me to push the deadline forward.”

Dolf, who had been occasionally allowing his eyes to wander during the exchange snapped to attention and protested, “Sir we need the time we have! The final review is in a month and while the plane has passed all preliminary tests we still need to verify the consistency of the results.”

The secretary sighed and looked to the General who responded to Dolf, “Look Colonel we know that the plane is not completely finished but with the recent exercises of the new Malmo class ships gathering attention we don’t have much choice but to push the review forward. The men in the Riksdag have a shorter attention span than my dog, we need them to give us the money for mass production on a successful review now, not in five years.”

Dofl was noticeably unnerved by this and leaned back in his chair before quickly correcting his posture and asked, “Is that it then? How much time do we have now?”

The secretary responded hesitantly, “Two weeks, I fought for a bit longer but that is all we have.”

Dolf stood up and spoke clearly, “Then that is what we have, I will get Alexander to fast track his adjustments. Secretary, General, may I be dismissed?”

The secretary responded, “Of course.” And with that Dolf walked out of the room, without the comfort he had carried moments earlier in being ahead of schedule.

Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia

The sunlight fell golden through the amber liquid. Fanning out into a soft burst of light as the glass was held against the setting evening sun. Ulaanbaatar. The city was hardly old. Not by the standards set in Beijing, Nanking, or elsewhere. As it was, much of the city was built almost as modern revolutionaries would see it, influenced by what architectural ideas could be salvaged for the benefit of the Chinese state. Rising alongside the hidden old temples of the city's past, and almost in an attempt to tower above the mountains that wrung around the city in the distance were the steel and brick and glass skyscrapers of the Mongolian region's administration. Through its heart, the Tuul river cut a silvery path through the city, winding around un-developed grassy and rocky hills as it crawled out of the Mongolian steppe.

“Have you by chance heard what Mang Xhu's been campaigning under?” a stiffened man said, he was old. Somewhere over the hump of a man's life. His skin was kissed by the sun and was a darker olive than most. His eyes pressed thinner. But for the lines around his eyes he wore a happy smile, even given the circumstances.

“I haven't.” said his friend. Zhang Auyi. He sat reclined in a wicker chair atop the apartment building his friend called home. A top floor penthouse, though not nearly as large a flat as many Europeans would consider luxury. All the same he did enjoy many features that some kinsmen that still roamed as their ancestors had for thousands of years would consider wealthy.

Nekhii Bathukhan was a fortunate man.

“It is no wonder he seems to seek to campaign directly to us fellow politicians.” the Mongolian said, sitting down, “I was invited to a private dinner at his home in Beijing, if you're wondering why I know. Some fifteen other comrades of mine in parliament where there in attendance.”

“I had an invitation to one of those.” Auyi laughed, lowering his glass of beer to the table as he leaned back. He was still dressed in a thick black coat. A cold wind blew down from the north across the barren Mongolian steppe. A restless sort of continuous wind. It bit into him.

“And how'd you respond?” Bathukhan laughed, “I would think that two men competing for the same office would have interesting excuses.”

“I told him I was busy.” Auyi laughed, a large grin easing itself across his face, “I actually called him back thanking him for the invitation, but that I would be spending the date in Hong Kong at a conference between college staff.”

“And did you?” the Mongolian representative asked.

“I did, but not on that day. I did make sure to leave around the date of his party to not arose suspicion.” Auyi said with a snide laugh, “He – like I – has his birds no doubt. So if I didn't at least look the part he'd be suspicious.”

“Not to mention it hasn't ever been in good taste to be seen attending the parties of the man you're competing against.” Bathukhan agreed.

“Oh no, this was shortly before I applied to run for Grand Secretary!” laughed Auyi, “It's that when I heard later he was campaigning that inspired me to apply.”

“I see.” Bathukhan said casually, looking out over the glistening towers of a city at twilight.

“So what did Comrade Xhu have to say?” asked Auyi.

“The usual.” grunted Bathukhan, “I was almost offended enough to leave mid-way through. He's counting on the Unity Bloc in the National Congress to act as his supporting platform. He's hoping on the feeble resistance to the Autonomy Proposition.”

“How is that, by the way?” asked Auyi, “It's been silent in the papers for a while, and I haven't read any executive memos.”

“It's up for one more vote this coming week.” chirped Bathukhan, “Comrade Hou's stroke those couple months back threw us all off enough that the revision vote was delayed and the debates. I think the Unity Bloc managed to delay it as long as they did by pushing other topics into the way.”

The Mongolian looked up at his friend who looked to be already bored with the idea of discussing parliamentary procedure, “As it turns out, it had already used up enough time on argument on the floor to be moved to later.” he said in finished.

“I see.” Auyi nodded, raising the glass of beer to his lips and taking a sip.

“It's thrilling, and I would strangle most people some days if I wasn't an old man.” laughed Bathukhan.

“So did he appeal to anything else?” Auyi asked.

“Mostly got the bullshit to swim concerning total unity.” remarked Bathukhan, “I feel like he's a step and a half away to proposing that China annex the whole of the Third International as a singular, Beijing-centered government.

“Both you and I know how well that would go.”

“Is Mongolia still having reactionarian issues?” Auyi asked, curious.

“I think they all gave up in late 1969. Since then it's been quiet. Every once and a while we'll get someone setting fires to something downtown. But the large-scale post-annexation violence is gone.

“I've talked with a few men in the local IB about it and they say all intelligence suggests they've disbanded. There's a few self described 'old clans' out in the west. But you get out there and everyone's too busy moving their goats to actively fight Beijing.

“Here and in the East I'm sure Deep Gobi keeps the dissent subdued. Half this region's in helicopter range from there alone. Not much horses can do to evade that. And I say that as an avid, retired runner myself!” he added with an enthusiastic shout. His voice was rather booming when it needed to be.

Auyi couldn't help but laugh as he leaned over in his seat. Sipping again from the amber cup. “Xhu probably thinks that the region being the development center for the Ministry of Science is enough for up here then.”

“Most likely.” nodded Bathukhan, “I wouldn't say it's a total benefit. But it's certainly boosted the prominence of the local university.”

South of Kalachinsk, Russia

The road turned rocky and broken as the tank groaned on. Fallen trees lay tumbled like match-sticks. Abandoned vehicles lay off the side of the road, turn over or simply left behind by their owners. And all between Siberian soldiers picked through the litter and watched idly by the side of the road, their rifles held all too casually at their chests. A clear view lay out in panorama from the turret of the tank. Behind, a handful of armor thundered behind. And all around were the clear skies of a Russian mid-day, save for the smoke that rose to Sun Song's right.

The juunshi looked out at the smoke rising beyond the trees and farmer's fields lining the road with a sort of knowing. An experience in the ways of war. As a veteran of the war in the Philippines. By then, he had hardly won the hardened leather cap on his head, with the bulbous earphones on the side.

He knew that some of his comrades would need to deal with it. The bulk of the column had fanned out over the countryside as they crossed over into the Republic. There was without a doubt there were armored teams that would be heading into what burned. And going down this road, he figured that on some level he'd be requested to lead his crews to it. He was already drawing fairly close towards Omsk. But he kept the expectations bottled, they'd happen as they happen. He'd be ready.

The still silence that had loomed over the radio heralded the eerie forced calm that the Chinese had experienced so far. Muffled static whispered softly through Song's earphones. Occasionally, commanders throughout the column would whisper in their positions, or give minor updates on their status. Communications were still, sterile. They had to keep the line clean.

This would change soon. Song could tell as he looked ahead.

Along the side of the road a red flag flew tattered and weak. Through the murky reinforced glass windows that circled the turret hull, small dilapidated tents grew visible between road-side brush and trees. Arranged haphazardly along the shoulder of the road and into the farmer's field beyond. Figures patrolled the outside weakly, while others lay behind them.

Through the glass Song watched as a figure stepped out into the road. The blurred soldier rose a murky flag in his hands as he hailed the tank down, waving it over his head.

“Stop at that man!” Song shouted over the grinding and whistling of the motor below.

“Yes, comrade!” his driver shouted, the new guy. He was anxious. The apprehension shown on his words. Song could say he felt sorry for the young Tsung, but then every warrior needed his moment of proving. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

To his left the tank's communication equipment sat bolted to the side of the turret. A bulky brick of electronics and diodes. Blackened knobs allowed for adjusting channel and volume, or what minor matters of noise reduction he could achieve. Like the model of tank he was in, this was new. “Q-41I, Sun Song,” he said in a raised voice as he cupped his microphone to his mouth, looking behind him at the four others following him, “We're pulling in for a stop up ahead. By advised.”

“Copy, comrade.” came the response to his ears. The headphones in his cap kept some of the background noise of his own command from getting in the way, though the same could not be said for what often fed through with the voices of his subordinates.

Slowly, the tank gave up speed and inched to the figure in the road. The noise and clattering that echoed inside died to softer tones as it came to an inching crawl, then stopped.

As the tank came to a full stop Sung reached up for the hatch above his head. The latch turned stiffly in his hand and threw open just as heavily. Fresh sunlight streamed in with golden brilliance as Sun stood up outside. His lungs singing a song of relief as they took in the heavy fresh air of the outside. A cool breeze washed from the north. It was a drink of water he drank on after riding in the warm stuffed Tei Gui.

“Hail, comrade!” the man shouted, lowering his hand. He was an officer, young for his position too. But the far away stare in his eyes was beginning to develop. And his Chinese minced with a heavy Russian tongue. Song had to give him the credit where it was due for trying, but took a moment to wonder why all Russians sounded drunk.

“Comrade.” Song shouted back. He took a moment as he breathed in the fresh air and to look around. Looking out to the shoddy encampment off to the side of the road.

“You heading to Omsk then, comrade?” the Russian soldier shouted back. His rifle hung limp under his arm, muddy strap hanging across his equally muddied and bloodied coat as it wrapped around the opposite shoulder.

There was a way he carried himself. Uncertain. His shoulders hunched and back slouched. He wasn't an eager man. He was tired. And so to did his brothers.

“In the direction.” Song replied. Nodding to the camp he asked: “What's this then? Why'd you hail us down?”

“We've some comrades trapped in the town of Kalachinsk, brother.” the soldier shouted back, nervous. From the front the driver's hatch was thrown open and Li Tsung crawled out. He gave a confirmatory look to his commander before looking at the Russian and to his camp. There was a pale relief on his face, but the expression died as he took in what was next door. The Siberian didn't make him feel any better in his tattered battle-soaked clothes. Neither did his report on the matter.

“The Republican army has encircled their position in the middle of town.” he continued woefully, ”We've tried to relieve them, break the siege for as long as they need to breath. But for the past couple of days they've been keeping us out.”

Song nodded, “What do they have?” he asked.

“Heavy machine guns, it's made for an attempt on foot suicide. They're lined up in the trees on the southern advance here.” the soldier said solemnly, “There's not a lot of cover in the farm fields, they cut us down as we go. Or snipers pick us off if we go around. I haven't seen what it's like in town since our two units were separated.”

“You allowed yourself to get separated!?” Song shouted, horrified.

“I- I-” the soldier stammered, “It was not like we could try. Fresh soldiers from Omsk got there before the rest of us did, and we lost our communication's officer!”

“I would have radioed in if we hadn't lost him.” he continued desperate. “And I can't spare any men as it is, too many of us have been injured by the assaults. So it's not like I can spare any runners, comrade!”

“Then why not pull out further to get closer with the rear-guard!?” Song shouted, angered.

“I'm afraid of what'll happen if we go back empty handed!” the Russian officer fearfully admitted in a raised voice, “At least staying here I supposed we'd meet up with someone who could do something about it.

“This is you, isn't it?” he pleaded weakly.

Song grumbled. Dropping his forehead into his fingers he stiffly messaged his temples, “What else is the situation then?” he spat.

“I believe they got mortars somewhere. Maybe out west.” he said nervously, fidgeting in the road, “And maybe they got something else. Last I saw of our brothers, they got held up in the town hall. Maybe they're still there if the Republic hasn't managed to break through.”

“I'll see what I can do.” he shouted, dropping down into the turret. He grumbled disdainfully to himself as he reached for the receiver. Turning it on and cupping it to his mouth, “This is juunshi Song, requesting command. Over.”

“This is command, comrade Song.” a female voice responded in a calm even tone.

“We've crossed with Siberians who are requesting assistance in liberating a trapped number of men at the village of Kalachinsk, do we have permission to engage?”

There was a long stretch of silence from the other end. The rumbling of the idling tank filling his ears as he waited for a response.

“This is command.” a voice said again, “Permission is raised to engage hostile forces in the village of Kalachinsk. Coordination with Siberian command recommends to hold the settlement on its liberation and to wait for reinforcement.

“Advance on the village with what support you can acquire.” the voice finished.

“Copy that, Sun Song moving out. Over and out.” he said, connecting the microphone back to the radio box.

Communication and reports continued to flow through the channel like water as Song crawled back out into the Russian light. “Do you have any men who can fight still?” he yelled at the Russian below him.

“We have some, Tovarich.” he said hesitantly.

“Rally them. You're going in with us.” Song ordered.

“Wait, you expect us to help?!” cried the officer. Tsung looked up wide eyed at his commander. A silent conversation, a confirmation went between the two as Song glared down at him. His driver diligently weaseled back into his seat.

“As best you can.” Song said, “And keep behind us as we move!” he yelled, sliding back into his seat. The hatch closed with a clang behind him. “Take us to Kalachinsk.” he shouted down into the cabin.

Sevan, Armenia

Sahle's head throbbed. He was a small room he didn't remember arriving in, looking out a shuttered window at a street he didn't remember traveling down. The bed he was sitting on was a poor, rough spring mattress covered in dull beige sheets. Wallpaper was pealing from the walls, revealing the water-stained drywall beneath. He was covered in his own sweat, droplets settling on his arms and soaking the clothes he had been wearing for days. In his hand, he was fingering the trigger-guard of a polished military-issue handgun.

It was heavy and cold. He stared at it in horrified fascination as he sat alone in the dark dwelling on all that had happened There were bits and pieces that he could recall. Snapshots mostly, of what little the acid had not addled. He could remember the light, and the flash of fire. He could remember the cops, and the dirty looks the old bar-owner, Horasian, had given him. He could remember Aaliyah sobbing, and the blood that covered the ground. And he could remember the Russian.

One of them would have been dead if it hadn't been for Vasily. When the assassin pulled his weapon, Vasily had acted quickly and drove a knife into his back before he could aim. The bullet had been fired into the ceiling, harming nobody. The only other injuries had been caused in the panic that followed, and that had been little more than bruising. But that hadn't been the end of it.

After the police were convinced the dead man had been killed in self defense, Vasily came to Sahle and his friends. "I am not thinking that you are popular to everyone." he had said in his dry way, but there was something else behind his words. "I will be hiding you now."

And that he did. It had been hours since the Russian left. When he put the gun in Sahle's hand, he had asked if he knew how to use it. Sahle had nodded, but he was not sure.

I have killed men before. I know how. He still could not completely explain what had happened when they escaped Cairo. Perhaps it had been the adrenaline, or his boundless love for Aaliyah, but something had driven him to pull the trigger and kill the Sheik's men. He was not sure he could do it again - not now, not in this way. His mind played through the scenario over and over. When he imagined them busting through the door, dusty white flakes falling from the chipped white paint, he pulled the gun up as quick as he could. Nobody was there, but he froze anyway, and his fingers were hardly steady enough to keep it in his hands. His guts were churning. I could never kill again. I'm no killer...

When Sahle had been an Emperor, he had ordered people to their deaths without a second thought. He had ruled during wartime, and his words had caused thousands to die. Even now, sitting humbled in the gutter, he did not care. It wasn't their lives he was afraid of taking. It was something else. He couldn't place it, but the entire idea that his life depended on the trueness of his trigger finger frightened the fuck out of him.

"He is dead now." Vasily's sing-song voice echoed through his head from somewhere in the fog of his memories. Why had the Russian taken so much interest in him? Did he know? Sometimes, Sahle felt certain that his identity would be discovered. It seemed miraculous that it hadn't yet. He had been an Emperor after all, and his face has been plastered all over a continent. Could Sotelo do the same, or Hou? Or maybe someone else assumed dead was walking amongst the dregs in disguise. The thought of not being the only phantom king made him feel uncomfortable.

Where is Aaliyah? This entire situation was suspicious. Who had the bullet been meant for? What were Vasily's interests? He thought of his friends being pulled away into the darkness so they could be murdered quietly, and he awkwardly drew his handgun and aimed it at the door. I don't think I shook as much this time...

Sahle heard a soft thump. He jumped and looked at the window only to see the Russian climbing through. Sahle aimed. Vasily saw and laughed. "You should be putting way that away now." he said quietly, waving his hand as he hopped down. "I know what you are wanting to also know."

Vasily tossed a bloodied card down on the floor. It was white except for the brown-red stains, and the image of a the Giza Sphinx. "I found that paper on the body. I found a hotel key, and I found the hotel too."

"The h..hotel?" Sahle stuttered. His eyes were fixed on the Sphinx. He knew what it meant. We got away though...

"Your little problem is done now, I finished it. But it is a big problem too I am thinking. I am thinking you will be seeing more of it. I may be knowing a man who can make it go away."

"Do I have to stay here then?" Sahle asked, "I want to see Aaliyah." His voice has been shaken until now. When he said her name, he said it firmly. The Russian cocked his head.

"I am understanding." he nodded. "I will take you to the man I am knowing tomorrow. If you want to see your woman friend, I am thinking it will be safe."

Vasily sauntered over to the door. It was the same door Sahle had aimed at over and over again that night. All night, he had imagined assassins breaking down that door and finishing him off right there as he trembled and surrendered. That door had been at the center of his worst thoughts all night. Vasily opened it. When Sahle seen the dim hallway that had been behind it, the door suddenly seemed different. And then the entire room was something else. It was no longer a tomb, it was just a room.

Sahle followed. The wallpaper in the hallway was a deep red, though it was turning pink in places where the sun reached it through the windows. When he stepped out, his feet met with dark crimson shag carpet which felt like mush after the wooden floors of the room they had left. This is a hotel. He instantly recognized. How many hotels does a town need, anyway?

The halls were thin, barely allowing room for the passage of two people abreast. Each door they passed was a rich mahogany rather than the pale white door with chipping pain that he had stared at for most of the day.

He watched the Russian as they walked. Vasily looked out of place in his brown fatigues, with a long skinning knife hanging from one holster and a thin sort of dagger hanging from another. He moved around as comfortably as a tourist would, leisurely walking the halls like he owned them, but his head bobbed subtly from side to side as they passed each door. In the dark, he was as pale as a ghost. Sahle could remember visiting Denmark several lifetimes ago, when he had just been a care-free Prince with a taste for liquor and pussy. He had seen white people before, but people as white as those from the far north still seemed odd. Vasily was especially pale for his race. His skin seemed almost translucent in this light.

They reached a door at the end of a hall, which led them into a shaft of cement stairs in a brick stairwell. Their footsteps echoed as they descended. It smelled damp, like standing water after sitting in the sun for a few days. A moldy brass pipe ran between to of the walls. Rust bubbled where the pipes met the walls, causing red smears to run across the sandy bricks.

The door at the bottom of the stairs emptied into another thin hallway. Racks covered with brightly colored clothes and rolling carts covered in make-up supplies tipped Sahle to where he was. When they reached a wooden platform that sounded like a drum as they walked, Sahle knew for certain. He had been in show business for a while now, and he was well used to the settings. A thick blue curtain divided them from the rest of the room, but Sahle could imagine the rows of seats on the other side. Wooden cut-outs hid the back wall from view, each one painted white with simple green pine-trees dotting their surface.

Vasily stopped suddenly. Sahle looked at him uneasily as the Russian bent down and knocked on the floor three times. A knock answered, and Sahle understood what was going on. Vasily pulled at an short rope-handle and climbed down.

"Sahle!" Aaliyah's voice greeted him with a squeal. They rushed into each others arms as Vasily stood there gawking. She feels so pretty.

With Aaliyah in his arms, Sahle inspected the pit. The floor was hard cement, but the walls were all dusty wood. Poles held up the stage above them, which was hardly but half a foot above his head. They were surrounded by a mess of weird things. There was several wooden horses with angry faces carved onto them. Small models of churches and cabins sat in a pile on the other end. A crown sat on the brow of a canvas mannequin near the ladder. It was thick and covered in purple jewels. Silver chains covered in gemstones dripped from the golden circlet. Below the mannequin, a crude puppet with demonic, child-like features was propped against its base.

Vasily caught Sahle looking at it and puffed up. "Those are from a play that is playing at this theater that we are being in." he explained. "Writer is one of my people. The story is about Ivan III of Russia and how he united the fighting Russian nations and became the Tsar." He looked at the crown, and a weak hint of sadness seemed to play across his eyes. "I am thinking this should be happening against some day. My people have been thinking this too."

"Where are they?" Sahle asked.

"Many Russians are in Russia, I am thinking." Vasily answered.

"I mean my friends." Sahle corrected. "Yared and Marc."

"Oh yes." Vasily nodded. "They are in other places here. I will take you to them."

------------ Milan, Italy. ------------

Slowly, gradually, the darkness gave way to swirls of golden light, followed by dancing orbs of green, and then a multitude of other colours as he slowly opened his eyes. It would be a moment still for his vision to focus away from the vague shapes of blurred colours, and another moment for His Majesty, Florenstano of Savoy, to realize that this assortment of shapes and colours were the suburban outlines of Milan - his destination, as it would be currently.

"Father, how much longer till we arrive? The train is stuffy, especially with all these men here." Croaked his daughter, as she leaned closer to her mother. He did not blame her, having the Guardia Reale with them constantly wherever they went would put any child on edge. Not that anyone really planned to try anything against his family, he hoped. He was mostly well liked, at least by the majority. The minorities of immigrants, such as the Chinese and Turkish populations in the south, did not approve of his government's policies.

The Parliment was mostly made of people Spain had put into charge after the Ballista Regime was finally put down, so many Spanish policies were adopted and put into effect. Persecution of minorities went unchecked, especially in the industries around Naples, where many Turkish workers are payed several lire less then their Italian co-workers.

He cared little in the end though, he was in the northern part of the Kingdom, to the heart of Milan to give a speach to his people. He had been touring his country with his family for a few months now, speaking to the people about his plans for the future. Though in the end, it was mostly to try and show the people that he isn't as sick as they all thought he was. Despite the efforts of the best doctors in Rome, his condition has gotten much worse over the past year.

He awoked from his thoughts when his wife, Isabella, put her hand on his shoulder. "We're here, my love, are you coming?" She looked down at him, worry easily visable on her face. He hadn't realised he had been sitting at the station for over three miniutes, staring down at his lap. He nodded slowly, pushing himself up and grabbing his cane, which was resting against his seat. The symbol of Italy, the golden eagle, resting as the head.

"Are your legs feeling any better? The doctors said the therapy-" Isabella was cut off with a wave of his hand. "Have some faith, tesoro. I'll recover from this." He nodded sharply, before making his way down to the exit, his hands constantly reaching out to grab a seat for support as he passed. The only other people being his family and the Guardia Reale that escorted him.

"In the end, visiting Milan will be good for me. I have not been here since I was a child. The air here is nice, while maybe not as wonderful as the field near Naples or the smell of the sea outside of Venice... Milan has it's own flavor to it." He said to no one in particular, and no one responded, except his daughter. "Father, how long will be here?" She asked, a normal question she asked everytime they arrived at a new city on their tour. The answer was always the same; "Two days, my girl, only two days then we return to Rome."

------------ Naples, Italy ------------

The sound of the door opening roused Tiberio from his daydream, raising his head from the counter, yawning grogilly. "Keep face off the counter, people eat on that!" Said the man who had just walked in, his Italian was not the best, and his Chinese accent did little to help.

"I thought you had a business trip in Volgograd, and that you were to stay there for a few years?" Said Tiberio, running a hand through his hair, while Kein simply sighed in response, anger contorting his features. "Would've! Country not in good shape, returned home to see me go through three security checks in airport, and get pulled over twice on road. What has happened? Much worse then before!"

"The Parlamento along with our Majesty have done little to stop prejudice down south here, just thank god you are not Turkish. The few groups that settled in Sicily and Naples, have gone through the worst."

Kein scoffed, moving over to the counter and sitting down on one of the stools. "You keep good care of my resturant? I'm going to reopen it, show Naples China good at food, no need for prejudice!"

Tiberio simply nodded in return, as he folded his arms on the counter to comfortable lean forward, supporting his weight on it. "Kein, I think it may be best to just return to China, no offense. I don't think the racism will end becasue of some grand reopening - It'll probably just get worse."

Kein glared, slamming his fist against the table. "I will not leave! I have been here for ten years, learned your language and open resturant which was successful! I will do it all again, just you see. Now go make some fliars, you're going to be my assistant again." He would get off the stool, setting it back into place before moving to the door, opening it. "And wipe that counter, filthy."

Addis Ababa

In his mind, Ras Hassan envisioned himself on a dusty battlefield. He was young now, lean and fit without any aches or tiredness in his limbs. He held scimitar in his hand. The edge of the blade was as sharp as a fresh razor, and firelight danced across the steel in a bloom of red and yellow. Death cries and the rattle of rifles filled the smokey heat-choked air, but where they came from did not matter. His imagination focused on the faceless soldier on the other side of the field. He was an enemy - a Spaniard - and in his crisp uniform and emotionless stance he looked inhuman - more automaton than man. The Spaniard was nothing but death holding a firearm. His weapon was tipped with a long bayonet reflecting the same fiery light as Hassan's sword.

The Spaniard charged, and Hassan met him. Somewhere on the battlefield, battered flags caught the air and twisted violently with the winds of war. A solar yellow and vivid red covered the sky against the Lion of Judah framed on proud African colors; green, red, and yellow. Were those hoof-beats or the choking hum of tank engines? It did not matter. The world was far away and the Spaniard was right in front of him, bounding silently across the dirt.

Hassan sprinted, jumping away from the Spaniard as he thrust his bayonet through the smoke. Before Hassan could land a blow, his foe snapped backward and parried with his rifle. Sparks flew when steel met steel, and the dance was on. The Spaniard did not use his weapon like it was meant to be used - he did not look for the opportunity to shoot, nor did he pay attention to the trigger or the barrel. It was a pike to him - another ancient weapon to meet Hassan's sword in equal combat. Even when Hassan's scimitar dug into the wooden stock of the enemy's weapon, when splinters flew from the gnawing blade, the rifle stayed together as if it were made of iron.

The Spaniard was the personification of hate. He did not wince when he received a cut on the forearm, nor did he relent. There was nothing in his face, if he had one at all. His eyes were like two stones and his lips pressed together with dutiful sternness. He could have been anyone, jabbing at Hassan like it was a drill and not a matter of life or death. Burning clouds whirled in the background, casting a flickering light. Memories faded into one another. He remembered the first man he killed, in the mountains of Ethiopia when the countryside rallied against their Emperor. The smell of blood and ash came back to him - reminders of The Congo, the Highlands, and Syria.

When Hassan finally struck the killing blow, the enemy's head flew from his body as if it meant nothing to him, and a fountain of blood took its place. The corpse fell cleanly to the ground, but the grisly remnants of the neck continued to bleed. Blood turned the dust into coagulating mud and flooded the ground around his feet. Blood soaked through his shoes and turned his socks damp and cold. The body was painted crimson, and it glistened prettily in the light. In my dreams, they always bleed more.

The daydream was over and he was back in the gardens of the Imperial Residence. The sky was crisp and blue, with bulbous grey clouds floating like islands in the sea. A marble fountain bubbled in the background, cooling the greenery. In the shade of the arched colonnade, it was cooler. Hassan stood next to a pearly white column, the wool of his dress uniform itching at his skin. It was an olive-green, but stitched together so skillfully that the fabric hardly moved. It's stiff and heavy. This isn't soldier's clothes. The public liked their fighting men dressed like royal guards, as if it distracted from the bloody reality of their work.

Two Palestinian men stood by his side, dressed in Ethiopian uniforms with only their new flag stitched on their lapels to distinguish them. The Turkish wars had been going on for longer than the public ever realized, and they had produced men who were warriors to the core. Wartime had given them a purpose. It gave them all the food and cash they could kill for, and they always knew where they would be the next day. Peacetime had promised them little and less - perhaps police work if they were lucky, but what else was there? Crime promised them a lifestyle they understood, but they could hardly return to the factories or live life as shepherds or taxi drivers. It was something Hassan had understood, and when he offered to hire mercenaries from those who could never find military work in their homelands, many had taken him up on the offer.

They weren't all Palestinian, though most were. There were Greeks and Armenians, Georgians and Syrians in the mix. Hassan had hired them with Hejaz in mind. Most of them were of Arab blood. If anybody could learn to control rebellious Arabs, it would have to be their own kind.

But now a new war loomed. Spain. Hassan had smelled it coming long ago, and he welcomed it. He had not rose so far to become a politician. Hassan had no interest in discussing policy and shifting money. He had been raised on the stories of his grandfather, Mansuur ibn Ra'd. His grandfather had been driven out of Arabia during the rise of the Saudi's, and he had taken his sons to Somalia where he fought the British alongside Muhammad `Abd Allāh al-Hasan, the man the British called the "Mad Mullah", who gave Mansuur land. The old man took on the name "Mansuur Ra'd al-Soomaaliyeed" as a sign of his pride in his new home. When the Mad Mullah died, their family had taken up common cause with the Ethiopians. His grandfather's life had been one of honor, and he was revered as a warrior by his people. A sandstone statue stood in the middle of Jowhaar where Hassan had been born, and thought it had looked powerful when it was erected, time had already taken a bite from it the last time he visited his old home. Wind had tore at the old rock, smoothing its features and covering its surface in pocks. Hassan had risen further than his grandfather could have imagined. When they built his statue, it would be made of marble.

The royal family had met in the garden, standing in line like and awkward formation of wealthy soldiers. They wore their pale silk robes and the women their dripping jewelry, but their heads were covered by rubbery Chinese gas masks. These were the typical sort - black with large buggy eyes and a stubby tube hanging from the mouth like an elephant's trunk, not like the asymmetrical monstrosities the Chinese military preferred.

An IB agent studied the fit of the masks, fidgeting with them and tugging on the seams. "Do they feel comfortable? Do they fit right?" The agent worried, "Are they loose? The gas the Spaniards use will kill you in an instant if they can get through."

"Ah-by" little Tewodros whines, his voice muffled by the expressionless mask they had fitted him. "I don't want to be kill." He was spooked, but the boy didn't cry. He has my blood. Hassan thought. Sometimes it was easy to forget that his grandson was the heir to the throne. Even raising her, Azima had always seemed like a foreign child. He never needed a girl. He wouldn't have claimed her if it wasn't for Yohannes's insistence.

"You won't, Tewo." Yaqob's soft voice was softened further by the mask. He lifted the boy in his arms, a lanky ghost holding an infant phantom. The royals looked like dead things in their masks, but not frightening. With their tall, spindly bodies and wealthy clothes, they looked all together silly.

Hassan frowned. "Never mind the comfort." he bellowed. "We have ways to test it. Get on with that."

The agent looked at him and nodded. "Right, Ras. I apologize." he fumbled in the pocket of his black coat and pulled out an blank aerosol spray can. "We filled this with a scented material with a similar weight." he explained. "If you can smell it, it means there is a compromise." The masked royalty nodded. Holding the can at arms length, the agent sprayed it in front of their faces. They did not flinch.

Hassan sniffed. It smelled like sweat and oranges. He wrinkled his nose. "What is that, captain."

"Perfume, sir." the agent said. "It was hard finding something that smells strongly and is a similar consistency to VX. This seems to work though."

"Perfume?" Hassan snorted.

The agent grinned. "From China. Beijing Woman's Scent Number Four. The communists don't make names to sell things, as it turns out."

Hassan nodded abruptly. "Get on with it then."

The royal family sniffed behind their masks, bobbing their heads so that they looked like insects curiously inspecting their surroundings. The silence loomed heavy. Hassan looked at the sky. It will come from there. He thought. In the back of his mind, he half expected to hear the distant roar of a Spanish bomber squadron as it took them by surprise from the skies. That would be one hell of a war. Addis Ababa turned into Africa's Seattle, and the rest of Africa fighting like a pack of hounds missing their master. If the Spanish VXed the city right here in this moment, even the royal family wouldn't be safe. VX went to work as soon as it touched and bare skin, so the Chinese IB had told them. They had full body suits for the most important personnel, but right now those were sitting in a crate somewhere in the Walinzi offices downtown.

"Get it off." a weak, gray voice called from the rubber mask on the short, plump woman dressed in black. Elani, the Queen Dowager, was going into senility at an early age. She was hardly older than Hassan, but life had taken its toll on the sensitive widow of Yohannes V. She had lost a husband to an assassins bullet, and another son had went missing shortly after being deposed and imprisoned far away. Her second son, Yaqob, had only barely survived an assassination and was left a dour shell of the inspired young man he had once been. I've had the blood of my friends splattered across my clothes. I saw men die and be tortured. It hasn't driven me insane.

Elani tugged anemically at the gasmask crowning her head. "You shouldn't do that..." the Walinzi agent fretted. He reached out to stop her, but Taytu - a ridiculously tall girl in a European mockery of a man's suit - reached her first. "It's okay, Mother. They are just testing it."

"It smells." Elani whimpered. "I'll tell Yohannes. I'll tell your father they made wear it. It was hot in there. I couldn't breath."

"I couldn't smell the perfume." Azima said, taking her mask off. The tight rubber made her hair fall into a mess. Sometimes, Hassan could see his eyes in the Queens. It was one of the few things she had gotten from him.

"That is good." the Agent smiled. "Very good then." Yaqob helped Tewodros with his mask before taking off his own. It was only the little rebel child, Olivier, Taytu's Garengenze whelp who she adopted after Hassan took his arm during the war, still wore his mask. The boy didn't seem to miss the limb, and it had helped end a war that could have cost them more than a few tiny hands. These people haven't seen fighting. Only Azima. They don't understand that they pay me and my army to hurt people for them. It's not like it is in the movies. People who couldn't slice parts off a child to end a war had no business thinking about his work. They had no business with anything to do with soldiering.

The little boy stood behind them like a fool, staring through the insect eyes of his mask, saying nothing and doing as much. The agent noticed and quietly went to help the kid.

"VX catches the skin, does it not?" Yaqob asked. "Just masks won't work?"

The agent nodded. "We will be getting full-body suits, like the ones we use to sweep contaminated areas. The Chinese have been gracious in getting us the supplies we need."

"How about the rest of the city?" Taytu added, holding her mother against her chest. "I read in the briefing that the police would be getting a large supply of masks to hand out to people."

"Yes." The agent fidgeted. He doesn't like this part. He doesn't have the guts. "We... can't get everybody suits. Emergency ventilated bunkers are being built, but we don't know if we will have any operating aside from the two or three that were built during the last invasion crisis. Our plan is to evacuate as many people as we can, should we be gassed, but part of that is avoiding panic. If people think the masks are in place and can work, we might be able to avoid a evacuation failure."

"And nobody knows about this? I would hope we have chemists that understand even just the basics of VX gas." Taytu countered.

"We do." the agent replied. "We're doing what we can to keep everything quiet."

Taytu nodded. Hopefully the bitch is satisfied. She didn't like him, and she said it openly. European learning had addled her brain, and she had came back with ideas that clashed with the way things really worked. If Hassan had been given a choice, he would have nominated one of the veteran diplomats as Adviser of Foreign Affairs, but instead Yaqob had given the job to his sister -a college graduate who had spent half of her life outside of he country.

Yaqob handed Tewodros to Azima with a smile. The boy was aware, staring at the two soldierly Palestinian mercenaries in wonder. Azima took Olivier by the hand and led the children out of the garden, passing Hassan with nothing but a polite glance. Taytu followed suit, leading her mother. Taytu's glance was not as polite. She looks at me as if I had caused her mother to go crazy. Maybe the dumb bitch blames that on me too.

"Ras Hassan." Yaqob said warmly, tossing the masks in his hand into a nearby crate. "We need to talk."

"Of course, you're Imperial Highness." Hassan said. They began to walk.

The colonnade opened at one end of the garden into a gap between the walls, where the stoney walkway opened into a veranda facing the city. A wall of palm-trees blocked much of the view, but gaps between their fronds showed patches of white and grey scattered across the green distance. Beige mountains stood over all, made transparent by a distant haze. The wind caught the palm-fronds and caused them to chatter. Whistling songbirds sang over the distant city sounds.

"The war is inevitable I take it." Yaqob said. He sounded dolorous as usual, but he had managed to make that trait seem thoughtful.

"Their navy is moving through the Mediterranean as we speak. We lost our navy to the Ottomans, so there is little we can do to resist." Hassan explained.

"I heard you sent a ship." Yaqob asked. "The ENS Aksum, they say."

Hassan smiled bitterly. "They have too big of a mouth, then." he joked. Yaqob continued to stare at him sullenly, looking for an answer. "Yes." Hassan confirmed. "The ENS Aksum will meet up with them in the Suez Canal. We cannot stop them, but we can slow them down." he paused. "Have you ever heard of Thermopylae?"

Yaqob nodded. "I saw a movie about it when I was in China. They misidentified the Persians as Turks in the movie, but I know the real story as well."

"The Suez Canal might just serve as our Hot Gates." Hassan said.

Kalachinsk, Russia

Tse Lin was the type who could find the words needed to describe riding in a tank was like, for her. Or at least to the men. She didn't doubt she could manage to describe it other women in the force. Precautions needed to be taken, or so the indoctrination claimed. And given the often passive-aggressive hostility or the insistent flirting many lonely soldiers tried to pull on her type it paid to keep such observations quiet, or learn to put someone in a hold and threaten to tear off his balls.

But there was still that something in riding in one. Even so high up in the turret the vibration and rattle of the heavy diesel engine in back. Even with the muffled effects of reduced cylinders in the new power-plant for the modern TG 1980 there was still that distinct thunder in its chassis. The distinct way it rumbled through the steel, assisted by the way the treads moved across rough terrain that rolled deep into her legs. Even though the edge of her small steel seat often numbed them from lack of appropriate padding, the message over her pelvis was almost a way to forgive that. Just short of a prolonged orgasm.

And the gun she got to handle to go with it.

Her shoulders brushed against the side of the impossibly angled targeting computer. A whole mess of knobs and levers and dials she couldn't ever hope to read. But she knew it by heart, just like every other gunner in the Armored core of the Chinese army. Wi Hui had alongside him the auxiliary box, should something ever happen to her or the computer at her side that would prevent the precise angling and movement of the turret in which they sat.

Wi Hui, her loader sat staring out the tiny pin-hole window he was given. It was almost expected that if she was removed he was entrusted with blindly firing at approximately the same coordinates Sung would give in engagement. But Lin knew him well enough he wasn't searching for anything to shoot, he was putting aside himself for when he needed to take the dive to load shells. It was coming, the sternness in Sung's voice as he screamed over the radio for positions on the rest of the column were testament to that.

“Position requests on any units near coordinate positions 55, 74!” he shouted. The map laid out on his lap brushed its corners alongside Lin's face in rhythm with the movements her seat was taking her through.

“55, 74. Kalachinsk, Russian Republic. Come in!” he continued to yell, taking occasional glances up wards through his canopy of glass and steel to check the surroundings.

Lin wondered where they were in regards to their area. Filled with the curiosity of the moment, she pull the sighting scope up to her eyes and gave the road ahead a gander.

It was broken up, pot-holed, and mostly rain whetted mud and clay. Deep ruts ran the length of the muddy and churned soil, marking where trucks had passed. Water filled these furrows, breaking only for sticks or the upturned rock or thick unbroken clod of clay kicked up by any of the vehicles that came through.

There was a misty sort of quality ahead of them. The trees dropped with a sort of sadness. It was fitting really, for the almost two years she had come to know the Russian atmosphere there was no fitting display. The Russians were a people who had lost their nation some ten years ago. The Siberians had only just repaired their state a year prior, just before she had been sent her with this lovable crew. She couldn't lie, she loved them like brothers. It came with the territory, she assumed.

And this territory, this was knew. She didn't even know if in the eyes of the Russian peoples supposedly their allies if they trusted them. Did they see them as saviors? Or just another complicating element in their greater revolution. After all, it was no secret among them that the Chinese had flummoxed in assuring a hastier end to their Civil War. They held the president of the Republic, they could have demanded their cessation and allowed them to be absorbed in Siberia!

Though, despite this: the Diplomatic offices liked to deny it. They with the rest of Beijing claim it was them defending the east against the terrors of VX. To prevent another Seattle. Maybe they were right, in a strange sense. But it was the only they thing toted.

“Sun Song, Q-41I. Calling in at approximately two a half kilometers north of the old Siberian highway inbound to Kalachinsk. Requesting all nearby units for assistance.” he continued, looking up through the glass. That queer ovular microphone pressed close over his mouth as a singe hand held down the bouncing and waving map.

“Do we have an-” bullets began striking the side of the armored shell, silencing Song mid-call as the pinging and twisting of lead striking against the side of the hull pattered like rain. An anxious smile exploded across Lin's face as she leaned back in her chair, going for the adjustment as Hui began to scramble for shells, coming to that precarious balance between seat and hanging.

“270 degrees!” Song bellowed to the crew, leaning in to his bulletproof ports and peering out into the countryside around them, “Nest, five hundred meters!”

Metal clinked and clattered as a motor hummed as Lin reached to the targeting console and blindly dialed in the position, trusting her intuition and sense of feel, she peered through her sights as she spun the turret to the appropriate position on her left. As steel clashed shut Hui bellowed out, “READY!”

Lin needn't have any other command as she cupped the trigger mechanism firmly in her palm and pulled.

With a resounding sound of thunder, the chamber of the main gun erupted with a meaty and throaty boom. Immediately, the filmy white tuft of exaust steamed out from the chamber as the empty shell was ejected, split moments after the muzzle flashed with bright fire, streaming out an flashing silver flash. From Lin's command a blooming explosion of soil, dirt, and wood bloomed up out of the distant tree line, sending high a column of debris.

Though the offending nest fell silent, it summoned further attention to them.

Like angered bees dashing themselves against the thick hide of a bear live fire rained on them. The metal sing and dinged as bullets recoiled ineffective against them. The soft tinging of the thick plexi of the windows only suggested that they would need many more rounds to break a hole that may put their Commander – or driver – down.

The reports of responsive fire from the rest of the Tei Gui under Song's hand responded in muffled waves as they freely fired on the distant tree ridge.

“Arrow head!” Song hollered into his radio, “Clear through the tree line! Break what you can, let the Russians mop up the rest!”

“Sir, we're taking fire!” Tsung shouted nervously over the mounting racket that was the saddened attempt of suppressive fire on mobilized armor. For all of his unproven worth, Lin couldn't help but snicker. He was young, cute. But thus far a pussy. Though Hui seemed to treat him understandingly enough, but then again, so had he to she, and to Tsung's predecessor; an impressive man and a amusement lost to his own stupidity.

“What fire! I see no fire!” Song shouted back down to him, almost laughing. The rebuke did make Lin smile excitedly as she waited for new coordinates to dial in.

“GROUP!” Song shouted down. Lin's heart raced in excitement. She shuffled her legs in anticipation. “300 degrees! Six hundred meters! HE, by the bushes!”

Ling responded thus, looking down her para-scope as Hui loaded the shell. The soft clicking of the dials muted by the Russian rain on their thick hide, and the burning roar of their powerful motor. She scouted down the offending group, an odd assortment as they tried to pack up and run from them, fleeing down the road to the town in the distant.

Over the thin trees and sparse foliage the roof tops of the village of Kalachinsk rose in the distant. Faded and murky through lens and wet fog. But for what she could see, it was the same as any settlement in the Russian far-east. Very few proud, old structures rose high above. Very much unlike the fabled imagery of a rural Europe. It was the last czar's push in capitalizing the riches of his land's sparsest place. It was also smoldering, and where her targets sought shelter.

“READY!” Hui bellowed, and the report of the gun sounded heavy in the enclosed shell of the hull. The report a great crack of thunder. A plum of rock and soil responded just ahead of the retreating men that threw them back and scattered the rest in the air. They hit the ground limp to not get back up.

“Muzzle flash, possible nest!” reporting Song. From the deck below Lin could hear weak stifled coughing from Tsung, “Straight ahead. Five-hundred meters.”

Lin dialed in the coordinates, re-adjusting the turret to run along with where the tank thundered. She stole a brief glance below to try and see what was wrong, but only caught Hui pulling out a long cylindrical brass shell.

The same steel hatch closed, and again Hui screamed at the ready. Drawing the firing mechanism the barrel reported loud and proud as a shell flew to the offending direction.

The explosion lit up the wooded patch behind the target position. Bright fire bloomed from the brush and trees. Taking over and ripping into the Russian nest in a cloud of dirt and white-hot rounds. From the tracers streaking from the impact sight, the explosion caught an ammunition dump. Red and green tracers ripped haphazardly through the air, burning bright luminescent trails through the air.

The flashes and bangs of additional fire buffeted and boomed just outside as the advancing Chinese pushed through the soft defense of the Republican counter-siege. Clods of smoke and ash bloomed across the fields and in the road as the village of Kalachinsk drew nearer. Lin took a breath as Song gave more orders. Through the parascope the red roofs and starched white, sterile structures of Kalachinsk grew nearer.

100 Miles Southwest of Crete, Mediterranean Sea

Even amongst the ear-numbing whine of the propellers roaring just above his head and the wind tearing through the fuselage, Luis could not keep himself from nodding off. To understate, it had been a taxing night for the green recruit. Not three months out of basic training and lacking in any real combat experience, he had been marched onto one of a fleet of these carrier-gunships. His helicopter's fuselage was a long, fusiform shape, drawing into stubby snout fanged with armor-sundering machine guns. Without doubt a predatory machine; their designation - Barracuda - was a fitting nomer. A swarm of them rolled over the gilded waves and troughs of the sea.

The fuselage of the Barracuda had not been designed with a restful night's sleep as a priority. A long, bench of canvas supported by aluminum bars bolted along the hull accommodated twelve equipped infanteria on either side of the aisle - all squished shoulder to shoulder to maximize carrying capacity and minimize comfort. Even so, Luis rested his helmet-cupped head against the bolt-studded interior wall in a mostly-futile effort to get some sleep. Against the backdrop the back of his eyelids provided, fleeting, short-lived dreams played out. Dinner with the family in the backyard with the haze-faded mountains of Huesca in the distance, wrestling with parents' dog on the living room floor, sultry fantasies involving the girl he fancied; anything that removed him from the unfortunate actuality of the past months.

The world came back to Luis once again; a friendly shove to the shoulder tore him from his reveries and returned him to the Barracuda. Luis turned grogilly to his right and found his companion Hector sitting beside him with a guilty grin.

"How the fuck can you be tired right now, Luis?"

"And how are you not? It wasn't even ten in the evening before the sirens went off." Luis groaned, massaging grains of grit from the corner of his eyes.

"Adrenaline." Hector smiled, gleefully squeezing gloved palms together.

"He's right to try to get some sleep, Hector. Leave him in peace." Luis' neighbor to his left commanded. "Save the adrenaline of yours; it will serve you better when some sandmonkey blows your arm off." Luis and Hector both turned to face the man to his right: Lieutenant Fulvio Ayesta, the assigned leader of their platoon.

"Perhaps you should hide your boner for Luis a little more carefully!" Hector shot, drawing light snickering from a few other grunts. "Wouldn't want some Ethiopian to shoot off your verga."

"Maybe so." Ayesta shrugged. "I could hardly blame them. It's quite a target: large, easy to hit. But yours? No marksman could ever hope to hit a target as small as your prick."

Soldiers in earshot made cooing 'oooh's as they heard Ayesta's response. Even Hector stifled a chuckle, admitting defeat.

"Take it from one who's seen action on the Dark Continent, there will excitement aplenty."

Before meeting Lieutenant Ayesta, Luis' only experience with a combat veteran had been with his grandfather. He had fought in the Armee Francaise against the Prussians during the Great War and after which emigrated to Spain. But even to his death, his grandfather had positively refused to speak about his experiences during the war. Whatever horrors of that war that Luis' grandfather had witnessed went with him to the grave.

Ayesta, on the other hand, always had something to say about his combat career. He had cut his teeth in the Spanish intervention in the Ivory Coast, now the Rio Niger province of the Republic's African territory. At every relevant occasion - and a great many irrelevant ones - Lieutenant Ayesta found an opportunity to regale the platoon on his tour of duty in the jungles of West Africa. Luis' stomach always turned as Ayesta described in vivid detail the napalming of rebel-held buildings or the holding of entire villages at gunpoint. But what unsettled Luis more than anything was not the visceral nature of Ayesta's tales, but his tone as he recounted them. Ayesta actually seemed to miss warfare; to long for the cathartic release of armed conflict. Luis could not begin to imagine how anyone could enjoy going to war.

"Do Africans even have guns?" A soldier across the aisle asked in half-jest. "I'm almost expecting them to field flintlocks and swords."

"You're not terribly far off. The insurgency in the Rio Niger was supplied in large part by Ethiopians. A lot of it was very obsolete: I recall a great deal of hand-me-down Great War material . The higher-ups seems to agree, their intelligence suggests a very large fighting force with mostly outdated weaponry and variable training. It will be an interesting fight... but futile on their part." As Lieutenant Ayesta went on, Luis dropped out from the discussion and took notice his comrades seated at the opening of the helicopter's fuselage leaned and craned their necks to get a better look out into the sea.

((Suggested listening.))

"Look! There they are!" A soldier exclaimed over the roar of the propellers.

The entire cadre turned and peered out of the gunship's port side. On the sea, silhouetted against water glistening in the dawn's orange glow, was the black, angular form of a warship. A convoluted canopy of radar masts and antenna dishes rose forth from a bridge towering above steel turrets, each bearing two or three mammoth guns pointed directly ahead. The roar of the Barracuda's propellers tearing through the air echoed off the vessel's hull and faded quickly as the ship passed behind the gunship. A second warship bristling with the same monstrous artillery passed by, followed by a more slender, gracile form of a cruiser. The helicopter banked gently over the fourth vessel in the convoy and turned about. And as the helicopter turned, the rest of the fleet came into view. Staggered across miles and miles of open ocean were dozens of warships stretching all the way to the horizon. Frothy trails of propeller-churned water were left in the wake of each warship; a diffuse trail of diesel smoke wafted into the air behind the vessel as they steamed eastward at full speed. Displayed before Luis and his companions was the whole of Spain's Mediterranean Fleet.

"There it is." Hector gasped. "The Armada."

Three Barracudas swooped down into formation alongside Luis' gunship as it skirted alongside the deck of a destroyer. Sailors on the deck clapped and pumped their fists into the air as the helicopters roared past. As they darted by another destroyer, a handful of the infantry tapped their companions on the shoulder and pointed to an onboard crane lowering a tank-esque armored vehicle into a side-mounted landing craft.

"Look! They've bringing in Prometeos!" A soldier exclaimed, pointing at the armored rocket-artillery vehicle swaying precariously over the side of the warship as the helicopter flew by.

Situated in the center of the fleet, escorted by a triad of cruisers, was the flagship of the armada and the destination of the gunships - the larger of the Spanish Republic's two remaining aircraft carriers: La Ira de Dios. Several other the Barracuda helicopters sat upon the island of tarmac; their propellers idling down as their cargoes of soldiers poured out onto the deck and and lined into rank and file under the red-tinged shadow of a grand Spanish flag flapping vigorously on the updrafts. Luis' stomach lurched forward as the helicopter slowed down and eased in toward the carrier to touch down.

Heads turned to the starboard as a flicker of motion drew the eyes of the infantrymen to the other side of the helicopter. An aircraft the likes of which Luis had never seen shot past the Barracudas with unbelievable speed. Within the blink of an eye, Luis registered the passing of an airplane with swept, triangular wings that seemed to lack any sort of propeller. The thrumming drone of the helicopter's rotor was drowned out for a moment as an ear-splitting shriek split the skies seconds after the plane shot past.

"Carajo!"

"What the fuck was that?!"

"I see some of us just saw a Fantasma for the first time!" Lieutenant Ayesta cackled at the fresh recruits cupping their hands over their ears. "Now, look sharp and be ready to land and disembark! Admiral Santin's waiting on us! Let's move!"

As the sun set in Romania, a large group of people began to gather at the Royal Palace. Inside, the calming, yet somehow also exiting sound of a waltz could be heard, with the faint sounds of chit chat and laughter escaping out into the night.

Upon entry, guests were guided to the source of this noise- the grand ballroom. It's walls and floors shone like pure gold in the yellow lighting that radiated from grand chandeliers on the ceiling, only being broken up by the colorful clothing adorned by the visitors who had assembled there. Lining the inner wall were elegant tabled, draped in pure white tablecloths, and covered in various foods, surely all rich in taste. Meanwhile, at the far end of the room, various small tabled that seated four persons each sat, barely visible from the entry, blocked first by people standing and chatting in groups, and then more so by the large open space where people had taken to dancing to the music being performed by a live band, located somewhere in the mass of people.

As the flow of people into the ballroom stopped, a final name was checked off a list being held by a man at the door, and the large doors to the ballroom were all closed, shortly followed by a stop in the music. After exchanging formalities, dance partners joined the group of people being held back near the base of a large staircase, leading up into the actual housing area of the royal family. The large doors at the top of the stairs opened, and guards walked down, lining both ends of the split staircase, and pooling at the bottom, in front of the large crowd.

Shortly after, a small man with a thick white mustache and almost no hair on his head walked out the same doors, but stopping at the edge of the stairs, and steeping off to the side. As he cleared his throat, the lights of the room were dimmed, beside the one sitting above the staircase. The crowd hushed to whispers, and the elderly man began to speak.

“Thank you all for gathering here tonight, for this celebration of the eighteenth birthday of Prince Ferdinand of Romania. On behalf of his majesty, the king, I would like to thank you all for any gifts brought for the occasion. Now, without further ado, I present to you the royal family!”

A small burst of clapping filled the room, before dying down so the announcer could continue.

“First to join you all this evening, is the lovely Princess Mirela, accompanied by her mother, the beautiful Queen Nadia!”

As the clapping picked back up, a tall woman with curly, dark brown hair and slim features stepped out in a large, white dress, accompanied by a younger girl with a matching hair color, but without the curls and wearing a sleek dress of the same color. With bright smiles, and a small wave from the older woman, the two descended the staircase, both giving a small curtsy upon reaching the bottom. Still not losing her bright smile, the queen gave a nod to the guards, who let her through to greet her friends and family. The princess, however, stayed where she was, shyly trying to keep out of notice.

After a good ten minutes of the queen greeting everybody, the lights dimmed once more, and the announcer spoke up again.

“If I can have your attention, it is now time for the prince and king to present themselves. So, without hesitation, here they are. King Vlad, and Prince Ferdinand.”

With more clapping, the doors opened, and out stepped a large man with broad shoulders, in the dark green formal outfit of Romanian military men. He looked over the crowd with stern grey eyes, and released a toothy smile from between a closely shaved beard and mustache. To his left, with the kings hand resting on his shoulder stood the prince, who was completely dwarfed by his larger father, despite standing at 178cm himself. With finely cropped hair, matching grey eyes and even a light beard growing in, prince Ferdinand could easily be identified as his fathers son. The only difference was the lack of uniform, and the more perplexed look that sat on the princes face as he scanned the crowd.

As the two began to descend the stairs, people began to congratulate the prince on his coming-of-age, many also wishing him luck in the military, which he was due to join later in the month. After noticing his son not responding, the king tightened his grip on his sons shoulder, and thanked the guests in his place, before shooting a glare down to the prince. When they reached the bottom, the prince dashed off into the crowd before the king could even properly introduce him to people whom he wanted his son to get to know, prompting another stern look from Vlad.

Despite knowing his father would be angry, the prince made his way through the crowd, avoiding people wishing to get his attention. As far as he was concerned, they didn't exist right now, as he was looking for somebody specific. As he searched through the crowd, he heard a high voice call out his name from somewhere behind him, and turned just in time to receive a large hug, and a dazzling smile, which he returned right away.

“Adriana!” The prince said, laughing. “I was beginning to think you weren't here!”

“Please, as if I would miss this!” The young woman said, her green eyes sparkling. “I haven't seen you in nearly three months!”

“Has it really been that long?” the prince asked.

Instead of answering, though, the girl suddenly became very sheepish looking, and looking down at her feet. Before he could ask why, though, Ferdinand saw a shadow looming over his shoulder, and turned around to face his father, who grabbed his wrist.

“Excuse me, Adriana. Ferdinand here has some obligations he has to fulfill before he can socialize. I am sure you understand.”

“Yes, sir.” the young girl replied after straightening her posture, and giving a cordial nod. The king, noticing how he must look, stopped glaring, and put his free hand on her shoulder, smiling down at her. “I promise, once this is done, you two can spend the rest of the evening together.”

With another nod, and a slight blush from hearing the king say that in front of a crowd, Adriana excused herself, as the king took Ferdinand to the other end of the room, where a group of men where waiting.

Upon reaching their destination, the king let go of the prince's wrist, and stood up straight, giving the prince a knock in the spine, prompting him to do the same.

“Ferdinand, these are the people I had planned for you to meet.” the King said, gesturing to the three men. After a brief moment of silence, Ferdinand held his arm out, and gave a firm handshake to all three men, one after another.

First was a man nearly the same size as the prince, but with a much lighter skin tone, clean shave and dirty blonde hair.

“Marian Mircea, my prince. I am the minister of foreign affairs. My job is to make the workload for your father much easier.”

With a small laugh, the prince's hand moved on to the muscular, stocky man next to Marian, who's handshake would have crushed the princes hand had he not been raised by his father.

“Dan Pauker. Though, I'm sure you already know me. I will be your superior soon, after all.”

This time, the prince didn't laugh, and instead, tightened his grip, giving a much more firm handshake in response, prompting a smile from the general. Finally, a bald man with a goatee, and light blue eyes shook the princes hand.

“Yousef Gorie. Personal barber for the king.” The obviously Russian man said with a wink. The prince smiled, albeit awkwardly, having already met the man, and returned the handshake.

“Let's move into the other room.” The king said, after having the prince introduced in front of the crowd. The men all nodded, and followed Vlad into another room, where the door was shut behind him.

Instantly, the prince spoke up.

“You had me introduced to Yousef? And as your personal barber?” the prince asked his father, who only replied with a hearty chuckle.

“Sorry.” said Yousef in a quiet voice. “My job title is supposed to be a secret, and rumours have been circulating. So we figured it best that we could help keep it a secret by saying that in front of all those people.”

A little astonished, the prince nodded. He hadn't even thought that could be why. And he must have had a look on his face that said that, because the king shook his head, and put his hand on his sons shoulder again.

“You still have a lot to learn, boy.”

Ignoring his fathers comment, Ferdinand walked over to Marian, who began to explain what the king had wanted the prince to do all this for.

“Well, you see. We figured that now was as good a time as any for you to sit in on your first meeting, seeing as you turned eighteen today.”

After a brief silence, the prince replied.

“You're kidding, right? I mean... This is supposed to be a party for me, for my 'last day of being a child', isn't it?”

“Yes, it is.” The king said, sternly. “However, you haven't been paying much attention in your studies lately, and your mother said she caught you flirting with a gardener when you were supposed to be practicing tonight’s speech. So I figured this would be the best way to get you to pay attention. Now, sit down, sit up straight, and pay. Attention.”

Meanwhile, out in the ballroom, Princess Mirela had successfully managed to avoid too much attention, and was just about to brave up enough to go get herself some food, when a large, loud man stepped up to the table, prompting the princess to retreat into a small side room. However, after turning around once inside, she let out a shrill, yet quiet shout after discovering the room was already occupied. She apologized profusely, and tried to leave the room, but the man inside told her to calm down, assuring her it was fine, and that she didn't have to leave.

After taking a moment to evaluate her choices, Mirela decided one person was hardly as terrifying as hundreds. Taking a seat, she looked at the man, who she could see in detail, and who, by the looks of it, saw her in detail, as well. Immediately, he stood up and apologized.

“I'm sorry, princess! I didn't recognize who you were, otherwise I wouldn't have been so informal!” With a bow, the man stood, and walked to the door, leaving immediately, not wanting to be alone in the room with the princess, most likely fearing what kind of assumptions would be made.

This made the smile that had begun to form on the princess' face to fade, as she sat alone in the dark, waiting for the sound outside to die out. It was then that the door opened once again, revealing her mother in the doorway. Entering the room, and locking the door behind her, the queen approached the princess, and sat down, gently resting a hand on her back.

“Are you okay, dear? You didn't have another attack, did you?”

The princess didn't answer verbally, and only shook her head.

“That's good.” The queen said, taking a seat. “Oh, I know you hate these events dear, and I'm sorry that your father makes you take part... I just don't think he understands.”

“... you think?” the princess mumbled, prompting a small laugh from her mother.

“You know how he is. I'm sure he doesn't mean to hurt you. He just thinks that exposing you will help you with your shyness, that's all.”

“It's not shyness.” The princess replied quickly, barely letting her mother finish first. “The doctors said so too, you know that. They said there's something wrong with me, with my brain.”

Angered now, the queen stood. “And I told you that they don't know what they are talking about. Your grandmother was the same way, and they never told her anything was wrong with her. She was just quiet and shy, the same as you.”

Knowing her mother wouldn't agree, the princess surrender. “Yeah, I know mom. You're right.”

Nodding, the queen smiled down at her daughter. “Thank you. There really is nothing wrong, I promise you. Now, I need to head back out there, okay? You can stay in here, join me, or excuse yourself, and head back to your room, alright?”

Nodding, the princess stood. “I think I'll go back to my room. I'll say I wasn't feeling well. Please tell daddy I accidentally ate salmon again.”

“Of course.” the queen said, opening the door for her daughter, before following her out. Just as they exited, a new song started to play, and a man with jet black hair and tanned skin approached the queen, and asked for a dance. Smiling at her daughter one last time, the queen accepted, and was swept onto the dance floor, while the princess retreated up the staircase, to her room.

A few songs later, the door the king and prince entered swung open, and the prince walked out looking deadbeat tired. After a quick scan of the room, he located who he was looking for, and briskly walked to her, only stopping to thank people, per his fathers orders.

Upon finally reaching Adriana, Ferdinand grabbed her hand and, after giving a quick glance around searching for his father, he led her out of the ballroom, and into the back garden, where they sat down under the stars. After ensuring that nobody was around to see them, the two locked in a tight embrace before kissing under the moonlight. When Ferdinand pulled away to speak, he was quickly pulled back into another kiss by his girlfriend, and just decided to go with it.

After almost fifteen minutes of this, the prince finally was able to speak.

“Adriana, we need to talk.” He said, looking a bit worried. “As you know, I'm getting shipped off to the military base soon for training, per fathers orders. I really don't know how soon I will be able to see you after that, considering I haven't been able to see you for three months already, and that's just because of normal business. So... I want to make our time tonight matter, don't you.”

It took her a moment, but it seemed like Adriana finally caught on, as she agreed with a rapid nod.

Smiling, the prince took her hand, and stood up while helping her to her feet, as well.

“In that case, what do you say we ditch this party, and find somewhere where we can be alone.”

“But... won't your dad kill you?” Adriana asked.

“I'm sure he will. But it'll be worth it. Not to mention, I'm only stuck with him for another month. Then I'm free.”

After thinking briefly, though most likely caught up in the moment, Adriana agreed, and let the prince take the lead. Laughing, the two ran off into the night, not to be seen by anyone until the following day, very, very much to the anger of Vlad, especially when it came time for the prince to give a speech, and him being nowhere to be found, leading to the formation of the rumour that Vlad, in anger at his son, bent a trumpet in half, before storming out to search for his son.

Kalachinsk, Russia

By now, the bitter almost sulfuric smell of cordite hung in the air of the tank as it lumbered idle. The residual fog of the main gun loomed encased in its armored environment, dancing in thin silky threads. The beams of weak sunlight from outside dripped through the windows, filtered on the hazy residue of weapon's fire. The smoky, golden glow of the sun was like honey. Honey that stung the eyes and irritated the throat.

The fumes were made no worse by the grumbling engine that still let out thin suggestions of exhaust into the tank cabin. With his head hanging in the turret shell, Hui couldn't imagine the extreme smell of the buoyant smells. But he could sympathize with the experiences of Tsung. The poor youth had to drunk a stomach full, and like wise evicted it by now. The smell was strong for Hui, but it could only be worse for him.

“All teams, do we have fixes on hostiles. We are at the objective.” Song said as he yelled into the microphone. Everyone's ears no doubt sung with the soft subtle lament of the gun. “This is Juunshi Sun Song, over.”

There was no immediate response, as the commander sat diligent and silent in his seat.

“Anything moving?” Wi Hui asked as he leaned across the gun to Lin, the gunner. The action and pipes of the guns throbbed with a low irradiating heat. A heat that slowly bubbled through Hui's muscled arms. But it was nothing that he was concerned about. It was hot, yes. But not as scalding as it could be.

Tse Lin leaned forward into her para-scope as she gently turned the dials on the main targeting. The turret slowly spun to the turns of her fingers. Stopping and starting as she saw fit. Sun Song swayed to the movement above as he looked over the landscape just outside, waiting on a response.

“This place has seen better days.” she said distantly, biting her tongue between her teeth, “But no one moving but our guys, so far.”

“So far?” Hui snickered, “So what, everyone else is just laying low?”

“They look like they're running building sweeps, so we'll see.” Lin sighed, “If I have to shoot down a wall then we know.”

Hui groaned, as he threw himself back against the side of the turret hull, throwing his arm over the auxiliary targeting. Sighing tired he rose his hands to his face and gently messaged his eyes. Above him, Sun Song made another request for an update, apparently having not gotten an answer that satisfied him.

Leaning on the metal targeting computer, Lin picked himself up as he climbed to peek through the array of windows that crowned the top of the turret. Balancing himself on the seat he held onto the side as he looked out. Out of bored curiosity, what was left of morbid curiosity had taken a ride out. He was simply growing bored.

Kalachinsk was, as Lin put it, something that had been in better days. The wears of time and the combination of misfortunes that had befell Russia and it being a battleground had blurred and faded together into a singular identity. The wreckage of automobiles, burned out buildings, and mortar craters dotting the road (or simple potholes from so many winters of being ignored, it was hard to say) covered the urban landscape. Grey smoke rose from homes in thick columns that caught the wind and spread out through the spring skies on low winds. The veil of smoke grayed the light and dimmed the atmosphere as roaming, muddied soldiers picked through the rubble or went from door to door checking through homes and store fronts.

But just by watching them Hui could tell they did their job with the sort of tired, spectral quality of existing that was so common across Russia. Even the Republican soldiers that had been lined up, captives of their injuries looked twice as tired as they were bloodied. The color sapped from their skin, they only had dust and soot to add the color to their complexion. They looked half-fed, or just pissed scared as they looked on the great metal behemoths that gathered around them, they to scanning across the neighboring buildings as they enclosed the street, surrounding a center position in the town.

Behind them, standing in a state of disrepair and at the far end of a small, crater-rocked plaza of concrete tiles was the brick and wood town hall, of the former Imperial Magistrate's building. It's formerly Victorian surface scarred and pitted with bullet holes and inky-black roses of scorch marks that framed the shattered, toothy windows. Pink and yellow paint peeled back from the walls, as by the door a broken wooden sign had been cast aside. Once a crown for a door that proudly boasted the words, “Kalachinsk Municipal Magistrate” in thick, proud, boastful Russian cryllic.

Broken men sat around the entrance. The blood on their faces and scars on their hands brought to breath the severity of their state. In their tattered uniforms, and jury rigged weapons there was no contest that these were the men that they had to come to rescue. Their blackened, distant eyes starred down into their boots, or high into the sky above as their comrades hovered around them, or went from soldier to soldier like moths to a light. Reaching down, showing their camaraderie and giving comfort.

“Thank you comrades.” Sun Song said abruptly, “We will await the arrival of the rest of the column. We would also request immediate medical personnel to the point as well, we have wounded and quick evac of the injured would be good. Sun Song out.”

“So we're digging in here?” Hui asked, as he looked out at the liberated Siberians huddled in the burned and broken bushes of their former castle.

“The rest of the unit will be closing in on this point.” Sun Song said, “We're holding the center here, the rest will look into an armored parameter. A few groups will run out deeper into the ground between here and Omsk. There's a few helicopters en-route from Novosibirsk.”

“Good on them.” Hui nodded. His throat felt dry and it scratched when he spoke, “Can we kill the engine, and open a hatch then?”

“I suppose so.” Song smiled, “Tsun, kill the engine!” he shouted. With a abrupt final gurgle the diesal engine gave a fitful 'pfut' and died silent, replaced by a slow a steady clicking as the metal began to cool. The soft whine of the turret hatch followed, and cool air washed down into the cabin with a relieved sigh.

“I still can't see how you can find anything through these.” Hui chuckled, “They're so small, it's no wonder you haven't rode out with the hatch open.”

“I'm not mad is why.” Song smiled, “Though I can say I haven't been tempted.”

“Don't try to make yourself to be a badder ass than you are.” sneered Hui, holding back from laughing. His commander didn't, and he let it out with a dry tired wheeze. His voice sounded strained and sore. Everyone needed a drink.

Dry coughing echoed from below as Hui hung there, looking out at the smoky city outside. Bodies were beginning to be pulled out from the buildings, laid out for the survivors to pick through and pull what they could off their fallen foes, or allies. But the grave looting that went on outside wasn't of much interest as the whistle of the driver's hatch opened through the still, smoky din of the vehicle.

Turning to the front, Hui saw Tsun crawl out through the front hatch in the corner of one of the circling viewing port. His young face pale and stiff as he pulled himself from his corner, leaning over the side. His black hair a thicker black as it clung sticky to his scalp. Beads of sweat dripped from down his face.

Hui felt quick concern for the new guy. He could imagine what he was feeling. Straightening himself out, he reached up and pulled himself through the turret of the tank, and into the cool Russian air outside.

“Did I give you permission to leave?” Song asked weakly. It wasn't as authoritative enough to be an order, so Hui wasn't concerned as he threw himself down onto the hull with a dull thump.

“If there's snipers they'd want you more than me.” Hui added, as he knelt on the outside, crawling across the metal hull to where Tsung leaned over the corner.

“I suppose you got a point.” he heard his commander remark, tinny and hollow from behind him.

Tsun didn't seem to notice as Hui slid up alongside him. The young man was too busy leaning over the side. His shoulders and body shook weakly in the cold air under his uniform. “You need a cigarette?” Hui asked, seating himself at the driver's side as he looked down at him.

Tsun looked up weakly at him. His deep brown eyes scanning up and down Hui distantly. Pursing his thin lips he shook his head. “Uh, I-uh. N-no. No thank you.” he said dryly, croaking, “I-I don't smoke.”

“You doing alright?” Hui asked concerned. He leaned over his knees, getting a clearer view at the shivering man at the nose of their tank.

“I-” was the only think he could manage out. He shook his head as he lay it on the cold steel.

“Hey, I know it's tough.” Hui said, trying to council him.

“I j-jus-st need to take a breath, is all...” Tsung said, slipping over his words in an effort to speak, “I just need to breath.”

“I guess that's commendable.” Hui said. Lifting himself up as he reached into his back pocket. In his hands he produced a wrinkled and flattened back of cigarettes, red and unmarked as usual. Pulling a battered and broken one in his mouth he looked over the battle field, “Welcome to the service. Welcome to the damned service.”

Yerevan, Armenia

Sunshine was something that seemed to be in abundance recently - a clear patch of weather had arrived over the Armenian Highlands and had made for about a week of beautiful, warm Spring days. President Assanian had been taking advantage of it by reading on his apartment's balcony overlooking the flowing Hrazdan River running through the center of the city. At the office, his windows were open to let the warm breeze in while he worked on the various things that postwar Armenia needed. Every day, his desk was filled with reports on the economy, the infrastructure, the population. A census had been authorized about a week ago to begin conducting surveys of the country and a Census Agency was established under the Ministry of the Interior in an empty office building just blocks away from Republican Square. They would be heading out in the summer to every corner of the country to gather data on the citizens. It made Assanian and his Ministers giddy, in fact: they were enough of a "real country" to have a census and a complex economy. The Ministry of the Economy was growing as well with analysts and planners to help collect data on the economic situation of Armenia that had long been hypothesized to be improving. The revolution had taken them out of the draconian economic policies of the Ottomans and had allowed the government to develop key critical infrastructures and industries before auctioning them off to civilian companies. The economic experts - some of them secretly sent from Polish and Persian government agencies - worked out trade deals and courses of action to support a healthy economy. Policies would need to be enacted in the future, of course.

However, Assanian was trying to release government control and decided early on that he would send the laws through Parliament to be voted on. His immense wartime authority was to be slowly eased out of in a series of democratic reforms. But that would come later, like his specific laws. For now, Assanian had to meet with the director of the National Recovery Agency to deal with the situation of building the critical infrastructure to allow growth across the country. Building and repairing roads, railroads, pipelines, power grids, and sources of energy were on the agenda today. Another stark difference from Assanian's role as a wartime leader was his new insistence on creating instead of destroying. The development of Armenia would go on like he promised, while the immediate foreign threats had been diminished. It wasn't a glamorous part of his job: it was boring meetings instead of valiant hours in the war room planning and thinking and preparing with the General Officers doing the same. Instead, Assanian was to be drinking some sort of alcoholic beverage - lightly, of course - while his windows were open to let the pleasant warmth in. There wasn't even a breeze to chill things. It was probably the best weather that Assanian had felt in months. A pleasant day for a pleasant meeting: they were about to turn swords into plowshares.

The NRA director arrived precisely five minutes early, knocking on the door to be let in by an Army guard in his green service uniform. The director - his name was Aram Terzian - had combed-back black hair and a nose that dominated his dark face, all while he wore cream khakis and a blue blazer. A lapel pin bearing the Army Engineer Corps logo was pinned to his collar, reflecting his prior military service as an engineering officer who had defected from the Turkish military in 1977. There was no tie either, his shirt unbuttoned at the top in blatant defiance of formal dress. As he closed the door behind him, Terzian apologized: "I had just gotten back from a breakfast with my wife's family, sir. Couldn't find the time to change into something more fitting, you see. Sorry about the casual apparel."

Assanian shook his head. "It's not a problem, director. In fact, I appreciate it. Do you know how hard it is to tell people apart when they all dress in the same way? Black suit, red tie! Who the hell is who?"

"Is that the explanation for your dress, Mister President?" Terzian joked. Assanian looked down at his purple tie and inspected it with his left hand.

"I'm the President," Assanian answered. "I can do whatever I want, so I decided to get a purple tie."

"That's great!" replied Terzian with a chuckle. "I hate to get dressy, myself. All of those suits are expensive and they're uncomfortable. They're too cold in the winter and too hot in the summer, and they stiffen you up like a statue. If I can't bend my arm in a suit to pick up something, why bother?"

"Well, you have to look professional. The public likes that, but they also like it when you're casual. Professional on the job, but friendly and down-to-Earth when you're not. Anyways, would you care for a drink?"

"Sure. What do you have?" asked Terzian as Assanian handed him a glass. He clinked it down onto the table and withdrew bottles of various beverages from the cabinet. Terzian picked his choice - clear vodka - and poured it before placing the bottle back onto the desk. The two toasted to the country before downing them. Upon putting downing their glasses, the two men immediately set them down and smoothed out ruffles in their clothing. With the niceties exchanged, it was time to get to business. Terzian had with him a leather briefcase that contained several documents: maps, diagrams, plans, spreadsheets. A look at the macroeconomic infrastructure of Armenia. Anything that was to be administered by the government like highways and railways and pipelines were to be built by Terzian's NRA.

"So, Mister President, I assume that we're eager to finish up this meeting. I've been stuck in a lot of these and I can tell you that they're not very fun," joked the director as he wiped his nose with a handkerchief.

"It's fine. It takes as long as it takes. So what do you have for me, Mister Terzian?"

The director hoisted his briefcase to the desk and set it down, opening the brass latches. The case creaked open as Terzian rooted around inside for what would begin to be the plans for a highway system. After a minute, he found them buried at the bottom. Almost a half-dozen maps alone, accompanied by a list of existing roads - further subdivided into roads that needed repair or enlargement and roads that were fine - and roads that would need to be built. Data such as length, quality, width, capacity, terrain, and accessibility accompanied each road. By the roads that were needed to be built, an estimated construction time was listed. Assanian looked over at the documents as Terzian withdrew them: an individual report for manpower was beside the pile of maps and data. At the bottom, there was the pricetag for each variant of the highway system.

"So what we have here, Mister President, are some plans drawn up by our engineers and architects at the NRA," began Terzian as he slid the folders over to Assanian. The President eyed the numbered packets and scratched the back of his head before looking back up at the director in front of him. "Several different variants of the plan have been proposed based on cost, construction time, predicted use, and other variables. As you can see, each folder has a map with the data on it. However, last year we asked the military for their advice at what would be considered the most essential roadways and infrastructure in a unified Greater Armenia. Their results were given to us and named the Konstantou Map after the Colonel who wrote the report. These are considered good bases for the blueprints for our highway system. Essential for national defense. The Konstantou Map has been stapled to every folder on the back to provide a comparison."

Terzian took a map out of a folder to show as an example: each road was highlighted in a different color on a blue-to-red scheme to show predicted traffic and usage, with red being the most busy. Busier roads would be given more priority in construction and were going to have to be finished earlier than the less important roads. "Now, with respect, I understand that you didn't go to engineering school," the NRA director said cautiously.

"You're right. I have no idea what the hell any of this means," agreed Assanian with a humorous twinkle in his eye. Terzian let out a small breath of relief that his statement hadn't offended the most important man in the country.

"Well, all of this data culminated into our list of suggestions based on all of these factors. The data is here for you to review when you make your decision. We have a suggestion for each public works project as well. Basically, we ranked all of the available plans based on their different attributes and assigned an overall score. Once again, it's entirely up to you and whatever advisers you choose to consult."

Terzian slid the folders over to Assanian's side of the desk and reached down to his briefcase for the other projects.

"And I'm guessing you have everything for the others?" Assanian concluded as he eyed the director.

Terzian nodded, revealing even more of the identical manilla folders. They all bore the project number and a brief title in the same black lettering. He placed them alongside the highway blueprints and leaned back into his chair before launching into an explanation. "Same thing, Mister President. We have one for pipelines, ports, airports, railways, factories, and pretty much anything else you can think of. We've spent three years developing the plans in our Agency. They've been tweaked and ironed out by engineers, economists, and other assorted experts. Many of them are from our foreign friends. We've also been readying our workforce to begin construction on these new projects. I'm sure you know this but last week, for example, Parliament approved your request to send more funds our way out of the War Ministry's budget. Advertisement and educational projects have stirred up some interest in the NRA's employment opportunities... we have an opportunity to put many of our unemployed craftsmen and workers to a steady, safe job with these reforms. It's going to cost a hell of a lot of money, but it'll pay off in the long run. I don't believe that we need to take out extreme loans for this, nor do I believe that we're in any danger of defaulting on them. At least, not yet. We just have to manage this properly."

"Thank you, Director," Assanian said calmly, smiling. He shuffled the folders into one giant stack before putting them in a rack on his desk - he'd have to make copies of them for his cabinet.

"And we have the framework to manage this, correct?"

"We've been steadily developing a system to facilitate these works for the past few years. Military leaders - particularly engineers - are in high demand because they can operate in environments like these. It's been a swords-into-plowshares kind of thing as we seek to give veterans a place to use their organizational skills. And, of course, we have no shortage of a patriotic population willing to actually perform the labor. In fact, many of our managers are conscientious objectors who have acquired experience and have been trained to plan and manage."

"Wonderful," Assanian beamed. "I see that the funds to you are working out."

"I'd hope so, Mister President. I've heard rumors that you plan on equalizing the budget between the War Ministry and us a bit more?"

"My plan," Assanian explained, "is to take money used by the military to do similar things and vest it in NRA - civilian - control. Engineers built their road through the western deserts, so it's your turn to work on it. With the Turks routed and effectively ruined, I don't foresee a major conflict in the near future."

"What about Georgia?"

"You know about Georgia?"

"My wife's cousin is Georgian, sir," the director pointed out while frowning slightly. "After we left Poti the country's been a mess. Someone has to clean it up and, from what I've heard, there have been raids on the warlords in the south and there have been some republican groups starting to rumble."

Assanian smiled and shook his head. "Georgia is complicated," he replied in a typical politician's tone. "I can't discuss specifics as of yet. But if we were to intervene I could assure you that existing forces would be more than enough to handle it. There would be no cuts to the NRA's budget to support another war as grand as the one we just got out of. I can assure you, Director Terzian, that Georgia is not a problem that you should be particularly concerned about."

"Sounds good, sir," Terzian agreed while nodding. "I don't want any more wars. I need the people getting out for the NRA's projects. Their three year enlistment periods should be expiring very soon. It's almost our third anniversary of independence in August."

"When their enlistment periods expire, you can have them if they don't reenlist!" Assanian said with a joking nudge. "We'll have to bring in a new batch of conscripts."

"Do you think that you can modify the conscription system?" asked Terzian meekly after a moment's hesitation.

"What?" came the bewildered reply. It was a change in the conversation that almost gave the President whiplash.

"To allow for certain people - not necessarily just conscientious objectors - to come in to the NRA instead of the military. Just think of it: it's still a patriotic program that's helping the state as much as military service," Director Terzian argued. Then he added: "Swords into plowshares."

Assanian leaned back into his chair and looked at the ceiling. What Terzian was saying was true, but the legislation would need to be pushed through Parliament. Would Parliament agree with a modification to the existing conscription rules? After all, many of them were veterans. Would they see the value in a civilian job, or would they deny the legislation on the grounds that the civilian service option being extended to able-bodied and able-minded men was going to put the Armed Forces of Armenia at a serious disadvantage? Any sane person would choose building roads over the military. Perhaps there needed to be some sort of quota for each: a compromise that would be much easier to sell than the straight option that Terzian proposed. Assanian returned to the real world after musing for a few seconds, and told Terzian that it was a possibility. As long as it could get through Parliament without issue, the law wouldn't be a problem with himself.

"Why send it through Parliament?" Terzian replied suddenly. "You still have emergency powers."

"Technically," Assanian noted. "The war is over. I have to give them up. I believe that I don't want any bad publicity trying to keep them. At this point, Armenia needs a stable government. If I come across as too power-hungry, people will lose their will. We must have them know that they are being led by a just, competent government. So the democratic advances I propose include pushing legislation through Parliament."

"Well, I guess that works," conceded Terzian with another nod. "Depending on what plans that you end up picking, we're going to need a lot of labor. But I believe that this is good for the economy, of course. I firmly believe that if you put money into the economy, you get a return on your investment."

"Of course," Assanian agreed with a shrug. "You pay workers, give them jobs, and they can buy the goods that are produced now."

"Basically. And that money goes to producing more goods that are consumed. It's just a matter of getting that circle started. Of course, it's a very delicate business. We need to be very careful in our handling of this. Particularly with my area of responsibility: the infrastructure. Economies depend on this. They depend on the ability to produce the goods and transport them for sale. Governments depend on the taxes from this infrastructure. It's the base for everything else. In my opinion, this is the most crucial step. You're intelligent, Mister President: I know that you'll make the right decision. I myself know that the Ministry of the Economy is working day and night to develop policy that your administration will put into place. But your policies here will be crucial for the others to succeed. And so with that I give you the blueprints and urge you to make your decision quickly. When's your next cabinet meeting?"

"I can assemble them quickly enough," Assanian replied with a quick glance over to the small black telephone at the corner of his desk, next to a smoldering ashtray and a half-empty bottle of liquor.

"You handled the war excellently, sir. Now we need to handle the peace," Terzian continued, slipping into some sort of lecture as he went more and more off the topic of the meeting. "It's harder in many cases. There is no enemy, but somehow everything is trying to disable you. You can only build, and you cannot destroy that which is threatening you. You are building that wall and can only build it thick enough so that nothing can hurt you. You cannot simply strike back and not need a wall at all, as what would be the easiest option. It is far easier to strike at someone than to endure and harden against their blows for a lifetime. This is what's hard for us veterans to understand. We want to seek out a black-and-white enemy and destroy it. We want to maintain an offensive where our base values are in no danger: we want the fight to be far away from our core, and when it is we can become comfortable and relaxed. Our cities are not being bombed, our civilians are not dying. We have pushed the fight far away. Yet keeping the peace requires a constant struggle to keep balance between conflicting people who also happen to be the same ones you need to protect. It is a constant struggle against outside, intangible forces that one cannot eliminate. We cannot push them far away. We can only harden ourselves against it and take measures to keep our balance, lest these forces knock us off our dainty pedestal and ruin us. We could easily turn into another Russia, another Georgia if we don't plan and execute this correctly. This is what I think makes peace a thousand times more difficult. But it is rewarding, for when you look outside and you see your country thrive, there is no better feeling. And with that, Mister President, I believe we are finished here."

They shook hands shortly thereafter before Terzian left. After the door was shut, Assanian turned back to his desk and the open windows behind it letting in the sunlight. The most crucial part of the reconstruction. The plans - the keys for the future - were sitting on his desk. It was all a matter of choosing the right ones. But he had to ponder Terzian's closing remarks: peace was harder than war, and would require constant upkeep. He went for another drink in the bottle next to the telephone before heading to his bookshelf to read. The plans would wait for tomorrow, when he would call a cabinet meeting in the afternoon. By the end of the week, he'd make his case before Parliament. The NRA was geared and ready to go. It was his approval they needed. They were one step closer to their goals.

It was an unusually quiet morning in Brisbane. The sun had just started to come up, and the fog had rolled in from the south and encompassed the streets of the third most populous city in all of Australia. General Barton McBride watched the sunrise from one of the taller skyscrapers in the city. The city was already starting to wake up, and the early morning traffic was beginning to form down below. McBride felt a light tap on his shoulder, and a sigh found itself escaping his mouth. The General spun around in his swivel chair and turned back towards his desk. To Barton’s left stood his personal secretary, Miss Taylor White. She had the same patient look she always did on her face. Barton raised his coffee mug up to his round, cleanly shaven face and took a sip.”Yes, Miss White?” Barton asked, his voice rather agitated. What did she need at this hour? The general had only just arrived a few minutes ago and started his morning routine.

“I’m sorry to bother you sir, I know you like to be alone around now, but it’s urgent. Doctor Andrews is waiting outside. He says he has something you need to see. I asked what it was, but he said it was classified.” The small, dark skinned secretary explained.”Let the doctor in.” McBride answered a solemn look crossing over his face. Doctor Andrews was the head of Project Steel Cobras.

Andrews watched in, bowing his head and muttering a thank you to Miss White as she left the room simultaneously. Andrews was bald, and looked to be Indian. He always avoided telling if he was native to India or not. Barton didn’t exactly trust the man, but Andrews kept tight lipped about the project. Or so Barton’s man who had been following Andrews informed the general.

“I have the recording, as well as the results, of the Steel Cobras’ first field test.” Andrews said. The two men shook hands before taking their seats.”Show me, then.” The general put a hand through his white, thinning hair. The fact that he still had hair frankly amazed McBride’s wife.

The doctor nodded, holding up a file filled with papers. He tossed it across the desk, and it landed with a quiet thud in front of the general. Barton put a pair of reading glasses on and opened the folder. He began to read.

///Project: STEEL COBRAS///

MISSION DESIGNATION: GEARM174-62

STAGE OF DEVELOPMENT – PHASE III; FIRST FIELD TEST
The night sky shown brightly with the light of thousands of stars; the moon was beginning to come into view over the top of a mountain range. The deep rumbling of a small convoy of three armored vehicles echoed over the vast desert that surrounded the lone road the vehicles travelled on. A grouping of lights could be seen up ahead in the desert sands. Inside the lead vehicle, the eight commandos belonging to Dagger squad were filled with anticipation, as their first combat mission was about to begin.

“…And that’s when I smashed a beer bottle into his face!” The large African-Australian said in his booming voice, before bursting out into hardy laughter. The other five men in the back of the AATV-24 (Australian equivalent to a BTR-40) joined in, and the noise of the engine was drowned out by their laughter.”When are you ever going to stop getting into trouble, Hercules?” A wiry-built Caucasian next to Hercules asked with a grin on his voice.”The next time you hit up a gym, Odysseus, I’ll think about it.” Hercules responded.”You could just say never and give the guy a break.” A golden haired, blue eyed, well-built commando jested.”Don’t you have some make-up to put on, Pretty boy?” Hercules said.”It’s Perseus to you, bud. Only the ladies can call me that.”

A dark haired, fair skinned soldier who had thus far been rather quiet scoffed.”These codenames are ridiculous. Why can’t we just use our real names?” The man next to him nudged him with his elbow.”Come on. You’re the only one with a normal name here, Jason. What kind of name is Cadmus? I’ve never even heard of the guy.” Cadmus fixed his helmet over his graying black hair, snapping it back on. Meanwhile Orpheus, the youngest of the commandos, was busy fiddling with his StG 58 (IRL Australian weapon based on FN FAL), checking over its firing mechanism multiple times.”What’s wrong, Orpheus? Scared?” Hercules mocked the younger soldier.”No. I’m making sure my weapon works. I’d tell you to, but your accuracy score was so low it’d be a waste of time.” Orpheus snapped back, grinning.”You scored double the second best shot in Australia. Everyone’s score is low compared to yours.” Cadmus reminded.

“Heads up, boys. We’re getting close. You know the plan, but I’ll go over it again, because I know you’ll all want to start shooting the minute we get out there: These rebels think we’re here to escort the diplomat who’s suppose to be bringing them an amnesty. Heh, fat chance. We’re going to start shooting once we get into the middle of their compound. Let Commander Achilles give the order before you fire, alright?” A woman’s voice from the front of the vehicle interrupted the commandos and their antics.”You got it, Sub-commander.” “Sure thing, Atalanta.” “Anybody see my magazine? I dropped it..”

“Get on that turret, Atalanta.” The gruff voice of the commander ordered. Achilles scratched the large scar that went across his throat as he drove the WATV-24 into the enemy camp. Atalanta did as she was told, and stood up in the turret, taking hold of the .50 cal. The convoy came to a stop, right in the middle of the camp. They positioned the vehicles so that it looked as if they would be leaving the armored transports and entering the command tent immediately behind them.”This is Commander Achilles. Begin departure. Vehicles are to provide covering fire.” Immediately, the three .50 caliber guns from the transports started to light up onlookers and guards alike. A siren started to go off as the troops filed out of their transports and split into their respective fireteams.

Hercules was the first out of the front vehicle, heaving a AMG-30 (Similar to the M60, but made locally) onto his hip and firing bursts into any rebels who came out of hiding. Right behind him was Cadmus, holding a ballistic shield and a ASM-2 (Australian made SMG, similar to the IRL MP series). The rest of the squad quickly formed up behind them, except for Atalanta, who was going to stay on the gun turret for the duration of the mission. The team began it’s sweep..

A few miles to the south of Canberra, Australia

The Governor-General’s mansion was usually a quiet place. This was where the Chapman family lived, and it was a peaceful existence most days. But today was not most days. Mark sat in his office, along with thirty or so politically influential members of the Australian government. Oh, and the news crews occupied their own portion of the room too. Mark was seated at his desk, his eyes darting over the letter again and again. He couldn’t contain the joy on his face. He’d finally get the chance to visit London, after all these years. He was the only one in the room with the luxury of sitting. Everyone else had to stand.

Beside the Governor-General stood Prime Minister Mary Crakenthrope, who was reading over Chapman’s shoulder. She looked just as pleased as the Governor-General. “Mister Regis, I need a paper and something to write with.” Chapman ordered. A secretary brought over a quill and a piece of paper. Chapman wrote his short reply to the invitation:

I accept your invitation, Prime Minister. I will be leaving for London as soon as physically possible.

Sincerely,
Governor-General Mark Chapman

“Ready my car, Mister Regis. I want a private ship for my family, staff, and I ready five minutes ago. Contact Admiral Crickett, and see if you can get us an escort from the Royal Australian Navy.” The secretary nodded furiously, and ran off to do as he was told. Mark stood up, and put an arm around the Prime Minister as photos were snapped of them.”We’re making history here, Mary. Mark my words, this is our legacy.”

Vukovar, Croatia

The temperature was fair in the mid-afternoon; the young guard on his post thankfully did not need to wear his coat today. He had quite a view over the Dunav River and into the Serbian countryside on his border "guard-post", which was a seemingly abandoned building...which was a bit unusual, since he didn't expect anyone to run through the Croatian border without being seen from kilometers away and shot down. It would have been a poor place for the Serbs to attack from; the government was getting too paranoid recently over the so-called possible Serbian surprise attack. They even hired Prussian soldiers as an extra layer of defense; not that they needed help from the damn Prussians.

Hrvoje, surprisingly trigger disciplined as he was, idly held onto his service rifle – the semi-automatic AP-65 (Croatian variation of the FN FAL; bears similarity to the Austrian variant of the StG 58 ). The soldier next to him was in a deep sleep, his face covered with a pornographic magazine, poorly covered by a translated version of a Czech classic. Damn Andrej...trying to impress others with your intellect. Hrvoje thought, eyes looking through the iron sights of his rifle.

Meanwhile, a box radio, standing on a nearby table with a half full mug of coffee, was broadcasting, with a calm voice of a reporter speaking. "...As Serbian armed force to begin to enclose Sarajevo, the capital of our neighboring city, President Dvornik has imposed a peacetime draft in reaction to Serbia's aggression in Bosnia. The Croatian Parliament has agreed to this conscription with a vote majority of 174-80. All men from 21 to 35 will be drafted for a year's military service and will be picked through a national lottery, and the draft will be effective within the end of the month. On a related note, Prussian has recently sent its soldiers to defend our country in the case of a Serbian attack. This action has been debated by the public. Some argue due to the unnecessary intervention of other fellow countries into problems that are not of their concern; yet others deem it essential to gain military assistance to defeat the common enemy.

"There is also controversy over the intervention of Serbia's invasion. One of the members of the National Assembly of the Croatian Parliament, Albin Zupan, says that 'diplomacy must be considered – we should not attempt to start a war when we are in the midst of recovery and development.' Yet another member, Lojze Vujovic, offers a different perspective, claiming that 'Croatia lacks a public identity in the eyes of Europeans; in this case, we can't always rely on the Prussians or some other country to defend our homeland. We need to take action into our own hands if we need to get things done.' Now, onto another topic, Prince Ferdinand of Romania celebrates his eighteenth birthday in the Bucharest Royal Palace..."

"What are you doing?" a person said behind Hrvoje's back.

"Slobodan," Hrvoje muttered back. He remembered that person very well; Slobodan was a Croatian "Serb" with a relatively short stature and brown, messy hair, and an idle look on his face.

"Well, you heard what they're talking about recently? If you don't want to be the son of the bitch who started a war, keep your trigger finger away," Slobodan warned.

"Shut up," Hrvoje shot back. "You were out having your nice little tourist trip. Get back in line."

Ta'if, Ethiopian Hejaz

"My chauffeur announced to me that he had observed a ghost on the roadway." Sisi said dryly. His hand was wrapped tightly around the golden head of his cane, and he wringed it as he walked. The weight of his grey-black, four thousand Spanish peseta tweed suit caused the late-spring heat to well against his skin and boil him in his own sweat. He had taken to wearing a smart pair of yellow-tinted glasses to protect himself from the Arab climate, where a brutal sun and eye-burning sandstorms were too common for a civilized man to endure.

"You're not listening to me..." the Walinzi agent replied. He had been blustering on for some time, about war and public relations and a myriad of other obnoxious technicalities. He was imposing enough, in his black great coat and sunglasses dark enough to completely hide his eyes, but Sisi had spent years around his kind. The truest Walinzi agents - the warriors and geniuses - were out in the field. Most of the agents that lurked around bases like this one were paper-pushers. Sisi had little interest in him.

"He said it came to him in the darkness, on that wretched goat path." Sisi continued. The 'Goat Path' was his pet name for the newly paved road that snaked through the Arabian mountains. It was such an unreasonable little path - jerking him around and making him nauseous any time he ascended toward his hidden site in the hills. Though the laboratory he had been gifted by Ras Hassan was nothing short of a godsend, the land it was tucked away in was a dusty hell. The Sarawat mountains that divided Hejaz from the rest of the Arab wastes were hardly true mountains at all. Dr. Sisi had seen the Alps of Europe and the Pyrenees of Spain. Those were true mountains. Even the highlands of Ethiopia could impress if one was in a good enough mood. The Sarawat, however, were scrubby hills knifed with rock. It was the rock that made people think they were mountains. In some places, the desert stone formed serated caps on the tops of the hills and created an illusion that would make the uneducated dream of beautiful places. In the end, it was nothing but brown.

"Ghosts aren't what I am talking about..." the Walinzi agent continued to harass. Sisi responded to his gnat-like buzzing by ignoring it.

"The ghost was bleeding from his scalp, my good driver explained. He said this multitudinously as if I had not heard. He was bleeding from his scalp and... grasped out, with a limb outstretched, as if he was going to seize the driver out of his truck from the roadside. When his headlights reached the ghost's eyes, he saw that they were dead. That's what he told me, and I when I asked him what he meant by that, he told me that it was the same look his mother gave him when she died. It looked like whatever had once existed behind those eyes was fading into the abyss."

There was a moment of silence between the two, where Sisi could hear the voices of the Ethiopian encampment mixing in the wind.

"That's fine." the Walinzi agent replied. "But we need to talk about the Spanish. If they find what we have here... if they find your research. They could tell the world we are evil while using what you've learned here to do worse."

"We have done no evil here." Sisi answered. "Only what science has laid before us. The inevitable."

If the chauffeurs ghost were to climb this mountain and float through the three layers of guarded fence unseen, it would find a small encampment that didn't look worthy of it's defenses. There were a few long tents, a mishmashed plywood and tin-panel mess hall, and a collection of aging armored vehicles covered in a fine layer of Arab dust. The constant stream of people walking across this ground had pounded the dirt into a fine powder that felt like congealed air when walked on. Outside, the desert was a sprawling dead land covered with boulders and brush. Islam had been born in these mountains. Seeing this place, it was not hard to understand why the Arabs had been so quick to conquer the world. Anything to get away.

The black-grey tweed of Sisi's suit jacket was covered in a patchy layer of dirt. Every few steps, Sisi brushed it off with his hands as delicately as a young woman caring for new clothes. He preferred the quarters he had in the Congo, where the last few living specimens he had be awarded during the Civil War were still held. He had nearly used them up, however, and Hassan had insisted his work stay close to the source of his subjects.

At the heart of the small encampment was a cement pad surrounded by locked fencing. It looked more like a house for a sewage pump that something important. It was so unimpressive that the two guards that stood at attention in front of it looked comical in comparison to their charge. Still, they took their business seriously, and they hassled him for identification despite it being plainly obvious who he was. His clothing alone concluded the terrible fact that he was the only well-dressed man on the entire wretched peninsula. It was tiring, but Sisi submitted all the same. Fumbling with a pocket in the lining of his suit, he pulled a high-priority clearance badge that marked him as a Walinzi consultant.

To Sisi's vast personal entertainment, the same guards harassed his Walinzi tail. Sisi tried to amble ahead, opening a rusty manhole cover and climbing down the simple cement tube ladder as awkwardly as a man carrying an expensive pure-gold tipped cane would be forced to do. He hoped to board the elevator and get lowered before the agent could finish groping his own badge. A third guard stood inside the metal cage elevator and nodded curtly as Sisi stepped on. He felt it wobble uncertainly under his feet. Sick yellow lighting filled the dank-smelling cement compartment, and a high-pitched whine - barely audible - attacked his hearing. Much to Sisi's annoyance, the Walinzi agent caught up. The guard pushed the steel-grate elevator gate closed and latched it. A red light came on above them, accompanied by a screech that sounded like the light itself had decided to scream in bored pain from it's abrupt glow. Shifting back to the corner, the guard pressed a button and held. They began to descend.

"My superiors affirm it." the agent started to caw again. "You should pack what you have here. All of the information. We can put it on file in the Walinzi offices and obfuscate the sources. Obfuscate. You know you can't use any of this as evidence for any of your work..."

"I know." Sisi cut off, tapping his cane against the grated floor. It caused the entire cage to shudder lightly. They were descending slowly through the dark, cement giving way to rock, though steel girders occasionally poked through the stone.

"My superiors affirm it." the agent repeated. "The Spanish fleet is expected to reach the canal any day soon.."

"You're superiors..." Sisi muttered. "I'm your superior. I'm superior to you! You should not be pretending to instruct me on the intricacies of neural science. When it comes time, I will... perform as I must. Given these... abominable circumstances."

They slipped out of the elevator shaft and into the main chamber. Even still, it had the power to take his breath away.

Through slave labor, they had excavated a hole deep enough to comfortably embrace the tallest skyscrapers in Madrid, and wide enough to hold a small-sized city if one discounted the urban sprawl that accompanied so many of the western population centers. It was huge, it was hard to fathom how huge it truly was until you were inside of it.
From this wall there was no hope of seeing the other. The cavern was bathed in darkness, except for the lanterns that twinkled like stars along the nearest walls and on the ground below. Ventilation shafts had been constructed through the roof, but it was hardly enough. The air was thick and hot down here, so soupy that it often made Sisi feel as if he was choking. The hum of thousands of captive Arab rebels filled the expansive cavern with a soft suffering sound. There were thousands, he knew. He had files for every one, and he had explored the brainscape of many. They were his subjects, set to dig rock for no other reason but to keep them busy. If Hassan had a goal in mind for this veritable wonder of the world, Sisi had never been made aware of it.

The descent would have been harrowing to an individual with weaker bowels. The elevator lowered between two steel pylons, and it felt as if they were dangling precariously from a single cable. Sisi had known prisoners to react in undignified ways when first exposed to it. They screamed and moaned and cried. Some clung to guards, or to the rough metal grating of the elevator cage itself. It was also hardly uncommon for individuals to lose control of their bodies and spout a bodily substance through an orifice, whether it be digestive or waste.

They reached the bottom, brought to a halt by a sudden jerk followed by a soft thud. The guard opened the cage-door and Sisi exited, tapping his twice against before stepping out onto the rocky floor. Around him was the sound of clapping pick-axes and scraping shovels. Men wailed, guards shouted, and Sisi felt like Dante stepping into one of the lower rings of the Inferno. It was hot, uncomfortable, and misery played across the massive tomb in rushing waves, but Sisi could feel nothing but the excitement of discovery.

Guards transported lines of rag-clad prisoners - slaves, really - that had been captured and tried in military kangaroo courts as rebels. Hejaz had rebels, there was no doubt, but Sisi also had no doubt that Hassan would have anybody who as much as fed a rebel convicted if he thought it would scare a peace into the region. That was his way. Hit them where it hurts, and if they argue then hit them again. These prisoners had been hit where it hurt them more than once. Men or women, their hair had been sheared away to reveal lumpy scars running along their scalps like seams. They had been worked bloody and starved. Some looked frightened, some beaten down, and others completely dead to the world and drooling.

A staff car arrived to pick him up, driving him down a road that cut through the underground bedrock. It went for a mile at least, if not more, before it reached a wall where a series of white tents covered in red dust stood along the edge of the cavern. Floodlights bathed the site in in manufactured daylight, and a similar pale glow emanated from the tents themselves. With his Walinzi tail close behind him, Sisi entered his home away from home.

It was beautiful, white, and clean. Every table and every chair was covered in see-through plastic. The Walinzi agent ducked into a nearby room where several of his comrades were busy transcribing code and listening intently to the static babble of a radio who's wires ran along the road and up the elevator to communicate with the world above. Free of the black-clad gnat buzzing in his ear, Sisi entered his lab. He was impressed by what he saw.

A pair of assistance had taken it upon themselves completely remove the brain of their patient, putting it in a nearby jar. The same patient's own blood was being used to feed the jar, filling the jar's fluid with rich red and pink before removing the blood from the synthetic fluid through a filter and returning it to the patient's beating heart. Sisi knew they had tried this many a time before - and lost their patients as a result. In truth, it was a death sentence. This prisoner had likely upset the guard. Sisi had seen worse happen to men who spat at their Ethiopian watchers.

"Seven minutes." one of the surgeons announced coolly as Sisi entered the room. "Extraction took three hours, but we severed the arteries without immediate death to the patient. Our time was mostly spent severing the spine while keeping the necessary nerves untouched."

"Remarkably done." Sisi tapped. "Has there been any noticeable paralysis?"

The second surgeon shrugged. "The patient has been mostly catatonic. Whatever might be going on in their head is completely unknown to us."

Sisi looked away from the bloody gore springing from the back of the head and at the patient's face. It was a she - a younger Arab woman who's face had no doubt once been attractive, but was no puffy and swollen. Her mouth hung open, her jaw limp, and her eyes were crossed. Whoever she had been, she was long gone.

"Whatever might be going through the patient's jar." Sisi chuckled dryly.

Kalachinsk, Russia

The embrace of night was a cool and welcome relief. It lay across the Vilage, bringing to a conclusion the events of earlier that day. Though not silencing the war as a whole, the sing-song of crickets mingled with the distant thunder of artillery fire. Aircraft droned regularly over head towards Omsk. The surreal mixture of country-side peace, and the relentless pursuit of man towards self destruction was a surreal experience. As one part of the world was too busy dying for sleep, another was closing on their last breaths of the waking hour.

Under the canopy of a bomb blasted roof Tsun sat staring out to Omsk. His body gripped with a distant numbness as he quivered and shook on the rickety floorboards of that abandoned attic. His knuckles gripped the edge so tight they glowed white, locked to the boards like clamps of steel. His breath sawed in and out through his lips with a strained gasp. The sounds of fighting were inescapable, and the ghosts of earlier that day had him surrounded on the inside. He felt trapped between two hells, and he felt a desperate need to get away. But to where?

The rattle of the Tei Gui shook still in his seat. The thunder of its main gun echoed in his ears as a distant, soft ringing found a home. It felt like mosquittos in his head, adding to the panic that filled him like a pitcher of water. Bitter water, salt water. There was nothing refreshing about the experience. It was a bloody drum that beat his skull, forcing the water down through his skull to his tongue. He tasted the bitterness of his own fear, his shame. It poured from his skin. His sweat stuck his uniform to his skin, freezing there against the cool mid-spring night. The freezing temperature only made it worse.

Shells thundered through the darkened abyss of the night, sending up bright flashes of fire and light, briefly silhouetting distant barren trees. The guns had arrived a few hours earlier, and entrenched themselves a mile behind the tiny Russian village. The dull thumping boomed over them, and the ghostly response of the shells responded back. Occasionally, flares would spring up from the countryside. Tsun watched from his perch, not in rapt interest, but of fear and empathy. Watching the patterns of flare vs fire, where the shells would drop as a distant star sprung from the darkness.

Omsk glowed with its own eerie light. The distance between him and it making the city only a electrical glow on the horizon. Or perhaps it was fire. But the smoking passes of hair-thin spotlights glowed through the fog and the clouds as the defenses scanned for aircraft. Was this like China during the Revolution? Could he even remember those days?

Would this be China if its enemies breached its borders?

The implications were haunting. Torturous over the battlefield laid out in the darkness around him. This was free murder, and for one rare moment in his life he began to cry. He fell to his side against the splintered and frayed floor boards, feeling the spines of broken wood dig into the side of his face as he shut himself off from the battle. Tears breaking the dams in his eyes and flowing with the force of a flood. He croaked and sobbed, rolling on the cold boards.

It didn't matter, the war drowned him out. And it charged him on. It pushed the dawning realization he had been forced into a world beyond his control and trapped all the way through. He lost time as he lay there. He sniffed and sobbed, soaking up the bitterness. He was trapped.

How could man be so brutal? Even his own people, how had they gone into this. He had thought so differently of war. That it was honorable somehow. But, this was something else. And he had only been in it for a day. How would he keep without going insane? How had the others?

“Are you quite done?” a man said indifferently. The sudden voice of an intruder froze Tsun in his position. Bitter, afraid tears still crawled down his face, but he had been caught mid-breath and he instead starred off in the distance, drawing coarse broken breath.

Heavy boots trod across the wood in a slow careful swagger. Tsun scrambled up, staggering to his feet as he turned to address the visitor. The cold life-less flashes of flares and artillery fire lit up the emptied room they were in, and the deep bald features of Hui. There was little empathy in his face, but no hate or condescension in his expression.

“I- n- Ye-” Tsun bubbled and blathered. Running his hand through his knotted hair. The weight of a horse pressed against him. Fear, anxiety, embarrassment. He didn't know what. He staggered, muttering incoherently as he tried to look for the most appropriate word to use. Nothing came out. Nothing came to mind. His speech was as his mind, a turbulent mess. “Abhayenomaybe.” he finally choked in distress.

“I'll take that as a maybe.” Hui said, stopping alongside him. The loader fumbled in his pockets, drawing out a red package.

“Cigarette?” he asked, holding out the box with a clip of a wrist. A small number of crumpled bent cigarettes poked out at him, barely illuminated in the deadened light of the moon. And only briefly brought to light in the flashes of battle.

“I-” Tsun started. Conflicted.

“Oh well.” Hui said. Retracting the pack. With a pass he returned it to his pocket, drawing one out as he returned it. With a click he held out a lighter, shielding the fire as he lit up.

“You did good.” Hui complimented ghostly after a long silence. Echoing explosions and gunshots punctuated the following silence as the dull ember glow of the cigarette lit up Hui's face. The distinctive stubble of an unshaven jaw shone in the fiery glow.

“I- thanks?” a conflicted Tsun said, “I don't know...”

“No, you did well.” Hui laughed. “But of course, with Song screaming at everyone and everything firing on you, what choice is there?”

“What do you mean?”

Hui shrugged, “You know.” he said, “Song forbid you turn that thing around without his orders mid-fire fight. They may have armored the '80's back-side up. But I wouldn't give these vodka pissers the chance to stick a rocket in our ass. I don't want to be the one to test armor durability.”

Tsun stood stunned. Hui approached the subject in such a casual distant matter it shook him harder than the war around them. “How do you do it?” he found himself asking.

“Do what?” Hui asked.

“This. All of this.” Tsung said. He found it difficult to simply imply the current state of things. It felt sickening to him. But he was here, like a village child in Kowloon.

Hui kept silent for a moment. Drawing from the glowing cigarette as he looked from him, and to briefly distant Omsk. “You learn.” he said cryptically.”

“How?” Tsun pleaded, “How do you?”

Hui visibly shrugged, not even sure himself. “Just keep rolling. It'll all probably be over in a couple months anyways. It always seems to.”

“There's something though...” Tsung said, pressing to desperation, “All of this... I don't know if I can do this. It's... different than what I thought it would be.”

Hui nodded, “I haven't thought about it.” he said, “And I don't want too. Comrade, I think that's for the best.”

Turning for the stairs he extinguished his cigarette against the bottom of his boot. “And Song's wondering where you are.” he said, “He'd want us both back. Doesn't want a sniper to take any of us. Let's get back.”

Northern Russia

A dead silence hung over the forest. In it, the shadows hid all under the boughs of gently snow-dusted pines. The low underbrush was still dead and barren. Under the stars and a moon hidden under the clouds the low grumble of motors rolled across the desolate Siberian forest. First three, then five. From the five it doubled to ten. From ten a complete brigade of mechanized infantry. The roars of their engines filling up into the night time air. Loosing themselves in the snow-packed boughs over heads. From weak head lamps the light snow glistened a amber and golden light.

The low rumble echoed in the darkened silent wood. The sounds of the motor low as the small, low vehicles skirted through the snow at the run of a quick man. The pocketed heavy tires digging into and kicking out the snow as they wound through, digging their own paths. The effort was slow going. But it was expected with what they had.

The low drone was interrupted by a high growling pop and a wet whine. The sharp cut of the sound split through the silence like a gunshot. And likewise many of the riders responded likewise. The caravan swerved to the side, and dark shapes dove from the seats for cover. All at once the sound of the motors died to a monotonous idle rumble as their riders – and passengers – took to the snowy ground.

But there was no response.

“At ease! At ease!” a voice shouted into the night, “Ease, comrades!

“Kill the cars. We've got motor problems.” the same man shouted again, distraught and frustrated. Slowly one by one the rumbling of small engines died and the Russian forest died into subtle soft silence. A deadened weight hung in the ears of the soldiers as they killed their mounts. A silent nervousness and tensity weighed over the unit as they set to watch into the darkness.

With a click, a singular light turned on. Illuminating a field of steam and smoke as a small group of men gathered near.

“The fuck happened this time!?” Tsien Huang coughed from the steel-frame nest on the top of the buggy. Gripping his coat by the edge he waved the heavy cotton fabric in the air, brushing aside the thin acrid smell of smoke and putrid smelling steam from the motor below him. An expression of contempt and disgust twisted his face as he glared down below.

“I'm looking.” a man growled. The driver. In one hand he held a heavy flashlight and with the other he fought to wave out the tendrils of steam and smoke as he looked over the exposed engine block. Pipes and pockets glowed a soft cherry red, but he paid these patches no heed as he looked over every edge he could.

“Did we get snow in it again?” Yun-qi asked, leaning over the driver's shoulder. He squinted his eyes against the harsh biting vapors of wrongly-cooked oil and gas, “I'm hoping that's not the smell of a motor on the brink of exploding.”

“I'm not about to rule that out now, but it's likely.” the driver said, biting his lip, “This will take a while. Perhaps you should get in with the other units and we'll make camp.”

“Right, how far do you think we got?” Yun-qi asked.

“Again, without an odometer I can't say for certain.” the driver laughed, nervously, “But maybe twelve hours driving, roughly forty-five kilometers an hour... Maybe five-hundred fifty kilometers.”

“And we're not any closer to knocking on Radek's back fucking door.” Tsien Huang cursed in his cage.

“Well, we're in good a spot as any.” Quan Yun-Qi added, “We'll stop here. Work on this tomorrow and move when it's done.”

“Copy that.” the driver grunted, burying his head into the cloud of fog and smoke as he sought out what had blown. The trip had been very dissatisfying.

Yun-Qi turned from the disabled buggy. When they were moving they made good progress. But the deeper they got, the less they managed to make in time. Of the twelve hours on a motorized forced march across Russia, four outside had been used in simple maintenance on the Russian made buggies. The cheap, quick to manufacture design was a cheap boon to the effort. They could be pounded out in Novosibirsk on a fistful of Ren. But they were that, cheap. And it irritated Quan.

On every occasion, the fault of their stall had fallen on the exposure of the engines. The combat engineers under his command had did their best to conceal and protect the fragile second-hand engines from the elements. But any given moment that itself seemed to fail and the snow managed to get in with much added frustration.

It hadn't been hardly a day since he and his men had deployed from their forward post in the far-north of Siberia - where they had froze for the better part of a winter in the arctic circle – that the ills of the Russian built buggies manifested. In almost eight hours kicked-back snow had built up over the motor and effectively drowned the engine of Yun-Qi's own buggy. To infuriated shouts all over, they were forced to stop as the issue was amended.

Of the most frustrating was when they rallied back to move after camp, where snow melt had frozen in the fuel lines and caused them to rupture. For a brief moment, they were at the closest they had been to going up in flames. As black smoke erupted from a live motor they moment they turned it on the day was doomed to be sour as nine and a half hours were wasted in fixing, and examining the similar carts. It was at that stage the column divided into their own units.

The loose regiment turned to their colonel as he called out to them. Handing out the order to make their camp for the night. Given the hardly ideal position, the command was met with frustrated grumbles. For the men, it would be difficult to find a solid place to dig down. Woody bushes grew clustered around the young pines, and the ground was still cold, despite it being the middle of May.

“Lùjūn shàngxiào!” Tsien Huang called out, summoning Yun-qi's attention as the coated Mongolian sprinted up to his officer's side.

“Yes?”

“At least for my own benefit, are we close to wherever we need to be?” Huang asked, “Driving off road through the Russian wasteland is exciting, comrade. But it's not what I expected on this campaign. And there's an end to a road somewhere.”

Yun-qi smiled. With a distant sigh he shook his head. “I'll need to check the map.” he sighed, “But we should be getting there soon. Provided we don't have any more problems.” he added, looking to the disabled buggy. The sounds of tired motors were replaced by the hacking and thudding of picks and shovels as his men dug into into the frozen ground for their camp.

“Well damn if that's not what he said before!” sneered Huang. Throwing his arms into the air he shouted sarcastically, “I'm so excited!”

Quan rolled his eyes. “Sure...” he mumbled. The soldier snorted and shook his head.

“We better be damn close.” he growled, “Or I'll go out and look for it myself.”

****

Small pinprics of light dotted the dark trees. Loose canopies scattered throughout the forest contained the soft glow of lamp lights or small forests as the Chinese held against the bitter cold of Northern Russia. Likewise, Quan Yun-qi brooded over his map.

Laid across his lap like a blanket, he leaned over it in the light of a gas lamp suspended from the hook of a metal pole driven into the frozen Earth. With his coat, a unwashed stone gray blanket lay across his shoulders as he worked over the day.

“Comrade.” a man's voice said, drawing up Yun-qi's attention from his map. Hovering in the opening of his quickly erected tent loomed his radio officer.

“Chen.” the colonel muttered, “You got the reports in?”

“Just finished.” communication's officer Chen said, throwing himself down on the cold ground. He stole wore his heavy radio, the heavy straps holding his heavy form in a tight hug. Rummaging in his pockets he spoke: “Sentries are out as well.” he said with a sigh, pulling out a piece of paper, “I have their communications on my primary channel. It's all quiet so far.”

“Suppose they still we're here?” Yun-Qi asked.

“Not with the south being a load of shit.” he coughed, “Fuck it's cold.” he commented bitterly, “But no. I don't think so. And there's too much wasteland for them to watch over. I don't suppose they would have found the time to keep our northern post under watch, even if they knew it was there to begin with. No one lives up here.

“Or, no one in their right mind.”

Quan Yun-qi took the slip of paper in his gloved hands and unfolded it. Triangulation data and coordinates were scribbled loosely across the entire scrap in messy quick handwriting. “I suppose you're right.” the colonel coughed.

“So then,” Chen started, “How are we doing in our voyage to this so-called installation?” he asked.

“I'm finding out.” the colonel said with a long distressed sigh, “We're still going south-west. But it'd help if we knew where there were any landmarks. Do you remember crossing any rivers?” he asked.

“No sir.” Chen shook his head.

“Then we're still north of Surgut. So we must be on the right path.”

“Do you suppose we're out of the arctic?” the comm officer asked.

“I see trees.” Yun-qi commented.

“As do I.” Chen laughed as he scratched his stubbly beard. “But I do got to say there have been an enormous amount of lakes.”

“Small ones.” Yun-qi nodded, “I don't think they included all but the bigger bodies.” the colonel spoke with a low angry tone as he scribbled along the side of the map. Adding to the margin long streams of math before returning to the center.

“There is good news though.” Yun-qi smiled, “I believe we're getting close.”

“Are we?”

“Less than a day's ride yet.” he smiled, “If we go the right way, we can patrol out to it on foot.”

“So it begins?”

“Soon.

“Very soon?”

“Yes.”

Urals, Russia

Night in the mountains was a cool respite from the day. Without electricity, nightly peace came early and quick. The motions of man died nearly as fast as one could hit the light-switch. So as the sun went down, the villagers retired. The small commune nestled in the bosom of the Urals fell to sleep as their guardians held a constant vigil at their posts, and the numerous wooded outposts.

The snow had long melted. But it did mean it was any colder. The day earlier had been kissed by gentle warm rains which impregnated the soil with warm seed. And as the front passed and left, and as the sun disappeared, the cold returned. The shock then had sent the hamlet to sleep in a eerie thick fog that clouded over the village.

At the table in a small cabin on the edge of the village a pair of Chinamen sat idle in the middle of their only other room. Sparsely decorated, the cabin's main room encompassed the concept of living room, kitchen, and dining into one space. It was hardly bigger than the average apartment in Shanghai, with barely enough space to park two large cars in it. A beaten moldy couch sat pressed against a pressed wood table, and behind it the wood of the counters, the steel of the sink, and the battered rusty iron of a wood stove; a tea pot boiled on top as the jaws of the stove filled with fire, keeping the cramped living space heated and comfortable.

Even with this effort though, a clammy cold draft found its way in. Brushing across the two men's faces like a ghost. Both fought to pay it no heed as they sat at the small table, wrapped in their coats and gloves.

The agent Jun leaned to the side as he rested in his lap the long curved blade of a Miao Dao. The metal shone with a high polish in the light and the heat of the stove alongside it. Gently, the scarred hands of its master ran a smooth stone along its edge, honing it as a rag over top polished the metal to an even more lustrous shine.

The blade was as long as the agent's torso was tall, if not more. The metal shone with perfect clarity the silent, apathetic sneer of its owner. Jun's lips pressed thin into a knotted frown as he looked down at himself in his sword's shine. His eyes had become visibly irritated, but he hardly felt it. But he could see it. His whites had bled a noticeable red. He tried to recount how many times he had rubbed them that day, or even why. But as long as he could see, it was hardly a major concern to the agent.

Opposite of him, his stouter companion, hunched over a pair of books as he studied one to copy the other down. The Mongol, Ulanhu was silent in his studies. If his ancestors could see their kin working over such things, they would disown them. Or so muddled Jun as he leaned over the blade as the studious Ulanhu translated and transliterated the names, numbers, and dates within into Chinese.

“How close are we to finishing?” Jun said, his voice low and heavy.

“Almost finished.” Ulanhu commented, “And I'm happy that I am, I just got a few more lines.” he sighed in relief. Looking up at his partner he gave him a distant smile, “I tried to cross-reference these names with old Imperial documentation in an attempt to eliminate a few names. Just so we do not get you chasing down old hookers perhaps to interrogate.”

“Or remove.” Jun remarked coldly.

“Or... Or kill.” Ulanhu said uncomfortably, shifting in his seat. Sighing distraught he continued, “Some of these persons aren't added as actual names though,” he continued, “which could be remarkably easy. Especially with identification like 'bukhgalter'.”

Jun didn't honor the statement a response. Looking back down to his blade he nodded quietly. Running his thumb along the blade and drawing blood, he deduced he had honed it enough. With a soft slide and a click he returned the long sword into its scabbard.

“There's a lot of persons – or parties – in this book like that.” Ulanhu continued to droll on in a monotonous voice as his partner traded working on his sword for his handgun. With a heavy clunk the nickle-blue Changdu revolver fell with a clatter and he set to dis-assembly and cleaning of the fire-arm. His partner continued: “But 'prachechnaya-avtomat' or the library is probably not your forte of things to pursue to work up the chain of command.

“There's also a 'boss' written down, but I doubt the address is legitimate. I even checked with some of the men here about it, and they say it's been abandoned since the czar died.”

“Do you think it has purpose?” Jun asked as he popped out the cylinder of his weapon. Rolling out a cleaning kit he worked a brush into the chambers as he looked up, listening to his companion.

“Probably a drop off or meeting point for something, there's a few addresses marked that way.” Ulanhu grumbled, “You could go there and check them out, but I highly doubt you'd find significant leads at abandoned apartments or warehouses.

“I'd chase the bookkeeper myself. From a purely analytical input.”

“Why?” Jun asked, starring through the barrel searching for imperfections in the rifling.

“It's just the best lead!” Ulanhu grunted with a raised voice, flustered his composure wavered, and he even glowed a little more red.

“Very well then.” Jun nodded.

“Listen, are you sure you can do this?” his partner asked. Deep concern shone in his eyes as he looked up from the book and into the disinterested stare of Jun, “I mean, if you think you need some help. Organize leads maybe, watch your back even. Then just say. I'll tag along.”

“Is that what you want?” Jun asked, lowering the broken down frame for his revolver. Flashing it through the air was a surreal sight. A weapon so deadly stripped to its base components, it was really something strange. It made Ulanhu wonder, how often a bunch of springs, screws, and levers could be so dangerous.

But, in Jun's hands... That assumption was always ready to go out the window.

“It'd be better than sitting here.” he grumbled, “The general doesn't really have much for me to do. He already has his own field intelligence unit listening to radios and doing communication and map work. There's not a whole lot of things I can do.”

“It's Ivan?” Jun blurted out.

“Wh- what?” a baffled Ulanhu stammered.

“Yea, you're afraid he'll dunk you in another pond, naked.” Jun smiled, “I think he's past that point, comrade.

“You need to stay. Makulov's orders and Beijing's interests. I need someone to keep us up to date with our recon. Those planes found it this far. It's a shame for us to both leave.”

“I understand.” Ulanhu said weakly, bowing his head.

“So the book?” Jun asked.

“Yes.” Ulanhu sighed, passing over the copied and translated address book, “Again, I omitted a few names that were unnecessary that I can tell with my intel. It's also in three-month old cold. So even if the Mafiya's code-breaking it'll at least look like gibberish Mandarrin to the layman translator.”

Jun nodded, coming quickly to the conclusion in the event he's taken it'd be best to be incoherent. Building a cover.

“And when we go, you should pursue his bookkeeper. He's got no name as far as I can tell, but he has a home address. You won't have trouble finding him? He's literally on the road to Yekaterinburg. In Verkhnyaya Pyshma.”

Looking down at the open book and looking down the names Jun said with a soft up turned smile, “No.” he said, “No I don't think I'll have problems.”

“Good. Same transport as usual down there?”

“I suppose. I'll talk to Viktor.” said Jun.

“Makulov said he'll be sure to have his birds looking out for you.” Ulanhu said, closing the original with a soft hand. Jun stuffed the copy deep into his pockets, “I don't know how. He with held that. But I can only hope he can be in touch.

“And do this fast. The Office is already getting upset that we haven't made progress is convincing Makulov.”

“Ulanhu.” Jun said.

“Yes.”

“We're killers, not diplomats.” smiled Jun.

“I understand.”

“Then good. I'll head out early morning then.”

Lijiang River, South of Quilin, China, Guangxi

A heavy rain fell on the country. The dark night sky painted black at the strength of the rainclouds. The mountains of the Lijiang river valley shrouded in the darkness as the storm rolled over head. Thunder rolled heavily over head as the water kept coming down. The midnight rain fell relentless. But inside it was dry and warm.

The home of Zhang Auyi sat at one of a dozen bends of the river Lijiang. Nestled at the foot of the mountains merely a twenty-five minutes from the city of Quilin.

“What do we got from Chen Feng?” Auyi asked as he lay back in the arms of a bright-red armchair. A table lamp next to him cast around the sitting area a bight yellow halo. The darkness and the silent of the night cast back against the walls and far rooms by the glow of the bulb and the shuffling of papers.

“I didn't get a return on my message yet.” Auyi's companion said with a sigh. He was a small man, with a large heavy head shaped like a brick. A messy mop of hair crowned the top, but went no further than his ears; it was like a rat had taken to nesting there. “I have a feeling she may be aligning herself in the middle and not wanting to get involved.”

“We could use her involvement though.” Auyi mumbled, licking his thumb and turning aside the paper he had read. What came next was another part of a long list. Representatives of the Congress in Beijing.

“She's also elected out of Dalain.” the other man said, looking up, “She may be in support of your platform in private, but if she has aspirations of remaining in office by her own election cycle then I imagine she'll need to consider. Xhu is targeting the industrial bloc for his support.”

“That's to be expected though, comrade Wu.” Auyi nodded, “But what about Tui from the Yingkou district?”

“I got a return on that, and he's in favor. He'll be eager to meet with you, or attend whatever party you want to throw.”

“Good to hear.” Auyi nodded.

“Comrade?” Wu asked, leaning back in his chair and raising a meaty hand to his eyes, rubbing the sleep out of them, “If I can ask the important question, did you talk to Hou like you promised you would?”

“I did the morning after.”

“And what'd he say?”

Auyi paused for a moment. He juggled the idea he could tell him. That Hou would. But there had been no word from him, private or otherwise. “He said he'd think about it.”

“We may have a little under a year left, but his word on this would invaluable. No matter how little he said he would step out of this. After all, I'd hate to see us doing this again to get you into the parliament.”

“And how would that help?”

“Maybe you can use a parliamentary seat to form a bloc against Zhu.” shrugged Wu, indifferently.

“But maybe it wouldn't matter if I can't get endorsement out of them anyways.” Auyi grumbled, “I'd be better of retiring if I can't get it.”

“I got to ask though, comrade Auyi. Is this all your campaign?” Wu asked, concerned, “I realize you brought me back after your provincial commissioner bid. But even then, aren't we doing too little?”

“Shanxi Wu,” Auyi laughed, “this coming from the man who said political endorsements were a powerful thing to have in a race.” Auyi took a soft sigh, smiling distantly as he lowered the parliamentary list to his lap and starring out the night-stricken window, “And it's not like we had long to prepare.”

“I do agree.” nodded Wu, “And even from a... professional vantage point I got to ask you if you think it's time we start to take the platform out publicly.”

“Soon...” Auyi mumbled.

“Soon? How soon? Zhu started himself early. He laid out his ideas to the NPN the day of his announcement to run as a successor. Besides Tau Shan and Kwen He Fui he's being pegged as the man with the greatest chances among my colleagues back at the universities.

“And comrade, you have already a chance to take a demographic none of your competitors are reaching for. Never mind the congressional endorsement.”

“Who?” Auyi asked.

“The youth, of course!” Wu laughed, “You're involvement in the NPN bullshit with that singer Yaoliang Chen and the organization had an effect. Siding with Chen really helped.”

Auyi nodded. He demeanor remained flat and without word. But he remembered that. It was a dispute that threatened to go to the courts. And with a simple purge, it had been ended before it exploded.

“And the youth are smart. They'll support a liberalized agenda. I guess the universities are a blessing here. And I'm one contact away from getting in touch with the college commission to get it down to the kids.

“Granted, the main challenge will get them to vote. Only a quarter have ever bothered to report to a registered public election. But we should really be going after this. We could maybe get a supporter for every Zhu's one and get this to a close early race. Two maybe, if you can get them out of of Shan's growing net.

“I can get the official literature and the survey results across campuses by next week at the latest. But I'd like it if you scheduled a open conference. If you would like, I can get it set for Hong Kong, I know the people. Just say the word.”

There wasn't much to do. “Alright.” agreed Auyi, “Can you get me the phone number? I'll pass a call to someone in the morning.”

Wu smiled, “Thank you.” he bowed.

10 Downing

“Thomas!”

The shout was heard throughout the building, originating from the Prime Ministers office, and was swiftly followed by the quick, flustered running of Thomas Shore, personal assistant to the Prime Minister.

Seconds later, the doors to Pyke's office flung open, nearly bashing in the face of his personal bodyguard. With a quick cowering apology to the man, Thomas made his way to Pyke, stopping at the desk with a quick, yet gentle exhale.

“You called, sir?”

“I did. I am going to need you to prepare for visitors, soon. The Governor General of Australia will be paying London a visit, and I want everything to be perfect. Wait, scratch that. I want everything BETTER than perfect. I want a car ready twenty-four seven to take him wherever he wants to go, gourmet food ready the second he arrives, and a room prepared that will make him not want to return home. I would also like the tea room ready for visitors, and the front of the building as pristine as possible for the pictures that will surely be captured.”

Still nodding from the mental notes he was making, Thomas replied with an affirmative.

“Oh, and, Thomas. I also have a letter for you to deliver to Banner. It is about the Moose Project, so it has to arrive today. I trust that you can handle this as well. Am I correct?”

“Yes sir! I will have everything ready right away, and this letter will meet General Banner's hands before sundown!”

“Good. You are the only one I trust to run those messages. Don't make me regret that.”

“No sir, never.”

“Good. Now get going. Time is of the essence, here. I, on the other hand, am stuck here reading over this damned petition. People have been complaining about taxes recently, but still expect us to fund that park project. They just don't get that without that money, we have no way of funding those parks. And then I have to sign off those papers Banner sent over yesterday about producing new firearms.”

Rubbing his temples, Pyke looked at his assistant, and sighed.

“Never get yourself stuck in the Prime Minister seat, Thomas. It always seems so much easier until you're here.” With a quick double take, as if remembering he gave Thomas orders, Pyke cleared his throat.

“Anyways. Get going. Time is-”

“of the essence, right? I got it.”

With a slight skip in his step as he passed Pyke's personal guard, Thomas left the room, off to complete the list of chores given to him by Pyke.