Arratzu, Spain

Julio had lost all sense of time in this place. Solid walls of whitewashed cinderblock were devoid of any windows or clocks and a constant, unnatural glow from fluorescent fixtures behind cages of metal bars eliminated all sense of day and night here. Untold hours passed each time the captive senator fell asleep. Each time he woke up to this claustrophobic cell no bigger than a closet, he began to doubt more and more seriously that he had ever had a life beyond this wretched place - that his life before Arratzu had been but a figment of his imagination. Complete ennui caused the minutes to stretch into hours and it felt as if he had been here for months. With no idea how long each nap or 'night' of sleep lasted, what felt like weeks might have only been a day or less.

The meals - a gross exaggeration for metal plates of usually-stale bread - did not help Julio to decide how long he had been imprisoned here. Through a small drawer in the metal door of chipping blue paint, the plates came at irregular intervals. He could swear that he was only being fed once every three days, sometimes less. The morsels of rock-hard bread did nothing to sate his hunger, and his stomach protested constantly in the form of loud gurgles. He had not once had to use the 'latrine' - the polite term for the putrid-smelling metal pipe descending into the concrete floor at the far corner of his cell - on the account of his malnourishment.

Julio could hear faint cries and yelling from under the door on occasion. They served as a reminder that he was not suffering alone - Sotelo's domestic enemies were a varied and numerous lot to be sure. But Julio had not joined them in protesting against their captors. He understood by now that every prisoner was meant to die here, and there was nothing he or any of the other prisoners could do to change that. But the powers in command here had seen fit to feed him - however meagerly. Stale bread was hardly expensive to be sure, but a single bullet to the back of the head would be far cheaper. The authority here had some reason for keeping him alive.

Julio was roused from sleep on the floor of his cell by the creaking groan of the cell door being opened for the first time he could remember. Two masked guards stood in the doorframe - one with handcuffs in hand, the other with a cattleprod. He sat by in passive submission as the guards stepped inside; resistance would only make this process more painful than it had to be. One of the guards pressed his boot squarely into his shoulders and pushed Julio down onto the concrete. He gritted his teeth as the guard placed full weight against his back, but this was still far preferable to resisting and being hit with the cattleprod. Gloved hands seized his wrists and locked them into handcuffs before yanking him up to his feet and shoving him out the door into the corridor.

Save for the audible "huff" of their breaths through the mask respirators, the guards led Julio through the cell block in complete silence. The former senator could not recall being brought to his cells in the first place, and so this was his first glimpse of the scale on which this facility operated. The corridor stretched far into the distance, bearing hundreds of cells on each side. The scale on which Alfonso Sotelo was eliminating dissenters was staggering, even to Julio Zuraban. The guards at last reached the end of the corridor and passed through swinging double doors into another region of the building.The doors were spaced much farther apart and seemed far less secure than the steel bulkheads of the of the prisoner block. Simple handlebar doorknobs suggested that offices might be on the other end. At the far end of this hallway was a single open open door inside which Julio was led inside.

The interior of this room was a nightmare imagining of a dentist's office. A single chair dominated the space - an actual dentist's chair that had been reinforced and bolted to the floor. Manacles on the arm and footrests had also been affixed and a conspicuous opening in the headrest had been cut out. An interrogator - clad not in a mask or the impermeable fatigues of the guards but rather dressed in black slacks and a doctor's apron - stood behind the seat with a warm yet-insincere smile. The man walked around to the front of the seat as the guards removed Julio's cuffs and shoved him into the chair. He noticed an assistant in the back of the office assembling something on a desk in the back.

"Senator Zuraban." The interrogator greeted with mendacious warmth. "What a pleasure it is to have you here."

"The pleasure has been all mine." Julio snarked, wincing as the guards restrained him too tightly to the interrogation chair.

"I'm glad to hear it." The interrogator dismissed the guards with a tacit wave of the hand, who shut the door behind them. "You, Senator, are one of the more interesting characters I've had the pleasure of having a... discussion with. When I received word that you were coming... why, I could hardly believe it. We are quite interested to know what you know."

"So I've heard. But you're going to be fairly disappointed - fair warning. You'll not get anything out of me... nothing that matters to you people at least."

"I'll be the judge of that, Senator." The interrogator turned to his assistant, who procured for him a long syringe. Julio's eyes widened as the syringe came to the light.

The interrogator gently flicked the hypodermic needle with his middle finger, and then turned to notice the former senator staring nervously at the syringe. "Well. Not so cocksure now, are we?"

"I'll bite," Julio spoke up, doing his best to feign composure and calm. "What is that you're going to shoot into my arm?"

"This, Senator, is what is going to put me out of a job in a decade."

"I'm curious, has it crossed your mind, Julio, just how the Oficina came to know where to find you after so many years? How the Oficina is privy to seemingly everything that might happen in the world? Take my word, both you and I would be positively astounded - you moreso than I - to know the full extent of the intelligence collected by the Oficina de Inteligencia Militar." The interrogator extended his hand toward Julio's face and showed him the syringe vial. "This, right here, is responsible for a great deal of that collected knowledge."

"And it is fascinating stuff." The interrogator continued. "Now, I'm not permitted to know the exact composition of chemicals and components in this liquid nor do I particularly care to. Complicated and tedious chemical formulas, I'm sure. What I can say, however, is that it is a melange of precise proportions of powerful barbiturates, sodium amytal, pathway inhibitors, et cetera. What that means, for us layfolk, is a truth serum."

"More like a placebo." Replied a dubious Julio.

"I expect you'll change your mind soon enough." The interrogator inspected the syringe as the assistant wheeled in an old cardiograph on a cart from the back of the room and wrapped pulse bracelets snugly around his left wrist. As the device was flipped on, the device gave a muted beep for every one of Julio's heartbeats. The beeps immediately came through at a quick pace - maybe one and a half to two beeps per second. Julio's anxiety was apparent for all to hear.

"What the Hell is this thing for?" Julio complained.

"That, senator, is to ensure we don't kill you prematurely." The interrogator, satisfied with the syringe, handed it back over to his accomplice, who stepped around the back of the chair. Julio's eyes followed him nervously every step of the way.

"You wanted to know what we were going to put into your arm, correct? This compound is not applied to the bloodstream. To maximize its efficacy, it must be administered directly to the Central Nervous System. Into the brain stem preferably."

Julio's heart monitor spiked immediately, and he began wrestling against the manacles.

"And, from what I understand, the application is extremely painful. Mind where you place your tongue; it wouldn't be the first time I've had someone bite their tongue off."

The heart monitor beeped wildly as the assistant drew a padded headstrap across Julio's thrashing forehead. His head had been secured, and the interrogator gave his assistant a nod of approval.

A deep sting pricked his neck as frozen steel slid between his vertebrae and skull. Julio cried out as the needle embedded itself into the spinal cord. He knew immediately when the syringe was emptied. Liquid fire squirted out and erupted into his very brain. He screamed as the chemicals spread forth from the needle and soaked his brain and spinal cord. It felt as if his brain had been drenched in gasoline and lit.

"One more thing, senator." The interrogator added through the screaming and the beeping. "Prolonged exposure will result in permanent brain damage. The sooner you tell us what you you know, the sooner we can administer the inhibitor."

"So go ahead, Julio... tell me everything."

Port Fuad, Egypt

For the second time in a little under two months, massive waves slammed against the retaining walls as a convoy of warships steamed through the mouth of the Suez Canal. All along the concrete embankments, and on rooftops and balconies near the waterfront, the people came out by the thousands to witness history sail past their city once again. When the Ottoman fleet sailed through the canal, it brought with it uncertainty. Ottoman rule of the Levant and beyond was crumbling, and Egypt's fate under the imploding sultanate was dim. The arrival of the Armada, however, promised a future of chaos and devastation; perhaps only for Eastern Africa, maybe for the entire planet.

They were Spanish warships - something altogether distinct from the rusting Great War relics the Ottomans drove down the Red Sea before them. Spain's fleet of angular warships, with fresh coats of clean graphite grey paint and bristling guns, was one of modernity. And they came in numbers much greater than that of the Ottoman flotilla. A vast column of more than fifty warships entered the channel one by one. A seemingly-endless train of military might passing through the heart of the city. All activity halted as the citizenry of Port Fuad gathered alongside the canal. And the Spanish upon the decks and bridges of their ships stared back to them. Among them was Admiral Santin, who admired the twin minarets of the Por'fuad Mosque passing him by on the bridge of La Ira de Dios - the larger of the Republic's two aircraft carriers.

A gigantic swell of water rose up along the bow the aircraft carrier and left tremendous waves rippling through the channel. The swells washed up over the concrete embankments and rolled over the heels of gawkers - sending them backing away hurriedly from the waterfront. Small cutters and patrol boats of the Canal Authority bobbed wildly about helplessly in the floating behemoth's wake with all the helplessness of bathtub toys. The Egyptians - defenseless against the might of the greatest blue water navy in the West - could do nothing but stay out of the way as the Armada stormed through the canal without warning.

Santin watched proudly through a monocular spyglass as the city took in the spectacle the Armada's passing had generated. Directly ahead of the Ira, her escort destroyer - Cimarrón - flew the yellow and red of the Second Republic with pride, as did every other vessel in the column. There would be no doubt as to the identity of this fleet - nor its intent.

"Alférez Navarro," Santin spoke up as he scanned the skyline of the city through his telescope.

"Aye, Almirante?" The bridge's naval officer acknowledged.

"Get into contact with Madrid. We'll need to inform Rubiroso and the Prime Minister that we've reached the Canal and that we shall stay the course to Djibouti unless I am to receive orders to the contrary. We'll allow Sotelo to decide what we are to do... now that the world knows we come for Ethiopia."

Yekaterinburg, Russia

The sky overhead rumbled with thunder as night set in. The air charged and bristled with anxious energy as a spring's storm gently rolled over the city of abandon. The wind rested cold and still. The shaggy trees stood limp and still. Hanging from every breath – man an animal – was a expectation of something distant coming.

It wasn't a lie in many senses. The day had been threatening rain for a time. The wind that combed over the city smelled as wet as it was cool. It was a matter of when. A matter of when the sky above would cloud and darken.

Standing at the stoop of his house a skinny Russian stood, arms loaded down with wooden crates of groceries. A light coat hung at his side as he stood, staring up into the sky. Overhead rumbles of thunder sounded with, almost list the expectant roll of drums in an orchestra. The sort of drums that rolled to summon and bait the climax and crescendo of the piece, to crash it at once with a crash of brass and the roar of strings. Every so often, the flash of lightning would spark through the ink blank sky illuminating his large bottle bottomed glasses with bright flashes of bleached white and fainted electrical blue. It'd be a hell of a storm. Like so many expected as word in the east grew dire.

The man could care little for such tired fear. In all of Russia the people had to pick such a thing to be afraid of now. But grumbling between pursed limps clutching a cigarette he lowered his head as he stepped up to the door of his home. Of all the self-killing.

The home wasn't much, or wasn't in better times. But without a broken window or a gratified wall. Without bullets marring the concrete steps as it rose up from the curb of the street, it might as well be a mansion. Lining the street, early turn-of-the-century townhouses marched up and down. Many bearing desperate signs of vacancy and squatters. Graying plywood sheets hung in darkened windows and many doors had been broken from their frames, opening up to the elements the darkened maws of dead beasts. Dogs were the maggots here in this grave yard. But there was a still living monster far more terrifying than the vulturous methamphetamine addicts that scoured the streets, clutching bottles of vodka as the stared with vacant zombie expressions.

Digging from his deep coat pockets the man pulled out his house keys. A ring full of tarnished blackened brass. With steady pale fingers they broke the lock, turning the tumblers as the door was pushed aside with a tired yawn. Echoing down the street the door closed with a monstrous bang, locking behind itself as its master returned.

There was nothing to say as he entered the black throat of the house. More metal clinked and clattered in the inundating shadows before a soft amber light shone in the night. A lit lighter. The light it carried floating with a ghostly ambiance in the frozen chamber of the small, tidy foyer. Like a lost will-o-the-wisp it floated along, coming to land in a small brass oil lantern. The wick caught immediately, growing and glowing with a healthy light as the Russian man tended to it. Fathering out with tender care to where the flame grew.

Washing over the floral wall-paper and the narrow wooden trimming of the doorways the light grew. Reaching up to the wooden ceiling above. Showing the stains once hidden and the few stubborn bits of plaster that had not yet broken down. Cracks and lines ran from floor to roof in fine hairline patterns. The wallpaper peeled back from the combination wood and plaster wall behind. It was not a fine home by any measure. But it was a mansion to the people now. Even without electricity.

“Krasivyy.” he crooned softly. Smiling warmly in the healthy glow of the burning oil. With his free hand he picked up the lamp before turning down the hall.

He didn't go more than a step when he stopped, his heart freezing in his chest as he saw the black shape seated expectantly in his hall. A man coated in black, holding leveled against him on the red arm rest of his favorite chair a monster of a hand-canon. The glimmering, polished plating caught the light perfectly, burning a bright fiery orange as its master stared listlessly at the man. His face frozen in such a haunting expression it froze him solid. The man, distinctly oriental from his narrow chin to his shaved head bore into him with eyes of green contempt. One he noted as being so bruised, the white was red.

“Put down the lamp, and the crate.” Jun growled in a low voice, his Russian was choppy to say the least.. His thumb stroked past the back of the revolver, drawing the hammer back with an affirming click. The Russian nodded understandingly, moving slowly as he put aside his crate of groceries, putting the lamp on the table next to him.

“How'd you get in here?” the man whispered. His voice was rough and strained. His eyes shrunk to pinpricks as he concentrated on the Changu in the agent's hands. His face lost color, even in the glow of the fire.

“That doesn't matter.” Jun said, “You know things.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” the man said with a shaky nervous voice. He rose his arms above his head.

“You do.” Jun answered. His voice carried with the brunt voice of a ram. He stared into the eyes of the man as he spoke, and he recoiled as if shot.

“I swear I d-” the man began.

“I found your name and address in a book.” Jun cut in without giving him the time, “Along with several others I'm interested in.”

“The n-neighbors.” the Russian said with a weak voice, nodding to the gun.

“You got none.” Jun replied.

“Po-” the man started, getting interrupted.

“All day. No patrols.” said Jun, “Too many gunshots today already. I don't think they'll care.”

The man nodded. His breath stuttered. It grew stressed and intense as he followed the line between him and the barrel of the gun. He thought about if he could play patient with him. The barrel could deviate. He'd need only a few degrees, there'd be time to turn and run between the miss. The recoil would give him that much.

His hopes were dashed. Jun knew well enough to see through it. Turning the pistol to the side more he could swear he could almost smell the urine.

“You want my name?” he stuttered, “It's Alexios Danovich.”

“I don't care about that.” Jun said. “Mafiya.”

“I can't do that...” Alexious murmured weakly, “I'm in Hell enough as it is.”

“Then it doesn't matter.” the agent said, “Names. Where can I go?”

“I honestly don't know many...” Alexios swallowed. His voice cracking, “There's Donoto-” he started.

“He's dead.”

“Then he's no good.” nodded Alexious. Sincere pity and remorse shone in those lamp-lit eyes. “Loshad Isetov. Business out of Chkalovskiy Rayon. Old factory off of Shcherbagova. I think it made tanks. I only been there twice. Ruins now. What else?”

“Will he have names?” asked Jun.

“More. Maybe. Yes.” Alexious said panicking. Jun's fingers on his weapon tightened.

“Thank you.” Jun said, drawing a single breath as a loud crash and a bright flash thundered through the hall. A red spike pounded into Alexious chest, spinning against the door as a thick fountain of blood trailed back behind him as he twirled limply against the ground.

His body hit the floor in a slump. Blood pooling up next to his body as he gasped with wet bloodied breaths to stay alive. The twisted dying body of Alexios was nothing Jun pitied in as he rose from the chair he had moved to the hall, loading a bullet back into the chamber as he reached behind the chair for his sparse gear.

Alexios eyes stared up at the oriental. Pleading from dark pits to save him. Cursing him for shooting him. Jun looked down to him, unmoving in his contempt. He didn't emphasize. Not that he understood, but that he didn't care. Alexious coughed as he bled, pleading for Jun to come back as he walked in through the darkness.

South of Port Fuad, Egypt - The Suez Canal

"They aren't going to take me seriously anymore." Leyla fretted as another mine rolled off the layer and hit the water with a roaring splash. The ENS Aksum was making good time, the the sea hissing and foaming behind them. Every few minutes, the crewmen released a mine from one of the tilted rail minelaying machines on the back of the frigate. They left a trail of bobbing steel spheres in the canal, turning the trade lane into a warzone.

Elias chuckled. "They said this is an important mission. I don't know what else you expect." He hadn't taken her concerns seriously. Sometimes, she felt as if he didn't take her seriously either. They had worked together since Armenia, and he knew what she could do. Still, it was the looks he gave her. The patronizing grin. He had always been good at those, but she noticed it more now, and she always wondered if he had become more patronizing after the Sultan.

They had joined the Walinzi in their youth, and they had been sent to Armenia shortly afterward. Ever since then, they had been partners. Elias was slightly older than her, though his strong-jawed youthful face and well-groomed head of hair made it hard to tell. Ever since Armenia, they had been partnered together like the agency equivalent of siblings.

In her mind, the Sultan had changed everything. She had killed him in bed, his body mingled with hers. She could s till smell his musky unwashed scent. He had been old, and the process of slipping into paranoia had aged him even further. When she first met him, working undercover in his employ in order to get close enough to assassinate him, she had saw him as the enemy. The Sultan of the Ottoman Empire, Suleiman III. He had murdered thousands in a megalomaniacal plan to keep an Empire that he had neither earned nor deserved. Armenia, Syria, Egypt, the Caucus, they were all bled by the bullets he had ordered. She had saw firsthand what his men could do, in Armenia and then in Istanbul itself where the people seethed under martial law. She had hated him when she met him, and during those first few days in his palace, she had been numb.

He wasn't the monster she had expected. The evil dictator she had been taught to hate was a frightened old man. His people had abandoned him, and his generals were plotting against him. He babbled about it on and on, refusing to shave or bathe out of fear that he would be assassinated in his own palace. The Turkish generals were planning to take control, he would say. His own advisers were planning his demise. It sounded insane, the ramblings of a paranoid man, but in the back of her mind Leyla had been aware that there was truth there. Suleiman had become damaged goods. If she hadn't taken him out, someone else would have.

In the miserable shell of his own fear, isolating himself from everything that had ever brought him peace of mind for fear of his life, the Sultan had wrote his own demise. So alone, so broken and abandoned, the sleepless Sultan had given in to her touch like an infant to their mother. It had been so easy that it had stunned her. In his fear of what lurked behind the shadows in the world he had known all his life, he had blinded himself to new threats. She became his last tenuous connection to humanity. At first, it had been revolting, but as she continued to warm his bed she began to pity him. Pity, and then guilt.

Leyla watched as she became the only thing he had, the only thing he cared about. He talked to her as if she was his daughter rather than his lover. One night, she had heard him crying in his sleep, begging forgiveness from his father. In this, she realized what his defeat meant. He had lost the Empire of his forefathers, that they had build centuries ago. He had failed them and lost everything. Everything but her.

He loved her. She knew it. She was the only thing that made him a person. She was his forgiveness. And she killed him with the pills.

His heart gave way with her on top of him, and when he looked in her eyes he must have understood. Leyla could not put on an act in that moment - she had become dead to the world, and he saw it. She could remember the look in his eyes. That would stay with her until the end. He had died truly alone.

Leyla had only ever told Elias this much of the story, and he had worried she had fallen in love with the man she had targeted for death. She had worried the same thing for a while, but it had not taken her long to realize that love wasn't what she had felt. In him she had seen the thing everybody feared the most. To be hated by the world, to have failed everything that meant anything to you. She had pitied him so deeply that it had seemed like a form of love. It had still just been, however, pity.

He had died truly alone.

She shivered at the thought of it. Another mine went in. Another splash.

"There they are!" a man shouted, breaking her trance. A whoop, shared by sailors and Walinzi alike, leapt up across the ship.

On a road that ran alongside the canal, a caravan of armored trucks had joined them. They had landed in Suez, where the Red Sea meets the canal, and they had been tracing the canal every since, securing villages from the mosaic of factions that controlled the fractured Egyptian nation. For days, the ENS Aksum had not seen any signs of them. Leyla had felt the doubt that whispered across the ship; the caravan had been lost, its personnel slain by the a gang or tribe that had more power than had been expected. The orders remained the same none the less. Radio silence. The appearance of the trucks had disproved their worst fears and set their minds at ease.

There were dings in the armor of those vehicles - evidence of the fighting they had expected. Bent fenders and dented doors were almost the norm, among the older German vehicles with their rounded lights and smoothed features as well as the sharper, more compact Chinese equivalents. Old or new, combat still found a way to wear on both. With dusty scraped paint and dirt-smeared windshields, they trucked on. Ragged soldiers, their uniforms in disarray, were huddled in the back of each vehicle. Several held on to more unconventional perches, most likely left-overs from transports lost or abandoned somewhere in the Egyptian sands behind them. There were men clinging to jutting fenders or hanging off the sides with their hands clasped around the metal frames that rose up from the truck bed. One man held on from the back, one leg balanced on a hitch while the other held onto the butt of his rifle. Dust kicked up around him, and the ratted dreads that were his hair wriggled out from his head like snakes trying to flee. It reminded Leyla of Armenia in a way. Men and boys alike going to a war that they looked likely to win just by arriving. Who could stand in their way, after all? But it was easy to forget that confidence doesn't bring about victory, blood does. Most of these men would die. It was a sad realization that had hit her over and over again during the darkest days of the Armenian conflict. Here, it was an even darker thought. These men were not foreigners, after all. These men were theirs.

She put that thought to the back of her mind. The sound of mines against the water, the sight of a dozen trucks burning through the sun-soaked Egyptian sands under the shadow of a three thousand ton steel monster sheering through the open canal. If victory didn't feel like this, what did?

"It reminds me of Armenia." Elias shouted above the waves, as if he had read her thoughts. "It's better out here than in the office. More action."

Leyla nodded. "I don't get it though. Why only one ship?"

"They want the rest of the navy guarding the Mandeb. It's no use trying to stop them here. Most of the Spanish ships can out-range us."

"What else can the navy do?" Leyla inquired. "If they can out shoot us, they can do it in Mandeb."

Elias shrugged. "I guess they figure they will focus on invading the coast for a while. Long enough to keep cargo coming in from China at least."

"You don't know?" Leyla asked. "I thought they told you."

"I'm not Debir. I don't have that type of clearance." he stared out toward the trucks, watching them blankly as they passed beneath the sparse shade of palm trees along the razor-straight bank.

The last time she had seen Amare Debir, it had been on the coast of Trebizond fighting off little goats.

"I wonder where he is." Leyla blurted.

"Still in Armenia." Elias answered. "That's all I know."

Sometimes she missed those days. She had been a child back then, in retrospect. Leyla had entered the Walinzi at seventeen. They had been looking for young people, hoping that special training at such a malleable age would be more effective than it was on the veteran soldiers that they usually trained. Several years later, she was deployed into the rough backwater patch of the ailing Turkish Empire that called itself the independent Armenian state. It was the first time in her life that she had left Ethiopia, and even amongst her fellow agents she had felt exiled. Out of her element, in a way. The Armenians had seemed like a desperate people, clinging to a world that had been turned upside down by revolution and war, and they had no place for foreigners of the dark continent. The small Walinzi office had been her world for that time, and Amare Debir had been their father. During the darkest days of that war, when the future had seemed uncertain, Amare had seemed so calm that it had comforted her. Even after the embassy bombing, he hadn't seemed too affected.

"We're coming up on Port Fuad." the ships captain shouted down to them. Leyla and Elias both looked to the front of the ship, almost instinctively. She knew the Spanish were nearby. She could almost smell them. Her insides fluttered at the thought. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the captain leering uncertainly at the trucks.

"You'll have your extraction." Elias shouted back. "Just get us closer to the mouth."

Arratzu, Spain

Something had gone horribly wrong.

He shivered feverishly in the bindings that held him against the seat. Bloodshot eyes flitted across the room - now vacant save for him. His lips quivered, as if he were stuttering profusely as he tried to sound out words.

The interrogation had ended perhaps hours ago, and his captors had left him on his own to come down off of the cocktail they had pumped into his head. Even with a dose of inhibitor to keep the melange from completely destroying his mind, the chemicals seemed to have done exactly that. Julio's mind raced - a hundred thoughts per second flitting through his head - too fast to control or register. Disorganized memories and ideas ran through his mind as though someone had strung together a film reel composed entirely of random pictures and projected it onto his mind. By the time he tried to address one thought - a thousand more had passed before him.

But among the dissonance, a fear bubbled up and rose quickly throughout it all. Fear that this would last forever, that his mind was being lost before his eyes, rose above all else. The thoughts coursing through his mind coiled on themselves and swirled downward like frothy bathwater swirling down into the blackness of the drain. And as every thought he had ever had ran past, a shrill buzzing sounded above it all - panic screaming above a billion thoughts all sounding at once. His eyes rolled back into his head and a long spittle of saliva slid down from an open, chattering mouth. For a time of indeterminate length, Julio sat in a catatonic torpor as still as the few surroundings in the spartan office.

A sound from the ceiling galvanized the listless Julio from his torpid state perhaps an hour later. Lethargically he looked up to the empty, gray ceiling with the same stupid curiosity that a dog might exhibit upon hearing an unfamiliar noise. Distant, disembodied speech echoed down from a ceiling vent and could be heard rather clearly in the silent office. Questioning taking place in another office carried across the ventilation down to Julio, though he seemed to be in no position to register what he was hearing.

"The tablets. We want to know where you're getting them." An authoritative voice demanded.

"I am a dealer of drugs." Another voice - more defensive - responded with a nervous chuckle. "I deal with a great many tablets. You'll have to be more specific."

"You're going to find that playing a fool will do nothing to help you." Said the authoritative voice coldly. "The ones with the man on them. The ones that say 'Try me'."

"Right. Well... I'm not really, exactly, too sure abou-"

"Give him another injection."

"Oh God - no! Sorry! I'm sorry!" A pause as the man presumably accumulated his thoughts. "The one who sells me them knows a guy who knows a guy in Malabo. That's where all the Spanish acid is coming in from. That is - honest to God - everything I know."

"Wait, please, no...NO!! PLEASE NO!"

Anguished screams came down into the office with a cold, metallic echo. Whether by the association of the terrified wailing with agonizing pain he had felt only hours before, or simply due to the loud noise serving to snap him out of his torpor - Julio's cognitive faculties suddenly returned to him. With a shiver and no recollection of what had just happened to him, he looked about frantically to see where he was, and then looked up to the vent from whence these cries were coming.

"No inhibitor - not this time." The interrogator could be heard through the vent over the wailing - likely to his assistant. "Let him stew in it."

It was then that Julio realized the extent of the diabolical nature of this monstrous place. A horrendous, painful death awaited all those damned to this facility.

"Yes... I'm quite certain. Guijon wants some of them scrambled from now on."

La Ira de Dios, Suez Canal

"Contact sighted!" The communications ensign cried out upon the carrier's bridge to their Admiral. He turned excitedly from looking out of the windshield into the empty Sinai Desert stretching to the horizon; parsed by a narrow ribbon of blue sea through which Armada sailed. "Azimuth 175 degrees!"

"Which ship put eyes on it first?" Santin demanded, making his way from the windshield to the communications terminal.

"Golondrina, Admiral." The officer reported. He slid the headphones back over his ears as he saw a red light on the console light up indicating new transmission. The ensign's eyes threatened to bulge out of his eyes not long after putting them over his ears. "Sir, it's flying Ethiopian colors."

No sooner than the Admiral could speak, a new voice cried out across the bridge - this time coming from the radar screens pulsing with warm green light. "We're picking up multiple contacts on radar. Moving along the periphery of the canal and closing fast on our fore squadron."

It was an ambush.

The Ethiopians must have discovered their Armada and intent well before their arrival in the eastern Mediterranean. No other way could the Ethiopians have mobilized a counterattack unless they had known several days beforehand. But in spite of the reversal of the element of surprise and this grievous intelligence leak, Admiral Santiago Santin did not seem particularly bothered. In fact, a smug grin had drawn itself across his face; totally bewildering to his exasperated officers.

"I look around this bridge and all that I see is worry and concern on your faces!" Noted Santin, striding confidently through the bridge back to the windshield. "Worry... on the account of an Ethiopian ship and a smattering of ground vehicles? Now I wonder... did I choose a pack of cowards to serve as the crew of my flagship?"

A handful of shameful 'No, sir's could be heard.

"Then act like it! I want to see some smiles, then... Because today we are going to finish what our Republic failed to do three years ago at the Dahlac Islands." Santin drew a microphone at the fore of the bridge up to his mouth.

"All ships: All hands to battle stations!"

Madrid, Spain

"Tell me again, why exactly I am hearing about this." Prime Minister Sotelo sighed, massaging his temples as he took a break from tapping away at the keys of an electronic typewriter. He paid little attention to the visitor to his cavernous office, failing even to return eye contact as his fingers descended upon the keys of the machine once again.

"Because, your Excellency, this is a matter of national security." The suit-clad orderly reminded anxiously. "The reserves armory at Bilbao was broken into. As of this morning - when the armory personnel inventoried their supplies - over 40 firearms including eleven FE-74 Standard Issue assault rifles and an anti-tank rifle had been reported as missing."

"I understood that the first time." Sotelo groaned as he pecked out a string of letters on the keypad. "What I do not understand is why you felt it warranted your coming here and bothering me about it. Some forty guns have gone missing. Unfortunate, I agree. An emergency on my part? I think not."

"With all due respect, your Excellency, It does constitute an emergency when those weapons are very likely in the hands of an insurgency determined to dismantle the Second Republic as we know it." The aide deposited a file folder upon the desk for Sotelo to inspect. Clearly annoyed with the interruption, Sotelo pushed the typewriterback across the desk and thumbed through the manila dossier. Within the folder were a number of photocopied mugshots each accompanied by several pages of typewritten profiles and arrest forms.

"They call themselves the Partisans - political dissidents from the ever-unruly Basque Country. Many of their number have ancestors who fought in the Carlist Wars of the last century. Of course, nationalist sentiment in the Basque Country effectively died out during the repressions of Juan III, but in recent years dissidents have resurfaces in the form of these Partisanos to contest what they see as an erosion of freedoms under your tenure as Prime Minister. In the interest of appealing to and drawing support other disenfranchised groups in the Republic, they have largely abandoned their Basque nationalism and seek to incite revolution against your administration."

"Law enforcement agents have managed to capture or dispatch most of their leadership in the past year, including one-"

"Ignacio Laboa." Sotelo interrupted, reading off the name associated with with one mugshot.

"Indeed. Ignacio underwent interrogation at the Arratzu facility and surrendered much of what is now known of the organization. Under questioning he has explained that his daughter, Graciela, would have likely assumed leadership of the Partisans."

Sotelo tucked the papers and individual dossiers back into the folder and pushed it back across the desk. "It would seem to me that the law enforcement divisions of Vizcaya have thus far done a commendable job keeping these degenerates in line. Many of their leaders are in custody and they seem to know who is in charge among them now." Sotelo's furrowed eyes at last rose from his desk to meet the aide's. "So I will ask you again, one last time, why exactly I needed to be interrupted with this?" The orderly had no words for Sotelo - only embarrassed stammering.

"The previous week," Sotelo continued, "a train car laden with heavy explosives bound for the dam effort went through the heart of Valencia at the peak of morning traffic. Since then, I learned that, if the car were to have exploded, some 500 people could have easily died. Such a thing would have certainly been a tragedy for the whole of the Republic; even so I was never directly informed. No one from the Ministry of Transportation barged unexcused into my office that morning - as you have today - demanding a word with me concerning this errant load of nitroglycerin. Instead, the relevant parties who are compensated to deal with these situations did exactly what they are compensated to do. The conductor was terminated for his negligence, stiffer regulations for reporting hazardous materials on train manifests will now work their way through the Senate, and I was none the wiser... and I am fine with that."

Sotelo got up from his desk and made unbroken eye contact with the the aide, whose face was now a similar shade of red to the banners hanging behind Sotelo's desk. Though he was extremely thin, his lack of body fat left his face very pointed and menacing to look upon and he had several inches over most of his peers in height. He was an imposing man to behold, especially when being grilled like so.

"Can you imagine if every unfortunate thing to happen in this country had to be run by my desk before anything could be done about it? I can scarcely get what I need done as it is now." The Prime Minister gestured to the typewriter and the half-completed document sprouting out from the slot at the top. "If everyone from every ministry and office of this Republic impeded me so, nothing would be accomplished."

"I'm terribly sorry, your Excellency."

"No you are not. But if you are the cause for another needless distraction, then you will be." Sotelo made his way to the door of the office and held it open for the aide. "You are dismissed."

The Prime Minister watched with satisfaction as the orderly all but ran out of his office; beads of sweat dripping down his blushing face. As his visitor shot briskly down the great, vaulted corridors, another lackey - this one with Ejercito medals decorating his tuxedo - jogged in the opposite direction.

"What now?" Sotelo snarled.

"Admiral Santin has radioed in!" The officer panted. "He is preparing to engage assets of the Ethiopian Empire in the Suez Canal!." Immediately, Sotelo's demeanor changed from one of irritation to alarm.

"Come in and patch him through at once."

Tianjin, China

“Chairman.” an imposing military man said, bowing as he stepped into the room. Old leathery hands held to his breast a green cap as he bowed to Hou Sai Tang.

“Commander Shai Dek.” Hou said with a gentle, weak wave of his hand. He leaned back in his armchair as the commander stood up, placing his cap back on his balding crown.

Lou Shai Dek was a towering man, by Chinese standards. Once he would have been a strong man, and not just tall. Now all that remained of his youthful composure had simply melted from his body, as age does. He was senior to Hou in age, and it was dramatic in his face. Deep frowning lines ran deep around his eyes and mouth giving him a perpetual disapproving expression. Olive-tanned flabs of skin hung from his weary, long face.

The commander took a seat across from his chairman, and his own commander for well over twenty years now. Rain water dripped down from the shoulders of his ankle-long coat as he seated himself.

The two sat in long unresponsive silence for a time. Hardly the type of silence that was bitter, or regretful. Merely the kind that two old men shared to be in a single moment together. The sound of rain was light on the ceiling. And gentle on the windows.

A light spattering of spring rain pattered on the window. The droplets beaded against the glass, rolling into their tiny diamond balls to slink down to the sill. Beyond, the Bohai rolled gently in the spring storm. Its gray waters dipping and swelling.

“Have you heard the news.” Lou Shai Dek started, breaking the gentle cordial silence between them. His voice was hushed and careful.

“Africa?” Hou grunted. He rose his hand to his chin, stroking the long pointed beard that grew there. He had lost weight, Shai Dek could tell. His fingers were bonier, knuckles thicker. His face sagged tired. Was this what happens as great men grow older?

“Spanish naval forces are reported having crossed the Suez Canal.” the commander said, “There's an invasion of Ethiopia under way.”

“That's easy to figure out,” Hou laughed dryly, “you don't deploy a naval force for a date to tea. If you're not trying to impress someone, it's to cripple them. Next I imagine you'll suggest our strategic interests are at danger.”

“They are, but I also think the Spanish are over-estimating themselves.” Lou Shai Dek said confidently, he leaned himself back as he looked out the window to the storm outside, “They could rip up the coast, and threaten what economic relationship we have with Africa. But in the long term Sotelo's sending his men out to be stretched too thin.

“I doubt the Ethiopian army. A lot. But I don't doubt its jungle. Malaria and fever will be the one to defeat the Spanish. Not the Ethiopians.”

“We know they have chemical weapons though.” Hou replied bitterly, “If he wants it, he could have it.”

“We realize that, and it's certainly a factor. But I don't feel the Spanish have nearly enough VX to abort a third of Africa of all life. They won't be able to sufficiently sterilize Africa to make their job any easier.”

“So what are you asking we do?” Hou asked.

“Simply put, comrade, and friend.” Lou sighed, “We don't get involved. Not yet anyways.” The war may have just been declared but there's been not enough gains by either side to predict with absolute certainty the outcome of the war.

“And we're involved with Russia now. This couldn't have happened at a worse time.

“As it stands, if we do mobilize a naval contingent it may get there late. The Spanish will control enough of the coast to make a landing difficult.”

“We have to get involved though!” Hou pleaded. It was faint, almost well hidden. But the desperation in his voice was evident. It was one of the few doubts Lou Shai Dek had in his superior, his policy in regards to Africa. It was a violation of the Free Asia policy they had established over twenty years back.

“To what effect?” countered Lou, “I don't feel we have enough troops at this time to make a significant impact.

“If we must, I ask it's at a time that's when the Spanish are potentially at their weakest. Let time kill them now, we'll kill them later. This far away, there's only so little we can do. It'll take the better part of up to two weeks at best to successfully assemble a naval force and stock it with men for deployment.”

“What about Pemba though?” Hou asked, “How can we use the Pemba detachment.”

Lou had nearly forgot about Pemba. The reports from there had become few and far between. The latest dispatches from their shàojiàng Dezhi Cao that had made it as far as him were in regards to the Turks in their last breath. Otherwise, it was only safe to assume they went to his direct commander. “We don't have many men there.” Lou said, hesitantly, “Not nearly enough for a fighting force in the fields. In all respects, they're there to assist in training Ethiopian units. Pemba is hardly at a spot ideal for intercepting the Spanish armada. India maybe, but we both know how unlikely that is.”

“I realize that.” Hou rebuked, “But if we can fly in one extra supplies we can get them. Some support, munitions, men. Surely we can get them to a point they can have a proactive ground role. Not full combat by any means, but run support.”

“What sort were you thinking? Aerial recon?”

“Probably. Get something down to them to assist in directing the Ethiopian army. If we can kill them with time, as you hope, then maybe we can give Ethiopia a few more hours.”

“I'll get in touch with Commander Jang and Sing, see if they have resources that can be committed. We'll need to discuss our strategy though.”

“Which means a trip to Beijing, I understand.” nodded Hou, “I'll be kept up to date then with the rest of central command, until we meet?”

“If you have preference, then say. We'll work it out.” Lou Shai Dek invited.

“Sooner the better.” Hou sighed.

“Understood, comrade.” said Shai Dek.

“Then we've settled this?”

“I believe we have.” the commander said smiling. He leaned forward to pull himself out of his chair. Then the chairman rose a hand to beckon him to stay for a while longer.

“If I might ask you one more thing.” Hou started, “I have heard rumors of Zhang Auyi seeking my secretariat position when I retire. What are your thoughts on him?”

“Auyi?” Shai Dek said with a chuckle, “I certainly feel his heart bleeds, and he's damn young. Was when he was a provincial governor, still will be.” he laughed, “Why do you ask?”

“Oh... oh, no reason.” Hou Sai Tang mumbled quietly to himself.

The commander paused to consider. A dim shine of thought came on him and he nodded slightly to himself. “Though I must say, I am not an eager man to commit military assets to another war with the Japanese. As I hear in some rumors on some contestants.”

“And neither am I.” Hou said quietly, distantly. And he had the doubts in the proposition. He had settled peace with the Japanese on one formal occasion. There wasn't anything appealing in disregarding their agreement.

Northern Russia

Throwing himself down, the scout hit the ground with a hard thump. The ground was still cold with spring frost, and a crystal glaze painted the premature grass and twigs with a light white sheen. The entire air hung still. His breath the only disturbance in the cold morning air.

Wrapped around his neck, a heavy scarf shielded his neck and chin from the pervasive Russian cold. From below his helmet ran a wire as thick as his pinkie, hanging down before his mouth. A microphone half the size of his fist lingered at the end of the artificial antenna. And running down from under his helmet ran a light coiled cable that disappeared under his thick coat, only to appear again to connect to a box at his hip.

From under his helmet the light crackling of radio static helped to disband the pervasive cold silence of morning. The push of a pistol prodded into his leg from under his coat. He felt the hard metal press against his leg as he rolled onto his side, pulling from his coat a pair of binoculars.

“Field mouse calling to sparrow.” the soldier said, raising a hand to under his helmet and pressing the lens to his eyes. “I've reached the objective.”

There was a tense pause from the other end, static embedded itself in his ear as he waited. The anxious silence that churned in frothy auditory ambiance only reminded him just how uneasy he was with new things. And this was just another new thing.

“This is sparrow, copy.” the headset buried under his helmet chirped with electrical interference, “You may begin.”

The scout sighed under his breath. Adjusting the focus on his binoculars he looked into the near distance, where stood in cold defiance of nature the coldest stack of blocks he could claim to see. All around it for yards the trees were felled by the hundreds, creating an all-to-open field of view. Both for him, and to the multitude of watch towers that lined the distant buildings outer parameter.

“Objective is a large structure, surrounded on all sides by dense forest. Trees has been clear cut to approximately five-hundred meters from the base of the objective's outer barrier.”

He paused for a moment as he looked over the parameter wall. It really wasn't much. In places sheets of metal at best. In others frost-covered chain link fencing. Barbed wire covered the tops of the fencing. “Shit's defended by fencing, Sparrow.” the scout said disappointed, “It's patched in places with sheets of metal. Doesn't look like they were put up to keep people out, maybe animals more than man. Fence is maybe twenty meters tall, lined with barbed wire. Watch tower parameter. Spacing every thirty meters, maybe. I see guards.”

“Condition?”

“Poor, maybe.” the scout hesitantly reported. The men on the other side of his lenses moved about stiffly and tired. But there was a lot of them. Did they expect them at all?

“The men look beaten. Coats a little worn. Can't speak for their guns at their range. They walk with a slump, slowly. Plenty of them as far as I can see. Upwards of five in the towers. Teams of team patrolling the outside.

“No visible sniper positions or mortar nests on roof of their home, sir. But plenty of windows looking out over their fence.”

“Internal compound?”

“Open. Plenty of bunkers though. I see vehicles.” said the scout. Battered armored cars sat parked in still-melting piles of snow. They could be easily broken, though signs that they may still be in operation lingered. Teams dressed for mechanical work poked through the engine, like surgeons as they operated on a tender patient.

“Points of entry?” the radio asked.

“Sure, plenty if you ram a fucking buggy through.” the scout spat, half laughing.

“Fair enough, Field Mouse. Find somewhere else to sit. Continue to report in.”

“I'm frankly cold out here, could I come back after a hot meal?” the scout pleaded. There was long silence from the other end.

“Absolutely negative, private.” the radio responded, “Make Yun-qi happy and you'll get your meal.”

Yekaterinburg

There was not a light to see as Jun slid down the embankment to the factory. Under the darkened cover of the stormy night, the building stood in complete shadow. Even as the rain lifted providing a respite from the cold the clouds remained, blotting out the stars and the moon. There weren't even enough cars to illuminate the old highway that ran out past the factory. In the darkness he only knew he was on something when his feet hit the pavement of its broken parking lot.

It was like walking the edge of nothing and something. The asphalt had cracked and risen in over a dozen places as far as the agent could feel as he walked along its broken uneven. Glass crackled under foot as his boots crunched down on broken glass scattered in the cratered asphalt. And he found cracks and slabs of displaced paving so uneven that as he stepped down in the dark he feared for a brief moment he'd spill down a sharp cliff.

As with the bank, the thought was an all-to-numb reminder of his old missions in Tibet in its restoration to the Chinese state. The jagged rocks and the numb, wet break of his ankle. It wasn't the first time the Bureau learned he was numb. But it was the time that really reinforced that he needed to keep attention. All the same, with or without partner, he still needed to complete his task.

The parking lot, like all things, came to an eventual close. Like a silhouette against a greater darkness of the night he had walked to the front of a large trashcan. Water shimmered on its surface from the rain, and the faint highlights of the dim stormy sky suggested its lid was closed. Grumbling, he felt around the edge as he patted the cold iron shape before him, working along half-blind till his hands felt down the cold wet surface of chipped and broken concrete. A raised platform almost waist high stood infront of him.

Grunting, he hoisted himself over, reaching into his coat for a light; feeling safe he wasn't in the open anymore.

Tucked in one of a number of pockets on the inside of his heavy wool shin-length great coat he produced his light. A solid metal-cased flashlight, with a ninety-degree head. A flip of a switch later, and a spot of soft yellow-orange light highlighted the wet concrete of the loading dock he sat on. In front of him rusted gates hung with barely enough clearance for a man laying on his chest.

He squinted against the light as he looked closer at the narrow clearance. The rough cement and even the metal looked worn. It had been used, ever since the factory abandoned itself and the doors were left to this frozen state. He looked inside, there was dim lighting. Fire light perhaps. He felt satisfied that maybe things would continue on. But he'd need to set aside his pack.

He'd come back to get it later for the long hike. Radio back to Ulanhu his next lead. He'll get it to Beijing, somehow. The agent was confident in that much.

From his back the pack dropped as he gave a hearty relieved sigh. At his belt the bedding-wrapped scabbard of the Mao Dao he wore was readjusted, hanging at his side as opposed to hanging under his bags. And with a clatter, the rest was deposited into the nearby garbage cans, shut away from the cold wet air with the closing of the lid. Resting in the corner on a matte of gathering and compacting debris and detritus.

With the pack gone, Jun had little issue in passing under the gate and sliding into the dim room beyond.

His shoulders brushed the ground, pushing aside a collection of cast aside litter left on the floor. Cast away cigarette butts, packs, and the empty wrappings of broken bottles littered the cold wet floor of the factory. And among them, collecting in the corners were bundles and piles of rags and blankets slowly being eaten away by mold. Pornography had found its way inside, and faded once-glossy photos of women with large slavic breasts often decorated the cast away heaps of blankets and bags that lined up alongside the rusty frame-work shelves of more industrious days. Sagging concrete boxes stood in a sad decayed state alongside breaking and chaffing wooden crates, stripped clean of their contents.

And as the Intelligence Bureau agent walked into the light of low-burning barrels he noticed the soft glimmer of cast-away, rusting needles.

Burning barrels.

Jun looked up at the rusting steel barrels. They had become a common facet throughout Russia. In the cold of winter they were a communal object to warm near. In other ways they were lighting, now the street lights had gone dead in large swathes and ill-funded support no doubt rendered fire codes obsolete. And to see one burning was indication there was life.

The thought again that he was stepping closer to his goal came upon him. And it warmed inside as under his cold demeanor he smiled. Rather hopefully he thought to himself that it would only be a few names before he cut off the head of the organization. Hopefully made a power vacuum that his people could use to pacify the region. Many small fighting enemies was better than the two fighting ones that existed now.

But another part of himself advised cynically that it was never the easy. It wasn't ever. He'd break his leg again if he did it wrong. That's what it told him.

Drips of water fell from the ceiling and the light pattering of fallen drops echoed over the empty factory floor. From around the abandoned husks of machines long abandoned; too big to scavenge and scrap wholesale so they remained like fossils of a more industrious era. Forklifts with their tires stripped of their rubber sat rusting in the middle of the room. Obscene slogans scrawled over every surface in massive, drunken Russian scrawl.

No one would come in here. No one but him. No one but the men he wanted. It was surreal. It was haunting. It was a testament to failure. And failure could not be had.

As he made it deeper in, he kept closer to the walls. Soon folding up into the shadows. In the echoing cavern of the abandoned plant, lit by the weak fires sound could be heard. Above the idle dripping of a leaking roof, laden with rain water. But voices, faint and distant.

Keeping low, he went deeper in. Tucking his hand into his coat to where his handgun was holstered. Hunched near the cold walls, stepping to the side as he closed in on the source.

The deeper Jun got into the factory, the clearer the spectral voices got. The more distinct the notes and the more defined the levels. A softened echo sharpened to clarity as between the pipes and the cables he wound. Over discarded roles of heavy chain and heavy equipment left to lie on the floor. And pressing against the edge of the wall the agent produced his pistol. The sound of the music that had summoned him into the factory's depth reached the full clarity of its siren's song.

A deep Russian chorus, flecked with the distinct grainy quality reserved for vinyl. The haunting voices sung across the empty floor as he hung back and listened. And he wondered. He wondered if this was some trick, casting him off the trail. How stupid it would be, how stupid it'd be.

Slowly he turned the corner, holding his breath as the handgun hung at his side. He peeked around the corner. Looking out onto the floor.

There stood a man.

His back was turned, head dropped over a vinyl player that had clearly seen better days. The needle rose and fell over an uneven vinyl disc. As it followed the wavy features of the player so did the tone and the notes, warbling so very softly in time with the song. And wavering to the swaying notes the man danced as he swayed against the rickety table the player was mounted on.

“So you haven't left.” the man at the player said suddenly, freezing Jun at the corner. Silence fell on the room with a sudden clap as the man pulled the needle from the record.

“I had half hoped you would be back in Beijing when you two disappeared.” he added, “But I suppose that explains why some of our men kept being found dead.”

Slowly the man rose his head, turning. But as he came to the light, his face was not that of a man, but a horse. Rising from behind his shoulders the mangled head of a horse rose, mouth hanging agape and mangled. Lifeless and stunned with glassy eyes. The deathly sagging face turned with lively speed as he turned towards Jun.

“So why are you here, Kosoglazye?” he growled. The mouth of the horse never moving, just hanging agape. Inside dark shadows loomed on the dead tongue of the stunned, beheaded horse.

Jun breathed heavily as his hand tightened around his gun. His finger wrapped around the trigger as he readied to raise the hand gun.

“Do not move that arm.” the man barked loudly, “There are five men above you now who'll shoot you down if you so much as move. And I want answers, chink. Before I kill you as you killed Alexios.”

“How the fuck did you know?” Jun grumbled.

The man with the mangled horse head laughed bitterly as he walked along the side of the record player. He dragged a black gloved hand along the wood of the table. “Because I just do.” the man asked. His other hand rose to the buttons of his black-stripped suit as he leaned against the player.

“And you are Loshad Isetov?”

“Fuck, are you really this stupid!?” the man cackled, “I shouldn't pass it on an oriental though. Smaller than us, smaller brains!

“No. I saw you at Dimitri's.”

“Wraith?”

“Don't forget.” the enforcer crooned unhappily, “Want to talk?”

“Where's Loshad?”

“And get shot? No. I don't think I'll say.” the ghostly man replied, “But I got questions for you, who are you?” he asked. His hand dipped into his coat. “I know you're Chinese. No doubt Bureau!” he shouted, pulling out a stunted and blackened pistol, “And you're somebody if you're not crawling back to Beijing already!”

“I'm not you.” Jun shouted back.

“And neither am I you.” replied Wraith, “Now come out here into the light, Kosoglazye.”

Jun was apprehensive. His palms sweated around his gun as he hung back. The Wraith stood in the open, his arms held up invitingly. His pistol, some semi-automatic clearly brandished in the fire light that lit the room.

Jun knew he shouldn't. The floor was far too open. If the man was right, he'd be in a cross fire. But the man was quiet, and patient. Somehow he felt he wasn't going to kill him. Not here or right now. Something was going on.

Hesitantly he stepped out onto the floor, walking over the worn and stripped tracks that would have been used to move the factory's tanks from one stage to another. “So where is Loshad Isetov?” Jun growled.

“By now he would be half way to Perm.” laughed the Wraith. His laugh was cold, as dead as the head he wore over his head.

“Where at?” Jun asked.

“Do you know who you're fighting?” asked the Wraith with the aggressive bite of a snake, “We aren't your untamed Red Guard. We're not street thugs. My betters would rather want one of you fuckers to go home alive with the message first before we mail you back in pieces!

“China can't make us weaker. To the contrary they've mode us stronger. You really rose the bar on criminal quality in Asia, Kosoglazye. You raise to your challenge, or we rot like the Yakuza.”

“What exactly do you want?” asked Jun.

“We want you gone.” the Wraith replied, “We want the Chinese presence in Russia gone. And I got my orders. What about you?”

“I got mine as well.”

“Then we're both honor bound.” he laughed. “Do you have family?”

“No.” replied Jun.

“Then no one will miss you when we take you apart, piece by piece.” the Wraith cackled, his gun rose.

Jun's grip on his handgun remained firm. He looked about, looking for an escape. There was only the door he had come through, and the continuing system of workstations to his left. His heart beat in his chest. Steadying his breath he studied the rest of the room. It couldn't be this open.

The ceiling was a dark mask of shadows cast back against the wall and the ceiling by the faint fires the dotted the open room. A slick black slather of inky shadow obscured the high steel-rung ceiling above, from which chains and heavy equipment hung, waiting to be disassembled.

“So if you're going to kill me, when are you going to start?” demanded Jun. His revolver rose in equal to his rivals. The two squared off across the concrete like cowboys in the old west.

“We don't make the first shot count.” Wraith said, “It's not an inability on our part, it's a preference. So no, here you're not going to die. I can't say where you will die, but it won't be here.”

“I don't think you'll be too happy with me.” countered Jun. He looked above the well dressed figure of his horse-headed adversary. Scanning up to the lingering equipment on the ceiling above. In the faint light, just before the chains ran out of the sight. That's where he made his mark. The Wraith was taking his time. Was he waiting for Jun's first move.

Water dripped. Ticking away like in an hour class. The wet splashes echoed back through the building and its rusting shell. Jun's revolver went up, catching the light. Both he and the Russian stepped aside. But Jun's barrel went higher, faster.

With a crash the muzzle of his gun flashed, exploding in fire and sound as with a crack it fired its bullet. Sparks and a hearty metallic snap sprang in the air followed by a heavy groaning tumbling.

In his evident hesitation the Wraith recoiled as it jumped out of the way of the chain tumbling down by the yard from the ceiling. The watery crash of chain against the ground nearly muted the pop fro him side-arm and the shrill whisk of the bullet as it raced passed Jun's face. Dusty concrete, dirt, mildew, and rust bloomed in the air as the magnetic fist of a ceiling-mounted crane swung to the ground, pulling with it a chain reaction of crumbling industry that rained down. The factory was filled with the roar of steel and iron as the roof dropped its load, cables tugged at the supports, pulling from the ceiling the gear they operated or held. Imperial code came raining in a crash as the cat walks on the side of the room lit up in shrill flashes of muzzle fire. In the storm some cried angrily to kill Jun as he ducked into a sprint and ran through the weapon's fire. The hot trails after the bullets raced passed his face and tore into his coat. He felt the wet, warm spattering of something in his shoulder, recoiling him against the far side of a thick iron support column.

Bullets rang off the thick metal. Clumps of cement fanned out as stray rounds flew passed. As the steel settled and no longer muted out the gun fire the sounds of shouting echoed out over the cacophony. Jun looked down, the way he came looked so close by. The pile of debris had partially filled the gargantuan entrance way, allowing considerable cover should he reach there. But as the bullets whistled and whipped past, cracking the air and splitting the cement the distance seemed so far. Yet there was hardly a choice to make.

He peeked out around the girder. Muzzle flash lit the the wall on the far side. The golden blooms of spirited fire illuminating the men there. They had to know he was coming. There wasn't any other way. Even the Wraith knew. They were ready.

(Action Tiem)

Acting on the sheer urgency demanded he swung from cover, raising the gun and firing back. Running to the side as he did. He didn't place his shots, he didn't aim. He merely needed the cover demanded of him to get across to the next pylon. The ambushers recoiled back against his volley. And if hidden in the night one may have dropped before he fell in before the heavy beam.

The Changu revolver smoked hot in his hand as he opened the chamber, dispensing the six spent casings onto the ground. Sickly and silken streams of cordite smoke lingered up from the brass as they clattered against the floor and he reloaded the pistol with another set of fresh rounds. Sliding each bullet into the chamber with a skilled finesse and cold familiarity with the hot metal.

With a soft click the cylinder was back in and the gun loaded. Above him on the catwalk footsteps shuddered along. The metal clanked and clashed against itself as boots moved along above. It sounded like they were moving to cut him off. Weapons fire continued in a bid to keep him suppressed.

Leaning to the side he fired a couple quick rounds. Taking control of his shaking breath he twisted back to cover and ran at a full tilt for the next support. Diving into a tumbling slide. The concrete brushed hard against him, and the landing shook through to his bones as he threw himself up and rolled in.

Jun pulled himself in behind the column, pulling in his legs as a line of bullets traced themselves across the concrete to where he was. Panting he pulled himself up. His heart was racing. Galloping in his chest as he looked down the last stretch. If they were looking to cut him off there wasn't any time to loose.

“He's moving fast!” one of his assailants shouted in thick Russian.

He looked out to the larger floor. Dark shapes moved along the cat walk above fixing for a different angle. He had to keep his momentum up.

Pushing away from the pillar the gun rose. He fired a pair of shots before dashing the last few minutes. Turning on his heels as bullets danced by. Rising on his toes as he fired a few last shots before bounding over a jutting slab of metal and turning into cover.

He turned just in time to see a man with a wooden horse mask descend on him with an assault rifle raised over his head like a club. Jun had split seconds to act as the stock of the weapon arced through the air. Jun threw himself at him, pushing into his body with his shoulder, butting through the swing of his arm with a shudder and throwing the gun loose from his hands.

As he staggered back Jun reached for his sword, unsheathing it before the Mafiya could recover and cutting it through his belly. He let out a desperate scream as the silvery, polished metal stained itself with his blood as he tore open by its long curved blade.

The ambusher recoiled back as he held back his stomach, giving Jun time to turn to make his escape, cutting back through the way he had come. The sounds of foot steps rose to accommodate the cavernous factory as he ran, his assailants giving chase.

A bullet clattered off a shelving unit as he ran by. Turning on his heels Jun fired back. Putting two rounds into the chest of a horse-masked pursuer. He fell to the ground in a defeated slump as he continued. The pursuit continued, and the shouts echoed through.

An arm swung out from behind a stack of crates, clothes lining the agent as he ran passed. His breath escaped in one wet gasp. His eyes widened as he was torn off of his feet, falling to the ground on his back. As his ass hit the cold wet cement reflex fired a round, which ricocheted blindly off the ground.

He was staring at the ceiling now, his throat clenched shut as he gasped for air. A large brute of a man hung over him in a long coat, raising what looked to be a harpoon to finish him off. But before he could drop the spear on him the roar of his pistol cleaved his head in two. Gore and gray matter spattered out the back of his head. Blood poured from the cavernous hole and out his nose and mouth as he fell back with a wet splat.

Strained for breath Jun staggered to his feet, turning to another attacker charging at him. Rifle raised over his shoulder. Jun staggered on his feet, throwing the gun to the ground as he took his sword in both hands. With a yell the Russian lunged at him, the rifle beginning an arc through the air for Jun's head. What it met instead was the cold flash of steel as it swept the air, catching the man's arms mid-swing, cutting them free from his body at the elbows.

He screamed in shock and pain as they fell free. Jun twisted the sword and made an efforted thrust. The tip of the blade pierced his chest, skewering him like a roasted pig. He choked, and spat blood as he rolled back off the sword to the ground.

He turned to run, only to see another charge from the side, through the aisle. A hatchet flew through the air, missing Jun's head by inches. He pulled out a pistol, but the IB agent was on him before he could pull back the safety. His head left his shoulders.

Jun pulled back, running over the body whose head he had turned into a gourd. Bending down to pick up his gun from the pool of blood which spread from his limp body. Shaking it off he slipped it into his coat and kept moving.

He found the loading gate he had come to earlier and slide underneath. He felt the metal tickle the tip of his nose as he passed, rolling to his chest and throwing himself up. His feet found the edge of the loading dock before he could and he stumbled to the rough ground below. Outside the voices of angered enforcers bellowed in the darkness as he scrambled for his feet. Tearing to the dumpster he hid his stuff in.

He threw back the lid and blindly grabbed inside. He found nothing. His heart stopped and his breath heaved as it had when it was tripped at the neck. He felt around the padded musty garbage that lined the bin, but could not for his own life find it. The harsh ring of a bullet on the side of the trash bin reminded him that he had better things to worry about, and with what little he had he pulled himself out and ran.

Shusha, Armenia

He had been two weeks removed from the military world and already, Haroud Abbasian was bored. He was bored when he rode his bicycle to the logging camp in town. He was bored when he took his little sister to the market to pick up groceries: always the same order of stores with the butchery, produce stand, general store, bakery, and liquor store. He was bored when he walked the dog around the same mountain path every day. He was bored when he sat in the yard and watched the birds circle over the valley. He was bored when he read the same books he read when he was in secondary school. What was there to do in Shusha, a logging village far removed from the capital of Stepanakert? No clubs or hobbies. There was a football pitch, but he couldn't find enough people his age to play with - the loggers were mostly the ones too old to be conscripted or had some sort of injury that rendered unto them a medical exemption. Many of them had back injuries, which meant that they could drive trucks filled with logs but couldn't do anything else. They mostly drank at one of the two bars in town, which Haroud often frequented. He frequently thought of going back to the military world to alleviate his boredom. He was still young and fit: he could reenlist. So after work one day he headed to the recruiter's building - a shack in the center of town with posters adorning the sides - and left his contact information for the chain-smoking Sergeant at the counter. The Sergeant simply nodded and said that if they were interested someone would swing by.

And someone did. It was the afternoon of a particularly slow Saturday when Haroud heard a knock at the door. He was home alone, reading the newspaper and listening to the radio. After rising from the sofa and pulling up his sagging pants, Haroud pushed his way through the door to the main hallway and went to open up the red wood front door. In front of him were two military men, a staff car pulled up in the driveway. A third man could be seen smoking a cigarette while leaning on the car, staring at the mountains in front of him. The two men at the door - their insignia identified themselves as a Sergeant First Class and a Major - nodded at the unshaven veteran in front of them. "This is the residence of Haroud K. Abbasian, former Corporal in the Armenian Army?" the Sergeant asked. He spoke with a deeply Azeri accent for some inexplicable reason. The other peculiarity was that he was the only one to wear the characteristic regimental shoulder insignia of the 1st Recruitment Regiment. His left shoulder had the same provincial recruiting battalion - the 5th "Artsakh" Battalion. The rest bore an unfamiliar logo of a hawk perched atop a star with olive branches encircling it, all emblazoned on a shield-shaped patch. At the top was their name: "FOREIGN LEGION." This was a mild shock to Haroud, because he remembered no such organization existing during his service.

"Good afternoon, sirs," Abbasian said as he nodded. Suddenly self-conscious of his rather casual wear, he invited them inside: "Would you like some coffee? I just brewed a new pot and it'd be a crime not to offer it."

The Sergeant nodded and accompanied the Major inside. He was an older man who had tucked his combination cover underneath his arm as he moved through the house, examining the various pictures and paintings that hung on the wall. A short man of curly black hair topped his head, over brown eyes - serious and with tired bags hanging underneath - and a hawkish nose. Abbasian rushed in front of them to turn off the radio and head into the kitchen for the coffee while he instructed the officer and his NCO to sit down. A few seconds later he returned with a tray. The third man from the staff car was still outside, smoking. The NCO politely declined to sit, instead standing stoically by the Major with his arms behind his back and his feet shoulder-width apart. He, too, inspected the family's decorations. He didn't talk much: he left that task up to the Major who was sipping the bitter black coffee out of a white ceramic mug, being careful not to spill it on his immaculately pressed and creased uniform. Abbasian took a seat in the chair next to the sofa, leaning forward and intertwining his fingers in anticipation of what the Major had to say. He certainly hadn't experienced this when he was drafted. It was a cold, impersonally typed letter from the Government Service Agency and a timetable for the local railway station with the 1600 train to Nakhchivan highlighted.

"Mister Abbasian, it has come to our attention that you were chaptered out of the Army at the rank of... Corporal, is that right?" began the Major. His voice was calm yet authoritative: he knew exactly what he was doing.

"Yes, sir, that was about three weeks ago after the Battle of Erzurum. I was an artilleryman: a joint fires observer for the self-propelled howitzer battalion attached to the 4th Cavalry."

"We have your records on file, Mister Abbasian," the Major said. He motioned over to the Sergeant First Class who agreed silently. Could he even talk? "We must note that you performed admirably during the battle and showed valor during your participation. The fact that you went above and beyond your duties as an artilleryman were defining factors of your excellence. What say you?"

"Sir?" stuttered Abbasian. He didn't like to talk about Erzurum. He had participated in the convoys into the city after he had called in artillery strikes on the airfield. When the Armenian cavalry unit was shut down on Highway One leading through the city, the 4th was called to flank from the south and relieve pressure. When the 4th's premier combat elements were hit by a Turkish fortification that was locking down a major intersection, the artillery units were called in. Their mobile mortar systems - based on the same Polish armored vehicle chassis as the rest of the APCs - were ordered to dump their artillery guns at the airfield and make space for wounded. What happened next was six hours of intense urban combat as the inexperienced artillerymen thrust their way gingerly through gaps - often found by trial and error - in the Turkish defenses. House-to-house fighting managed to eliminate concentrated defensive buildings and give some leeway for Armenian rescue efforts. Abbasian, despite being a Corporal, was given command of a handful of vehicles after their platoon leader's radio went silent. The Lieutenant hadn't died, they later learned, but his radioman's manpack was taken out by a piece of rebar flying at unfathomable speeds. Abbasian, thinking on his feet, decided that his role in the command vacuum was to take charge and move out.

He convinced the drivers of the vehicles to head towards where the first elements of the 4th's pincer were pinned down at the most dangerous intersection in the city. He personally launched a rocket that took down the entire facade of the Turkish-held building and bought enough time for the soldiers to retrieve wounded personnel and the corpses of those who had died. They ferried them back to the airfield where air assault helicopters full of fresh supplies and troops were landing amidst fire from emplaced 23mm autocannons located to the western hills, far away from the city and camouflaged against the fluttering observer planes and their artillery-bringing red smoke rockets. Thirteen helicopters had taken fire - two were fatal crashes to all onboard while four more crashed and killed only half of the occupants. Those helicopters brought fresh troops and left with casualties. Those who weren't reinforcing the airfield rode desantniki with the Armenian cavalry units: dozens of them hung onto the sides and sat on the roofs of personnel carriers hurtling throughout the city. Two platoons' worth of disorganized infantrymen had coalesced under Abbasian's makeshift rescue party and had taken up positions to suppress Turkish snipers shooting at the 4th. While he hadn't actually taken any fire, a piece of rock had knocked his helmet askew as a rocket brought down his building's balcony while he talked calmly over the radio. This had taken up the better part of his experience with the battle, and he was eventually relieved by a column of heavy tanks that happened to be on nearby Highway 1.

The sudden arrival of the tankers managed to scare away the rest of the Turkish forces into their battlegroups at the west end of the city, and so the 4th was saved. Abbasian managed to direct the survivors back to the airbase before reporting in to the company commander - Captain Manetas. The undeniably shocked Captain took the troops under his command to replace holes in his element before dismissing Abbasian to the hospital after asking about the dent his helmet. Ostensibly, Captain Manetas wanted Abbasian checked for a concussion - he had none -, but he really just wanted the soldier out of the way to avoid going on another rescue mission. The report had immediately struck Manetas as irresponsible with men and materiel because Abbasian was risking Manetas's equipment to save another element. While it was wonderful that it worked out, his reputation as an officer would have been on the line if Abbasian had killed eighty men. Manetas forgot to write a citation for anything - bravery in combat or discipline for disobeying orders - as he carried on directing his troops in battle and so the incident was officially never reported. Abbasian didn't like to talk about Erzurum, steadfastly assuring curious people that he had stared at the city through a pair of binoculars for the entire time. The event was brought to the Army's attention when an officer heard from an NCO in his platoon that there had been a daring rescue of the trapped 4th personnel. That rumor went all the way up in the weeks following the battle, until a Colonel working for the administration managed to pin down Abbasian as the leader.

"We have been informed of your actions during the battle and were impressed," the Major repeated. "In our after action reports we have decided to offer a few things to you in exchange for something I'll tell you very soon. One of those is a citation for valor and a medal. The other is a battlefield meritorious promotion to First Lieutenant."

Abbasian leaned forward from the sofa, his eyebrows raised and a look of shock in his eyes. This wasn't something that happened often. He had never heard about anything like that in the Armenian military. No training, no orientation, no anything. Were his actions really warranting of such praise? Who had decided to do this? Once again, he asked why. And that was the only word he could utter: "Why?"

"You've demonstrated leadership capabilities and tactical thinking on par with what we expect for officers," the Sergeant First Class finally said. "You managed to rally almost a hundred men to go into extreme danger that they might not return from. If you can get people to follow you to Hell and back, you can do anything. That's what the basis for the promotion was, anyways. Those are skills that would be put to waste as a Corporal. We need people like you."

"Particularly where we come from," the Major continued. He reached into his pocket and withdrew some sort of metal pin before handing it to Abbasian. It was a unit crest like the one adorning Abbasian's dusty uniform currently hanging aloof in the attic. Just like the sleeve insignia, it bore the words "FOREIGN LEGION" and the unique emblem.

"Sir, I've never heard of a Foreign Legion," Abbasian stated with confusion as he turned the device over in his hands. He looked over at the Major. "Is this new?"

"Fairly," the Major replied. "It began as a concept thought up at the commands because of the sheer volume of foreign nationals looking to join the Armenian military for a fast-track to citizenship. Many of them come from Syria and other parts of the Middle East, and I understand that you are at least partly of Syrian descent. You also noted on your enlistment papers that you speak Arabic. Thus we decided to come for you after you put in your information to the recruiter to reenlist. Because of your unique linguistic skills and your service record, we want you to form the officer corps of our new organization. You'd have to teach the recruits Armenian, but also to fight and lead. Because there's a certain societal stigma around foreigners, our mission is to prove ourselves as fierce and elite fighters. If you're a Legionnaire, you are to be respected. Really, the French have been doing this since the 19th century, which is where our idea came from. It's also a way to help assimilate people into our society. From the political perspective, it may be seen as strengthening the fabric of unity for the government. Culturally, it makes sense: we're a mongrel ethnicity of all sorts of groups. We're Persians, Russians, Greek, Mediterranean, and to some extent Turkish. It's not like we're one skin color like the Chinese or Ethiopians. So if someone wants to be Armenian, we'll goddamn let them be Armenian."

"And you can help be the bridge that gets them there, so to speak," the Sergeant First Class clarified. "With your new Lieutenant bars, you're going to be a teacher and a leader. In addition, we've structured the Legion as a rather unconventional place. It's different from the regular Army. It's a place for special tactics and equipment and personnel. It's a lot freer and looser to better give the capabilities for people to grow and fight. A lot less regulated, so to speak."

"Purely off the record, of course," the Major added with a grin. "Can't let the regular Army know we let our officers go clubbing on the weekends and don't immediately fire them for coming into work on Monday unshaven."

The sales pitch was definitely attractive. More money, more responsibility, more freedom, and a way out of what was quickly becoming a menial job driving trucks for the lumber company. The military always felt somehow right to Abbasian: he felt like he had a purpose. Now, despite what he was told, homefront work was meaningless to him. On a conscious level, he understood that they needed lumber for their country. But deep inside he found no joy in serving his country that way. He did find purpose in holding a gun and walking alongside fellow military men. He felt like he belonged. There was a saying that you never really left the military. You just took a break.

"I'll think about it," replied Abbasian as he sipped his coffee. "I have some loose ends I need to tie up before I head off again. Now, where did you say that the Legion's headquarters was?"

"The Legion is officially headquartered at Joint Base Sevan Lake, and we do training operations in the countryside around the area," the Major said.

"Sevan Lake, huh? That's close to here."

"A few hours on the train. Not bad at all. I'm from Stepanakert, myself," the Sergeant stated with a nod. He ran a hand through his curly hair before continuing: "You can easily visit your family and friends here on leave time. If we aren't running operations on the weekends you can ride down here and be back on Monday morning."

"Alright," repeated Abbasian. "I'll let you know. If I give the recruiter a call will it transfer over to you?"

"Yes, it can be sent to my office," the Major affirmed. Then, sensing that the conversation was ending, he stood up. Smoothing the wrinkles on his green jacket, he held out his hand: "Thank you for the coffee, Mister Abbasian."

"Thank you for the offer, sir," Abbasian answered as he shook the Major's hand. It was a firm, confident shake. No amateurism here. "I just need to talk to my family."

"That's not a problem. I'll expect a call sometime this week?"

"Certainly, sir. Alright, take care."

The Major and his NCO left shortly thereafter, getting into the staff car while the third man flicked his cigarette and got into the driver's seat. The engine rumbled to life, and the car backed out of the gravel driveway. A fog had been encroaching into the valley, blanketing the dark green forest with a layer of cool mist. Abbasian stood outside on the railing of his house, watching the car drive away on the winding, snakelike road that hugged the edge of the nearby mountain. A First Lieutenant? It was responsibility. It was a career. It was money. The prospect was attractive, despite what he thought when he got out of the service the first time. But what would his family think? Well, there wasn't really anything stopping him. He was the a young man and his parents would go along with what he did. This stood in stark contrast to his sister, who was still controlled by her somewhat protective mother. And he found that he had no friends in the town: only work acquaintances. He hadn't been out to do anything with them. They had their own circles of friends: fellow conscientious objectors or medical invalids who were deemed unfit for military service. Abbasian found himself as bored and lonely as he'd ever been. There was nothing besides his family to tie him down to Shusha. And after all, he could always come back and visit. It was that thought that finally convinced him: he could go back and do it. He would take the commission and go to train the Foreign Legionnaires. It would be a good experience for him, albeit unexpected. A year ago, when he was first drafted, he expected a quick in and out. They would win the war, and he would go home.

Except life doesn't always work that way.

The sound of pottery shattering echoed throughout the castle, just seconds before Ferdinand came dashing down the main staircase, with a very angry Vlad in tow. The servants all clung to the walls, not daring to possibly get in the way of this familial dispute. It was only when the king threw himself forward, tackling Ferdinand to the ground that they slowly made their way out of the room, returning to their duties.

Standing up, while holding his sons arms in a vice grip, Vlad glowered down at his son, who could see the metaphorical steam being emitted from his fathers nose with how flared his nostrils were. This was a look that Ferdinand had grown to know well, and, if he could learn anything from the past, it meant that something bad was about to happen to him. Wanting to get an upper hand, foolishly, the prince spoke first.

"Father, let me just say, that I am truly, deeply sorry. I... I was just so happy to see her again, and with me going of to enlist next month, I wanted to spend as much time with her before then as I could. Also, I-" the prince said, stopping at the end, with a strong feeling of unease. Looking up at his father, Ferdinand didn't see the angry eyes he was expecting to meet with, but instead, was met with a smirk, and a chuckle from his father.

"Oh, you don't even realize how much of a hole you dug yourself, boy. I told you, all I wanted from you was to cooperate with me for this one, little event. That's all I asked of you, and you went and fucked that up. You really think I am letting you off the hook if you apologize?"

"Well..." Ferdinand said, sheepishly. "I... I thought that if I expressed just how sorry I am... If I pointed out that I was just happy to see my girlfriend, then, maybe..."

"Maybe? Maybe what? Maybe I wouldn't make you stay home and do work around the castle? Maybe I wouldn't give one of the servants a paid vacation, and force you to do their work?" Chucking with hearty laughter, Vlad patted his sons shoulders heavily.

"Boy. You aren't a boy anymore. You had an entire childhood to learn about consequences, but it seems none of that stuck. So... How about this? This time, you won't have to do any work whatsoever. In fact... How about you go meet up with your girlfriend and spend the day together?"

Concerned, confused and slightly scared, Ferdinand raised an eyebrow. "...Really?"

"Really." replied Vlad, completely honest.

"No punishment?"

"None."

"... What's the catch?"

Laughing, Vlad bent over so his eyes were level with his sons. In a serious tone, he gave his son a hint as to what his intentions were.

"Ferdinand. Go spend time with your girlfriend, while you still can. Tomorrow is going to be a very busy day. So, if I were you, I would get going. Okay?"

Eyes widening, Ferdinand paused for a second to think, while mindlessly nodding.

"Good. Now, get going. You can even take the car, if you want."

Nodding just once more, Ferdinand slowly turned, and walked out the door, thoughts racing through his head.

"No... It... It can't be... He wouldn't... Would he?"

Two hours later, at an elegant restaurant in Bucharest

Ferdinand stood outside a restaurant, dressed in a very formal suit and tie, hair slicked back, and just generally looking as nice as possible. He nervously tapped his foot on the sidewalk, as he scanned the streets, looking around for a certain vehicle. Seconds later, he caught sight of it, as well as it's passenger. Sitting in the back was Adrianna, her dark brown hair slightly curled, and flowing to one side of her face with the wind. When the vehicle carrying her stopped, Ferdinand was sure to be outside, ready to give her his arm, and help her out.

"M'lady" He said, with a smile, which she returned tenfold, while using his arm to help herself to the ground outside, revealing a marvelous green dress.

"Like it?" She asked Ferdinand, who wan standing there quietly. "Well?"

Snapping out if it, Ferdinand replied in a slightly sarcastic tone. "Well... Well! Clearly you look so amazing, I was stunned speechless!"

After a small laugh together, Ferdinand took his girlfriend by the arm, and used the other one to prompt them forward. "Shall we go inside, now?"

Nodding, Adrianna let Ferdinand lead her inside the building, which, to her surprise, was completely empty.

"Isn't this place normally so full, you have to wait?" She asked, slightly shocked.

"Well... I, uh... I made a request of them, as well as the other patrons, and they all agreed. So... We have this place to ourselves tonight."

Giggling slightly, she looked at Ferdinand, and was about to ask something, but, seeing a nervous look on his face, she decided not to ask, and just smiled at him.

"So. What's on the menu tonight?"

Smiling at her, Ferdinand happily replied. "French cuisine."

Sitting down after helping Adrianna to her seat, the two began to browse the menu toghether, while laughing and making jokes. Once the food arrived, they sat and enjoyed their meals together. Once the dinner portion was done, the table was cleared, and they were left alone while desert was prepared.

"Um... Adrianna... I have something important to tell you."

Concerned, she nodded. "What is it?"

Gulping, and then letting out a nervous sigh, Ferdinand looked her in the eyes, not letting the contact break.

"Well... I don't know exactly if my guess is right, but with how my father is, I can only assume it is true." Sighing once more, the prince continued. "Adrianna. Earlier tonight, my father told me that, as punishment for sneaking out with you on my birthday, I was not going to be punished. I would have no spare work around the castle. Nothing. He just told me that I should enjoy myself with you while I can."

Eyes widening, what was left of Adrianna's smile faded. "Go on."

"Well... I can only come to once conclusion. I think that my father spoke with General Pauker, and got me placed into the army earlier than he promised. He... He made it sound like I am getting shipped off tomorrow."

Jaw dropping, Adrianna shook her head. "No way... He can't do that, can he!?"

"Anna. He's the king. He can do whatever he wants, especially when it comes to me, and nobody will question him. I mean... Mom might have fought him on it, but once he decides something, there's usually no going back. When I was leaving, the servants were all giving me apologetic looks, so it seems likely."

"But!" Ferdinand said, the tone of his voice changing, along with his posture straightening, and him changing to smiling. "Because of that, there is something I want- no. Something I need to ask you."

Letting go of Adrianna's hand, Ferdinand stood up, and walked over to her side, kneeling down and reaching inside of his coat.

"Now... I'm pretty shitty when it comes to things like this, so you'll have to excuse me. And we both know if I tried to say any more than this, i would trip over my words, and mess the whole thing up, so I'm just going to be blunt, and straightforward."

Pulling out a small, black box, Ferdinand looked up into Adrianna's eyes, which were looking back down at his, looking both amazed, shocked and terrified.

"Adrianna. I know that we are young, and that this will probably be something outrageous to hear, but please bare with me. I love you, and have loved you since the day I met you. I am dreading life without you when I leave, just as I did those three months before my birthday. I honestly still can't believe myself that I am about to ask this, but I feel that it is only right, given the circumstances. It can't happen anytime soon, but I feel the promise will be more than enough. So... Adrianna Biaram. Would you possibly consider doing something crazy, and allowing me to ask for your hand in marriage?"

Instead of a verbal answer, Ferdinand instead got his answer in the form of Adrianna crying happily, nodding frantically, and nearly leaping out of her seat to hug him, nearly knocking them both over.

They both sat there on the floor, crying and laughing together, until their desert finally came, warranting a concerned look from the waiter, who asked them if they were alright. Nodding, the two returned to their seats, and apologized. They quickly finished their desert, before once again running out into the night to enjoy themselves further.

Hong Kong

With the large vaulted ceiling, the high tiered seating, and the roomy confines it wasn't hard to be impressed. The stage was large and roomy with plenty seating of its own. On one side a large painting of a younger Hou Sai Tang hung off the wall, dressed in worn combat fatigues. But unlike any combatant in that style the arms of war were removed from his presence. Instead what rested in his lap was a little red book and pen.

The University of People's Law made no secret that here was where Hou had studied in the late forties and fifties. What had been the nexus of his early influence as a younger man, even if already fairly old by the student demographic. It was here in the underground unions that he and others had begun drafting the manifesto they'd liberate China on; even if most of that had been written on the road or in very early legislation in Beijing. But standing in the middle of the of the auditorium there was a sense of being close to formative history. More when it was so proudly hung all around.

Save for the cammera and audio crews working around the room the chamber was empty. Crews in blue slacks milled over the heavy cables and the rigs where they sat their cameras. The icons for the NPN – National People's News – stitched across their shoulders or emblazoned on the sides of their cameras. Though this was redundant, they were the only major broadcaster permitted to broadcast nationally in China. Although the much smaller local news bureaus had come out to make a show of appearance, but the most they managed to do was work at getting microphones established on the podium, next to the state-ran microphones.

“How many speeches did Hou make in this room?” asked Auyi as he walked side-by-side with the middle-aged dean on the college. His hair was beginning to turn a snow-white, and fine lines rung his face.

“Exactly two.” he said in a low voice, “It's not like the school was the center of his movement based the initial uprising.” he laughed modestly, “I can't recall - given I wasn't here at the time – but he rallied the student body here after they seized control of Hong Kong and declared its commune, and then again in '65, when I started here.”

“You certainly take a lot of pride.” Auyi observed, looking at the portrait of Hou staring down at the rows of chairs. Even in his youth he had that same arrow-headed beard on his chin, though it looked a lot wilder.

“You take what you can get these days.” the dean groaned, taking a deep breath as he watched the crews work with a half-hidden feeling of contempt.

“Perhaps we may be more proud in the future.” replied Auyi, wringing together his hands. He smiled down at the crews from the stage. It was certainly an impressive feeling being there.

“What do you propose?” asked the Dean, straightening his back.

“A few things, I'll go over them tomorrow.” Auyi smiled, “And thanks again for allowing me to make the announcement here.”

“I can't deny a minister.” remarked the Dean, turning, “I can hardly deny the city too, most of the time.”

“What is happening in Hong Kong?” asked Auyi, “By the looks of the streets, they're excited for the autonomy bill.”

“We might fall into the Cantonese Autonomous Zone proposed,” the dean said, “But for the most part the city and Macau feel in their hearts we've still got enough Europeans and anglicized or Portugese Chinese that we ourselves should be our own zones.

“I myself am born to a British-born father. If it's still recognized, I should still have a British citizenship. If I might be blunt, I could say that this hasn't had many opportunities for me open higher up. I'd have better luck if Hong Kong was recognized as its own special case zone.”

“I see.” nodded Auyi, “Maybe in the future something could be worked out.” he added, invitingly.

“If you win.”

-posted in wrong place-

Port Said, Suez Canal

Short bursts of assault rifle fire struck the ground, scattering dust and kicking out shards of pavement. The Suez had been a desperate gambit, pitched against not only the Spanish Navy, who's slow approach felt like a the march of a lumbering giant that, when it arrived, would crush everything around them, but also against the Egyptian warlord who had claimed the Suez. It had been claimed by the same self-proclaimed dictator that ruled Damietta to the east. The area he controlled was small, but he had held onto it firmly. Their only fear now was that he would join forces with the Spanish in order to hunt down the Ethiopian forces that haunted both of them.

Leyla pointed her pistol in the rough direction of a nearby parking garage and fired two rounds. The shots echoed like a bell in her head as she dove for cover behind a concrete barrier. "I thought they were supposed to be cleared." she yelled above the cacophony of violence to Elias as he dove in next to her. Something in front of them exploded - a grenade, a rocket, she couldn't tell - and it sent a plume of rock-shards and dust into the air, covering everything in a thin film of dirt and smoke.

"Who the fuck knows." Elias said. He stretched backward, straining to see over the barrier without taking a bullet to the skull. Leyla watched nervously, anticipating the worst. It seemed like forever, though it was only a couple of seconds. He snapped back, falling into the protection of their cover. "Three of them, I think." he said, "And they have the high ground."

A truck plodded down the road, its driver ducking beneath the dashboard and several cautious Ethiopian soldiers doing the same in the back. They drew enemy fire, and the Walinzi agents in their cement hiding place sensed it. They jumped up, their aim rough and quick as they sprayed a couple of shots before falling the corner of the barrier.

From the back of the truck, three Ethiopian riflemen rose up and gave fire. The sound of their volley was abrupt, only a few quick clapping shots being released. One of the riflemen, a young soldier who hadn't yet shed his boyish looks, fell back violently as his jaw exploded in a bloody hail of torn flesh and gushing blood. Under the constant sound of war, in between nearby rifle reports, his muffled cries haunted the field.

Elias looked at Leyla and nodded toward the truck. She took a deep breath, put another clip in her weapon, and followed him when he went sprinting away from cover. Her heart was in her throat, and it jumped every time an enemy bullet struck the ground behind her. Her vision blurred, leaving only a clear target in front of her. They slid behind the truck, both of them catching their breath as the Ethiopians in the truck-bed exchanged another round with the Egyptians in the parking garage.

Her lungs burned and her head reeled. She stared at the bloody splatter that coagulated in the dust in front of her feet. The smell of smoke and blood mixed with the dust that hung over the plaza like a fog.

"We need to get around them." she heard Elias shout up at the driver.

"No. No." the driver yelled back, straining to be louder than the gunfire. "This is a distraction. This is a dis..."

Before he could finish, something hissed above their head. It was sharp and angry, like a cobra falling from the sky. She saw the trail it left, the sparks dancing in a cloud of beige. And then she remembered. They were better armed than the Egyptians.

She heard the explosion, and the celebrating soldiers whooping from the back of their truck. A second hiss flew above her head. Bending around the truck, she watched as the rocket smashed into the parking garage and left a bloom of fire and crumbling cement where the enemy had stood before. She heard the patter of debris smacking against the plaza, and then silence. Only distant gunfire echoed through the grey urban warzone that was Port Said.

Quietly, the two Walinzi and the men from the truck approached the garage. Leyla's eyes were fixed on the smoking scar in the side of the building. Anything, any hint of movement, would be enough to spook her. It was too silent and too still, she did not trust it. Somewhere, someone was going jump up and catch them while they were in the open. She could sense that the others felt the same way, and she could feel their tension.

They made it into the garage without incident, but she was hardly put at ease. In there, it was open and dark. Shadows filled the crevices, creating the habitat for ambushes. They fanned out, inspecting each corner carefully as the moved up floor by floor.

The structure groaned above them. Leyla listened closely, afraid that the moans of damaged cement and steel could be hiding the auditory clues of a living enemy.

When they reached the snipers nest, they find their quarry. The rocket had scattered the shooters as much as it had scattered the cement. Pieces of Egyptian sat at the end of bloody trails. A red splatter dripped from the ash-blackened ceiling above.

Beyond their gory perch, Leyla and Elias could see the ENS Aksum getting into position. It was where the two canals at the mouth met and became one. The Aksum had turned itself around, broadside facing the sea. A stout tower hid half of it from view. "Do we watch from here?" she asked, grinning at her partner.

"I wish we could." Elias replied. He pointed out to sea. The Spanish fleet was approaching. Across the horizon, from east to west, she could see them. They were spread out, giving themselves room to maneuver, but they did not need the spread to exaggerate their number. It was obvious that there was enough to take control of the African coast with no contest.

"We should get back down and get into position." Elias warned, "If they decide to fire on the city, this is not the place to be."

May 24th, 1980

Esfahan, Persia

Mahmud Hotami, first delegate of the cabinet and chairman of the Socialist Party of Persia[retcon, not the Communist Party anymore or ever], couldn't help but have a bout of incredulity each time he looked outside the glass walls of his office. 30 years in clandestinity followed by 10 in the official opposition had left their mark in his character. At times he would find himself looking suspiciously at his aids, wondering to what extent they could be trusted. This habit wasn't an entirely bad one in politics, especially not in the current times. He was to meet his secretaries of foreign affairs and of defense in a few minutes' time on the issue of the imminent war in Africa. As he stared at the brown, burnt rooftops of the city, he was left to ponder whether the world was on the verge of a new conflagration. The nuance, this time, was that weapons were far deadlier, and the actors even less honorable. There was no doubt that at the first occasion, VX would be used to exterminate the civilians of the other side. It seemed to the first delegate, who would have been grandfather had his children not been 'taken' in their youth by the agents of the ISIIS, a long time ago - when he was presented with the opportunity to learn the truth, he had preferred to leave all that in the past - that human life was worth even less nowadays than in his own youth. Even they who had caused the Great War felt some reluctance to send the youngsters of their nation to death, whereas the leaders of today seemed to play war like a game. And in this game, none was ever sure of his friends and foes. Persia was still considered little more than a colony by the capitalists whose industry it fed, and even after the victory of the forces of progress at home, China did not seem to so much as notice the existence of its brothers and sisters. Hotami held a particular grudge against China, which had time and again rejected his party's plea for help. Perhaps it wasn't such a bad thing, though, seeing how subservient it expected its 'allies' to be. Socialist as he was, he also believed his people deserved respect- all peoples, for that matter, which is why he gravitated towards the SPP in the first point- and would not accept hegemony and imperialism in any form, whether bourgeois or supposedly proletarian.
'The time of lofty idealism is long gone,' did he correct himself, knowing full well that in what was to come isolation would not be an option.

He heard someone knock on the door.

"Agha Hotami, General Ganji and Khanom Kowsar have arrived." announced the secretary.

"Let them in."

The two came in, nobly, with a steely gaze, albeit for opposite reasons. Without a word, Hossan summoned them to his desk. Very matter-of-factly, he asked: "Well, you know the situation. Agha Ganji, what do you have to say?"

"The High Command refuses any intervention against Spain. It is not our war, and even if it were, we would stand no chance." His point was clear, to the very least.

"Khanom Kowsar?"

"As a citizen of Persia, as a proud human being, I say this aggression is unacceptable." Her taunt was obvious. No military man could be attacked on his pride. "Spain has proven, once again, that all it seeks is global domination and the enrichment of its oligarchs. It is an imperialistic power which imperils the stability of the entire world, not to mention freedom and human dignity. It cannot be allowed to pursue its expansion, or it will devour us all. Already it has re-enslaved a third of Africa; soon it will close off the Mediterranean, to no one's benefit but its
own. Spanish rule would mean a return to the dark age."

The general promptly fired back: "Whose dark age would you rather have ? May I remind you just a few years ago Persia was at war with China's minions?"

"Does resistance to Spain mean surrender to anybody else? Who here exactly is supposed to protect Persian territory? Do you mean you..."

Hotami could sense his friend about to make a disastrous comment. It was time to bring back order to the discussion. "Enough!" he commanded. "It is our nation's interests which are at stake here. It is no time to settle your personal misgivings. Pray remind me what is at stake, and what we have to lose or gain. I dare hope it will bring back some sense to you."

Ganji argued: "As far ar the army is concerned, it is a conflict between two states with which we are neither allied nor in conflict. We have no obligation to act."

Leila Kowsar, fiery as always, though slightly more composed than previously: "A foreign power with few interests aligned with ours, and in fact oftentimes conflicting, as concerns oil, Armenia, Africa, is attempting to invade a friendly state with which we have cooperated in Arabia, the Ottoman Empire and Armenia, with which we have ever closer economic ties, and which has been, just as us, a consistent foe of imperialism. Ethiopia fights alongside Persia for respect and control of its destiny."

"Yet we are not Ethiopia." countered the ageing man. "And we are not free to send troops around the globe. We must already maintain order in Azerbaijan and Arabia, not to mention India. We are already overstretched. For all your talks of dignity and respect, you must realize Persia is not as powerful as the West. We are not in measure to directly confront one of the strongest and most advanced armed forces in the world. India was a proxy war, where no one was willing to directly get involved. That is what allowed us to match the ASB."

This show of humility was certainly surprising to Hotami and Kowsar. The premier, bringing back the subject to what he had intended to speak of first and foremost, advanced: "All this talk is good, but perhaps before projecting any sort of action, we must ask what is at stake. What may happen from now? Agha Ganji, for all your reservations, what is the most plausible course of events, at least from a strategic point of view?"

"Ethiopia has proven its capabilities in the past, but never before has it had to face such an opponent as Spain. It has rarely fought a symetrical war; Egypt had been in disarray for decades, its army was underfunded and attacked on two fronts. It is a given Spain will secure the canal. Thereafter the Red Sea will be open to reinforcements. I suppose the goal is Addis Abeba. A pincer movement is probable. That is where Ethiopia might balance the rapport de force. Once in Ethiopian territory, the Spanish army will be vulnerable to guerilla. It remains to be seen, but France and Germany could get involved."

The Secretary of Foreign Affairs voiced her fear of such a scenario. "That would be a disaster. It would mark the second colonization of Africa. The Mashriq, still in the aftermath of the Ottoman Empire's demise, would be the easiest of targets. It would be miraculous if they do not try to stir trouble in Arabia and Iraq. Spanish companies have been regularly attempting to tap into oil fields well on our side of the border. In any case, an ethiopian defeat would mean a radical upsetting of the global balance of power."

"What must I make of this?" said the frustrated Hotami. "One of you tells me military intervention is impossible, and the other that action is indispensable. You are dismissed. I will reconvene the council at a later time."

After their departure, brooding as he gazed outside, a fleeting thought crossed his mind.

"Where are we now?"

Northern Russia

Across the clear field the structure stood solitary against the wilderness. Behind the men, the light of the morning sun crowned them in a halo of gold as morning rose over the Siberian spring. Standing at the edge of the trees they sat looking out at it. The solitary Russian fort at the edge of nothing. Thin dying hairs of smoke rolled off the roof as ghosts of men prowled the parameter.

“Can we take it?” Tsien Huang asked, crouching in a melting bank of snow. With the coming fight he had dressed himself over for it. Metal and padded ceramic plates rested over his winter coat. Slung over his back the reinforced steel tank to his flamethrower glowed in the low Russia sun, its drab green a dull orange. Resting on his knees the flamethrower itself, a single tongue of blue flame rising from the tip like a gentle candle.

“We can.” Quan Yun-qi said, lowering his binoculars as he turned his wrist, checking his watch, “In five minutes the mortar teams are going to begin shelling the compound and soften them up.”

“Then I go in.” Huang nodded, smiling. He knocked his knuckles against his helmet, a solid piece that hugged against the whole of his head, “And I'm ready.” he smiled at the rasp of his knuckles.

“A lot of us are.” Yun-Qi added, “You know what it is you're doing?” he asked.

“How could I not.” Huang scoffed, “I'm riding in there after the shells land, busting in a hole in those fences and clearing a path for you and the rest to mop it up.

“You sure this is how mechanized infantry is supposed to work?” he asked.

“It sounds good enough in my head.” Yun-qi replied, “Now get in your position, wait for my whistle.”

“Yes, comrade.” Huang bowed, “Can't wait to get cooking!” he cheered quietly, as he bolted off. He could hear the subdued clicking of his gear as he shot off through the snow.

The sound of Huang died off as he departed into the trees. Hidden in there were the ranks of the buggies and personnel carriers that had got them here. From the deep north where they waited in the darkness of Russia's deep winter to here. Faintly on the wind the colonel could hear the idle chattering of their motors.

He could feel the morning sun on the side of his face. It was warm. A contrast to the wet coldness of the snow pressing into his winter coat as he lay on the bank looking out to the Russian compound. The sun felt like it rose too low up this far north. It was never high enough. Some days it was like it gently skirted the edge of the horizon, if it rose at all for most of the year.

There was a building silence that hung in this morning air. What few birds remained this far north were awakened by the golden light and had started chirping in the trees. But around them they held back, afraid of the motors and the diesel that ran below their trees. It was the sort of thing man only noticed when he was in its middle. Like the birds, not even deer nor boar had stirred where the Chinese were crouched in wait.

The Russians wouldn't notice.

The soft breath of southern air brought a warm relief with the sunlight. The brushing breeze rattled the boughs of the trees softly as it brushed through the forests. Distant clumps of snow fell tumbling from the pine boughs in the distant, like ethereal streams of rosy gold. It had to be coming soon. It had to be time. Yun-qi checked his watch again, it was time.

As he lay his head back down he heard the whistling above his head. His head shot up at the howling that cut the cool morning air in the vein attempt to catch a glimpse at the silvery shells that plummeted to Earth. The hard explosive knocking in the distance recaptured his attention as to his face his binoculars shot. Dark cloudy plumes of smoke and shrapnel shot in the air, filling out through the Russian installation as he watched through the lenses.

He could feel the shock waves of each shell from where he sat. The cutting throbbing crashing of mortar fire tore through the silence morning, shaking the ground. The shells falling fast and hard. Drumming fiercely against the Earth as blackened motes of debris sprang and fell in the air. Huang watched through his looking glass at the guards scattering through the compound, their heads bowed low as they dodged the piercing shells that fell all around them.

Along the fences he watched the patrolmen funneled between the fences as soot and timber tore through like flachetes. The chain link no protection from the shrapnel as bodies dropped at each close explosion. Beyond he watched through the fence as a man fell victim to a direct hit from a mortar. His body disappearing all together when the smoke cleared.

Plumes of fire and smoke rose like freed dragons as vehicles were chewed and fell victim to a number of shells that dropped right on them. Sirens picked up and roared as the shelling intensified and corners of the brick building were torn off, raining on the ground rapidly coated in rubble and pitted with craters.

The mortar fire dulled to a lull. It was time for the next stage. Rising from his bank Yun-qi tore out from his pocket his whistle. With a hard blow, he blew into it. A shrill screech cut into the air. Deafening even the shelling as a shrill silver note sung into the cold spring air. Bellowing out in tandem a hundred others sang out, and the groan of engines rose to a lively hallow roar.

Tearing out through the trees the hundreds of motors they had with them. Bar-wrought buggies thundered towards the Russian installation. The pained whines of their engines screaming in. Turreted machine guns opening fire. And riding in the middle a cart flaying a wooden mast, flying from which was the Chinese flag. Its rider, perched in the turret seat sat low, clinging to the barrel of a flame-thrower mounted on its swiveling frame.

The Russians were attempting to re-organize themselves and to recover from the shelling. But what defense they had was staggered and shocked. The defensive fire almost hesitant and misplaced. In return gunners and passengers returned fire as they tore at the fence. Yun-Qi watched as the first buggies rode into the shoddy fence, bending the thin steel and tearing it loose from the snowy earth and whatever held them to their wooden or rusty poles.

***

With a crash the wheels of the vehicle crashed against the flattened fence. Leaning stressed against distant poles it hung bent and deformed as the buggy, and several others struggled to climb up the frozen, twisted fence. The motors strained as the gas roared, coughing up thick clouds of smoke that spun skyward with thick wet clouds of mud and slush. Riding in the gunner's seat Tsien Huang leaned against the angle of the cart as it crawled slowly through the opening that had been rammed through. Shallow craters filled the wide court yard of the installation. Columns of black smoke rose into the cold air from the fresh, warm pits.

Anxiety fermented and boiled in Huang as he sat at the barrel of his flame-thrower. Before him the dozens of carts that had spear-headed in before him wheeled around. Sweeping through and keeping the panicking Russians in check before he could arrive to bring them to the torch. Weapons fire clapped and clattered through the morning air, mingling with the siren klaxons that wailed and feel. Before him the first battle of his involvement in Russia carried on, and he was stuck on a fence.

Furiously the driver slammed the gas pedal. The motor roared loud. “Fucking piece of fucking Siberian trash!” he roared enraged as he leaned his weight on the pedal. At his side his passenger scanned the area through the sights of his rifle. Checking every inch of cover. Likewise their neighbors did the same.

Roars of slogged down buggies screamed and roared as they struggled to climb onto the fence from the burrowing trench they were digging at its foot. The loose bending of the metal did the job just as worse as they caught themselves in the chain link.

Tsien Huang was growing impatient in his nest. He fidgeted in his cold metal seat. Not even the warmth rising from the engine below was any comfort.

“Wu, you fucking get this unstuck, I'm walking in.” Huang growled bitterly as he worked over the clamps that held his flame-thrower to the frame of the vehicle.

“God fuck no, I need your fucking weight!” the driver shouted, pissed. He turned back to Huang, frowning behind a pair of jet-black goggles. A metal collar guarded his neck.

“Ho is fatter than I.” Huang bellowed, pulling the flame-thrower free with a crack and hoisting the tanks higher up on his back, “He can take my seat.”

The passenger looked back at him, without saying a word. Behind the solid-gray scarf that wrapped around his face there was no doubt he was biting back calling him a cunt.

Before anything else could be said Huang landed on the mangled fence, his gear in hand as he jumped into the mud inside the Russian camp. “Damn it Huang, get the fuck back here!” the driver screamed.

“Come find me when you're done being stuck.” Huang called back, opening a valve on the side of the flamethrower, the flame glowed brighter and larger as gas hissed. Turning on his toes he charged into the installation, weaving between the pacing and patrolling buggies. From behind Wu yelled angrily back at him.

Northern Russia

The sharp bitter taste of ash hung in the air. It petrified the other senses, dulling them in a haze of char and gasoline after burn. The stagnant sickening taste lingered in the nose as much as it did on the tongue as the ashes fell down to Earth. Smoke rose in a solid mass for the clear skies above. The area was warm, but not in a regular sense. The muffled sounds of distant gunshots still echoed in the clear wind as Yun-Qi walked through, a ragged cloth pressed tightly to his face; in part to the offensive odor that swam in the milky air.

His boots crunched over the broken brick and timbers of buildings laid to waste my mortar. Glass shards littered the wet slushy concrete from the windows that had been blown out. The brick and concrete behemoth that rose above the Russian wilderness base had been disheveled. By the shattered windows, heavy bullet holes, and thick black char marks it had been quick and violent.

Between the sheet-metal barracks rested stacked bodies of slain Russian resistance. Their uniforms torn and dirties by the mud and smoke. Patches of blood stained the thick woolen uniforms, ribbons drooled out from their mouths as they stared back at the examining officer with glassy eyes. Their skin like parchment as the snow fell on their cheeks as delicate crumbs of black and gray.

Leaned against the side of the command center were laid out the fallen bodies of his men. The Chinese who had given their lives had been laid out and arranged. There was more ceremony in their place than the Russians that had been tossed aside and stacked like chords of discarded wood. Their fallen comrades had been set on the ground like they were sleeping. At their sides lay their rifles and automatic weapons. A heavy blanket had been pulled over them, hiding everything above their ankles. And still their bodies were attended to as the examiners went between the fallen, or recently found were laid out.

“I'd say it would have been more effective if in the end we had not driven in circles around their base.” an officer said, walking up to beside Yun-Qi. He looked tired and pale. His coat had been tattered and a splattering of blood had been painted over a shoulder. A heavy collar of thick gauze was wrapped around his neck, holding in a bloodied wound.

“It certainly ended quick.” Yun-qi observed, looking over the scene of battle, “I had hardly come in with the rest. It was starting to quite. Do you know how?” he asked.

“All I know is that at one point we were making circles around their compound. I was first to tear through the fence in my group. We had it empty and we tore through the defense like I would expect from a tub of butter. But as we filled in I don't think there was much room to keep up maneuvers.” he pointed over to a collection of bent and crashed buggies

“I nearly got blind-sided but another cart passing between the CP and their firing range.” he said, “The Russians packed things hot and heavy in here. I think this place wasn't meant to house that many soldiers in this sort of space. Their command center looks too much like a prison, we broke into their yard.”

“A prison?” Yun-Qi quipped, “I can see that.” he nodded, looking at the parameter. The spindly, wooden guard towers formed an even enough parameter, and it'd explain the barb wire.

“So maybe if we rode you around the edge.”

“Wouldn't have stopped the stalling. I fucking hate those things.” the officer swore. Pointing to the wound on his neck he continued, “As soon as our cart stalled someone clipped me with a rifle round. If it was just a few centimeters off, comrade.”

“A terrible shot then, the Russians.”

“I'd say it was luck if I wasn't in this army.” he quipped.

“Now, why is it burning?” Quan asked bitterly, turning in the kicked up, blackened slush as he threw his hand out, brushing through the drifting soot and ash as it fell back down over them.

“I can't tell you.” the officer said, “After I got stuck and my driver and I took shelter in one of their bunkers we heard explosions. Must have been...” he paused, thinking, “Seven minutes in. If I can get back to my squad then we'll put together an after action report.”

“Good, good. Thank you comrade.” Quan Yun-Qi mumbled appreciatively. He turned and looked over the scene. “Is their headquarters secured?” he asked dryly.

“I believe it is. Man Hu went in with his men to sweep it out. They've been pulling out prisoners since. No word on their CO.”

“Keep looking then.” Quan nodded, “I need to ask some more questions.”

“Certainly.” the officer bowed, “We'll join up later for hot tea under a roof, shall we?”

“Consider it an open invitation.”

“As I would expect.” the lieutenant replied back as he turned. His boots scuffing along the whetted cement as he and his superior parted.

Along the sides of the open court yard sat in park or in salvage the buggies produced for them by the Siberians. Their spartan and open design clearly having not favored the battle well. And with the flurry of fight done, so were these motors silenced. Frames either dented, or blood splattered on the seats they sat quiet along the side. They were not nearly as touched as the smaller Chinese variants, which were looked at with a certain amount of pride by their users.

Not having been simply left behind, the Personnel Carriers that had so swiftly reinforced the spearhead into the compound were not left ignored or unwashed. Done with battle, their attendees crouched beside them, painting out the scars of war. Or patched what holes had been made in any one of their six wheels. In the aftermath, it was clear what horse the men favored, and which had unlikely bore the blame of casualties.

The piling dead and waiting wounded weren't the only things collected by the end of this. As Quan rounded around the corner of the immense plain brick and cement monster he walked along a gathering of prisoners. Battered, pale, and bloodied those Russians who had laid down their arms – wounded or otherwise – in battle were forced to crouch. Hands over their heads they sat in the cold mud facing the plain exterior of their command's barren gray wall. Patrolling the edge armed guards watched over the clearly tired defense as another dug through their weapons. Checking, counting, and cataloging the day's praise.

Yun-Qi didn't know where they'd go in the end. But what ammunition could not be used would be sent somewhere. The command wanted it so.

Yun-Qi was greeted by salutes as he passed. He returned the gesture in kind as he made his way through.

And beyond where the prisoners were being held, was the source of the ash. At the bottom of a low dip, behind chain-link torn and ravaged was were the Russian garrison had set itself. Flames fielded the shanty camp, chewing into the air and spreading like a field of toxic roses. A hundred trees of black smoke clouded into the air, carrying out over the fallen installation. The remains of the site raining down as the ash.

Standing posed and proud at the mouth of the muddy road leading to it stood Tsien Huang. His coat frayed with burns. Dented tank rested in the dirt.

“My work his done.” he said smiling as Yun-Qi walked up alongside him, “It is art, a victory.”

“An art?” Quan said in awe. He felt the shock in him like the wind that poured over his shoulders. Drawn into the breathing field of flame.

“Well, not all me.” Tsien admitted humbly, laughing. “I had help. But it forced many of them out.

“Comrade, I saw the leaves in the tree shudder and break from their branches!” he cheered, clapping, “I don't know if any cooked. But they ran as we drenched them in flame. These Russians, I don't doubt they were proud. But they are no longer.” he grinned.

Yun-Qi thought of the ragged prisoners. What army were they fighting indeed? Was this what turned them away years ago?

“What happened...” a shocked Yun-qi mumbled. He hadn't see this use of fire in a long time. Even on Mindanao had the flames ever been small and shallow. But there wasn't much the reactionaries could use to cause such fires. Glass bottle fire-bombs and aerosol cans. What was done so violently was for more primal urged to impress upon the enemy. Crucifixions, bodies rigged to explode. But not the unguided, unrestrained flame.

“Fire.” smiled Tsien, “Have you not ever been impressed by it?” he asked, “It gives life. It takes it. In my youth, I saw half of Nanjing burn in Japanese bombing. At a distance, I was awed.

“Now I am them. Now I am the Japanese.” He sounded cheerful, proud. His eyes shone with the same terrifying brilliance as the fire that engulfed the camp below. Yun-qi felt pity, and fear. And he wondered, what had Mindanao done to him that he never experienced.

Train to Perm

The rails could be felt as the train rode over top. Its weight swaying it side to side as it sailed over the small imperfections in its route. The rocks, the track laid just an intangible distance off. Or just the turning and wear on the tracks as it lethargically trailed through the terrain on slow, gentle turns. Rising up softly carved hills and passed barren farmer's fields. The dark loamy soil poking out from under snow melt.

In the back of a empty cattle car Jun's breath passed through his lips in a silky cloud. Head bowed he turned over the blade of his sword. The smooth polished metal shimmering as it caught the wayward early spring light that dripped through the weathered and wooden boards. He was tired, but he had kept moving. There was no stopping to be had, he had a mission.

Sighing deep he leaned his head against the back of the car. He had been walking for days, finding the tracks west and hitchhiking aboard a west-bound train. This was what was left of the Trans Siberian Railway now. A duel pair of tracks running east to west, but ending short of Siberia. It wasn't anything grand anymore, and the extent of its cargo showed in this.

As long as it was, the train smelled and felt empty. No new hay had been laid out in any of the stalls. What was left had either fallen through the cracks or turned to a wet spongy bed. Too cold to lay in, even for him.

Between floor boards Jun could watch the ground underneath whip passed at speed exchanging between slow crawl, and a brisk breezy speed. The sides let in too much wind, and it tore over him as he sat in the back.

Clearly this car wasn't used, nor would it likely any time soon. But it was there.

He had heard the train coming as he walked down the tracks. He heard its bellowing horn as it plowed west down the tracks. He had bound into the bushes along the side.

It was a massive monster of a turn-of-the-century engine. The smoke that coughed up out of it thick and black. Cars of faded red and brown trailed after it. Much of it had looked like it was being used. There were cars packed with coal, and tanks of gasoline or oil. Above the loud clacking and crashing of the wheels along the tracks he thought he could hear the sounds of animals. The bellowing of cows and the whinnies of horses.

He had hoped at the least there would be a warm bed between two cows. But when he jumped aboard, he had forced his way into an empty car. Now he could not hear the sounds of animals. Perhaps it was an illusion based on shallow hope. Or the cold had frozen them. Or it was the groan of the wood and metal.

Jun felt naked without his gear. But under fire he wasn't going to spend time looking for it. Without his pack he was reduced to a few rounds for his revolver, and hardly a edge to tune his sword on. In his pocket was a single canister of pills he'd need to register pain; it was probably why he wasn't freezing. And he had a small knife. But bandaging, communications, maps, and intel was all in his bag. And someone had grabbed that before he could.

The failure made him feel better. It was a hot rage. Anger tensed him as he looked at the glowing steel of his sword, teeth gritting. The light shone off it like liquid silver. Somehow he knew he'd have to get it back. Somehow. Somehow he'd re-establish contact, re-organize. Maybe after he killed his man in Perm. Maybe.

Through the boards he watched the countryside pass by. Hills and forests were giving way to more and more farms. And distant buildings could be seen over the terrain. Electrical poles marches along the tracks. He was drawing close to something. With a steady breath he sheathed his sword. He'd need to make the jump soon. And then came the tracking game.

Omsk-Kalachinsk, Russia

Farm fields stretched for miles in a smokey haze brought down by war. The rumble of engines and orders became a foggy blur between the sounds of weapons fire as the Chinese and the Siberians pushed west-ward. The roar of the weapons doomed to echo out everything else. Even through the narrow plate of thick ballistic plastic that made up a window, war was becoming a blur.

Push forward, pull back. Wait for return fire. The fields around Omsk had been churned to mud beneath the treads of the Chinese armor and the craters of artillery and mortar shells. What few stalwart men the Republic could produce were thrown like rats into the countryside where they dug in. Throwing over their heads nests of sticks and branches as they lay down in the wooded groves between the fields and between the corners. Tracer rounds lit up the grime that clouded Tsun's vision. It was the only thing clear in the mess.

But in the long days and nights spent driving the countryside. Moving from location to location to uproot a wooden pillbox the conditions of war was becoming as blurred and mundane as the orders shouted by his commander. At night, he lay behind the tank as it rested in the same trees they turned to shards. He stared into the cold, starry sky. And he was afraid. It was an unspeakable fear. He was afraid to go out, and then afraid he cared so little being in it when he came out.

Now again in the front seat he floated along on the sea of war. Riding over the waves of craters and earthen walls as they hunted the skyline of Omsk. Between the barren trees and the leveled forests the faint ghosts of the city lingered in the distance across the perfect flatness of Russian Siberia. Smokey clouds plumed over the horizon in the gray afternoon.

In the turret Song rode silent. Hui and Lin rested back against the walls, leaning against the gun as they waited out the deadness of travel. The clattering of the treads against the ground and the systematic rumbling of the engine blurred together into the same ambient song. They drove along the side of the railroad, what was left of the Tran-Siberian rail. The sound of the tank was almost in itself a train. Low, monotone. Constant.

“Friendlies at three and nine o'clock.” Song reported in a soft voice. He sounded as enthused as Tsun.

As they rocked up and down the gravel berm the tracks rode on Tsun felt almost sleepy. It was back again to long train rides from home to visit the relatives who had gone east for work. And those long rides back. It was all free, for the most part. There was no reason not to. When his parents could find the time off.

He had always slept well at those long rides.

Even the tank was starting to smell like the train. The light clinking of the shells sounding like the clattering of glassware as the food trolley was wheeled along the cabins. That same sound high note a drink made when in its coaster.

It was enough to make someone's eyes go heavy.

He leaned back into his seat. Fighting himself to keep awake. He'd need to be. But, he also felt he needed shut eye. The ride was smooth, for the most part. They'd been driving in a straight line for the better part of the afternoon. The sound of machine guns had waned. If there was anything left of external simulation, it was in the low distant thunder of larger guns. But the steel and the engine dulled this sound.

Tsun leaned back into himself. The cradling movement of the tank and the droning sound of the engine playing into that distant inspiration of sleep. If he could ignore the diesel, he could almost smell the tea. His grip on the controls relaxed. His shoulders dropped as he leaned his head to the side. His vision fogged as his lids dropped tired.

Song's voice said something. But it was distant. It almost sounded like the trolly-man’s. It almost sounded like the kick of a horse.

But it did not feel like a hammer to the head. With a bolting start Tsun was awoken from his daze as he was launched from his seat. The low hanging roof of the cabin was short at hand, and with a splitting crack it connected to his head. Pain shot down through his head like a spike of lead driven deep into his skull. His neck shuddered as a fiery splitting roar boomed in the empty drum of the tank and metal squealed outside. Loud bangs crashed against the right side of the tank. Outside he saw the world spin by as the Tei Gui swept to the side.

Shock washed over him as the dam in his head broke and he shuddered alert at his post. With a jolt he stepped off the controls and the vehicle was brought screeching to a halt. Debris pattered against the metal like rain as blood dripped through his hair and down the side of his face. He felt his face go gaunt and pale.

“DAMN IT!” Lin screamed. She leaned out of her chair, clinging to the side of her turret with bare white knuckled. Her shoulder inches from the sharply pointed tips of the explosive shells below her. Tsun leaned to the side, shocked and angry as Hui clung to his seat.

“Tread out!” Tsung screamed. He threw himself out of his seat, throwing open the turret hatch as the familiar sting of bullets smashed against the side of the hull. Sharp sparks and stinging pings of recoiling bullets hurried him back into the turret.

“Under fire!” he cursed, doubling back.

“From where!?” Hui shouted.

“On our left, eleven-fifteen.” Song called back.

“What about the treads though!” Tsun shouted back. He fought panicking with the tank controls, but only sluggishly turned the tank around drunkenly. He could hear gravel being kicked up against the underside of his carriage.

“For fucks sake stop!” Song roared in anger. “Lin, I want you to see if you can reconnect the treads. Hui, on her gun!” he boomed. “Tsun, get the hell up here and collect Hui's shells!”

Tsun stuttered shaken and shocked. His arms felt like rubber as he fought to climb out of his cramped seat. Already Lin was bounding out through the turret hatch, dodging a spread of fire as she vaulted the side. Hui was moving over. Tsun struggled over the rounds as the ensuing skirmish poured with thunderous applause through the open patch.

“Hostile target, two-hundred degrees, hundred meters! HE!” Song screamed.

“Wh-where?” Tsung stammered, confused. He looked at the targeting systems at his side, but could not make sense of the dials, or read half the labels and readings.

“Don't you fucking mind, put a shell in the chamber!” Hui barked, stuffing his hands into the side of Li's auxiliary machine. The turret turning as he made the adjustment.

Tsun leaned over the loader's seat, fumbling for a shell and grabbing one at random. Craddling the heavy cone of brass and explosives like a newborn in his arms he wormed back through the turret.

“WHERE'S MY ROUND!” Hui screamed over the cacophony.

“I- W- Ee-” stammered Tsun has he fought the chamber open. Hastily stuffing the loaded round into the gun and closing the breech.

“L-loaded!” he stuttered fearfully.

“This is Q-41I!” Song yelled into his radio, “We're damaged and incapacitated. We're taking fire!” he shouted. The sound of the firing canon briefly drowning out his voice as he bellowed their position into the mic through closed hands.

“Comrades!” Lin yelled from above, poking her head above the turret, “I need my tools!”

“Hui, crawl down by the engine and get Lin's tools.” Song ordered, “Tsung, on the machine gun. I want suppressive fire on those trees.”

“G-gun...” Tsung stuttered weakly, searing around him for the armament in question.

“It's in front of you for fuck's sake!” Song roared.

“Got Lin's kit!” Hui shouted. A brown bag soared past Tsun's face as he lay his hands on the turret's secondary gun.

“Tsun, I need fire on those trees!” Song continued to roar.

The sights of the machine gun were foamy and faded. A scratched and clouded scope in all cases. He felt hesitant to pull the trigger.

“Give us cover!” Song yelled, whipping the young driver on the back of the head. He was urgent, channeling his own fear to anger.

Tsun gave in, pressing on the trigger and firing. It clashed and rattled in his hands as he swept it. Firing outward. He watched as trees splintered and broke as each bullet bit into it. Faded figured got up to run, scattering from the chain of fire that he swept across.

“I think I can patch it up temporarily!” Lin shouted. She was barely audible over the sound, “But we'll need to pull back for permanent repairs as soon as I'm done.

“Get it done, we'll hold cover!” Song roared back, “I got help coming now.”

Hong Kong, China

There was a palpable curiosity as the auditorium filled. Bright young faces taking advantage of the distraction stepped in through the doors. Butting shoulders with the politically active older generation and the news crews. Light chatter filled the air. But all of it was hushed. Under dim lights they milled about, taking their seats.

From behind the heavy back-stage curtains stood Zhang Auyi. He fiddled nervously with the cuffs of his white suit. He fought to keep his breath steady. It wasn't the largest group he held court to. But no matter the size, he still felt nervous. The anxiety before stepping out before cameras would never go away. And he never believed it when his contemporaries said they didn't care, or notice.

Looking at the lights and the cameras he wondered if he could truly win this. His rivals were likely much well built. And that nagged him. It ate his guts like a insect. It only made it worse. Some had gotten a head start. He was only just beginning.

“Nervous?” a voice said behind him. Auyi turned, one of the stage hands. His simple jumpsuit was tied tight with a number of tool bags and pouches. Hanging in his lips a loose cigarette.

“A little...” he said.

The stage hand laughed softly. Leaning over to get a view of the small congregation. “They don't like that vicious.” he joked, “The young one's teeth are too unformed, and the old one's don't got one any more.

“But I don't imagine you've fought off worse sharks.”

“I have...” Auyi said, “But that was usually more personal.”

The man nodded, smiling quietly to himself. “You got a few more seconds. You ready?”

“I am.” Auyi nodded, pulling his suit down flatter, clapping his hands together.

They couldn't be that fierce a tiger. They were always more violent demons in the forest. He fought the thought into his mind. Planting it there. It would bring comfort. As much as the exercises in the back did. Deep breaths. Inhale. Four seconds. Exhale. The sun rose in the east, set in the west.

Set on Europe. He was in the east. Where the sun rose. He would be fine. Always.

“Comrades, Minister Zhang Auyi. Open press conference to Hong Kong University of People's Law.” an anonymous figure read as the lights in the audience dimmed. It was his cue. He took the stage with a confident stride. Turning out to the audience and smiling.

They at least were ghosts in the darkness.

There was a light pattering of applause as he took the podium at center stage. It was modest. Humble. Subdued. Not likely anyone knew enough to care. Just here for the sights.

“My brothers and sisters of Hong Kong,” he started, “It is with the grace of our beloved Hou that we now choosing a new path. As much as I'm sure we would love to see him continue, we must accept this as it is now. It is in his graces we seek for ourselves a course to the future. One to progress forward. One to meet our enemies on the doorstep, and to safeguard our Revolution in its finality, and in its continuation.

“We are the electors and the people's voice! We are the proud ones, and I do humble admit that now I request your assistance.

“It is today that I do announce my candidacy for the position of Grand Secretary of our New China. I, Zhang Auyi shall set his ship to sail to the waters of a better future. But the wind that steers me forward is not one made from divine right as others in less free nations will claim. I will not steer my ship from blood. I will not build it from gold stolen from the people.

“No, my ship shall be piloted by the people for the people. I understand this virtue and this necessity.

“We have only gone upwards in our last twenty years. I have fought for this present as many of you – or your fathers – have in the past. And I have not stopped fighting! Even with war no longer dividing us and preventing us from being a unified people there is still much work to be done. We have a status quo, but there is no use in maintaining this. We should push on! We shall build onto the Status Quo!

“China and her people deserve a brighter future! For the darkness we have been through. The people we have lost and the blood spilled we need better! It is not to say we now still live in such conditions still. Any person who might see can look out and find more rice on their table. They have their bread. They have their pork. We have our family. We have our hope. And we have our future.

“Our enemies say we are suppressed and ineffective. But it is only because they fear our own success.

“When I look at China now, I see a land of expansive hope and promise. We have come this far in twenty years, have we not? Now imagine, how much further can we go in a twenty more? How can I improve the nation? I shall promise a land in which every man is master of it.

“Congress now looks into this. And I accept their fight to expand the representation of everyone. To bring balance in our nation. Hou said so. And there is no man nobler than him. And if the nobelist of men say it is right, then it is.

“But there are parties who do not think so. And I refuse to sit by and let them not see this happen. To stifle our diversity and our common heritage. We are a rich – united – people and I will not sit by and see it squandered away in Beijing. The light of millions will be glow equally fierce, and none will no brighter than the rest.

“And the world will see us, and we shall be a model! And they shall see our wealth, and they will wish to be us! And the world as diverse as it is, it is not unlike China. Here shall be the testing ground for the world of tomorrow.

“And we will all grow. Even here in China. I promise that we will seek to expand our avenues. We will expand the wealth. And in it our influence. I make this no secret. We know it will be healthy.

“Openness for our country will be the way to the future. We are ready now! There is no threat the outside can have to our success. And there is no danger they have to fear in us.

“For Spain, we will prove we are a peaceful people. For our allies we will prove we will always be there. I promise we will reach for the stars.

“Brothers and sisters. Comrades. Let's build a new world for everyone.”

Northern Russia

The sharp bitter taste of ash hung in the air. It petrified the other senses, dulling them in a haze of char and gasoline after burn. The stagnant sickening taste lingered in the nose as much as it did on the tongue as the ashes fell down to Earth. Smoke rose in a solid mass for the clear skies above. The area was warm, but not in a regular sense. The muffled sounds of distant gunshots still echoed in the clear wind as Yun-Qi walked through, a ragged cloth pressed tightly to his face; in part to the offensive odor that swam in the milky air.

His boots crunched over the broken brick and timbers of buildings laid to waste my mortar. Glass shards littered the wet slushy concrete from the windows that had been blown out. The brick and concrete behemoth that rose above the Russian wilderness base had been disheveled. By the shattered windows, heavy bullet holes, and thick black char marks it had been quick and violent.

Between the sheet-metal barracks rested stacked bodies of slain Russian resistance. Their uniforms torn and dirties by the mud and smoke. Patches of blood stained the thick woolen uniforms, ribbons drooled out from their mouths as they stared back at the examining officer with glassy eyes. Their skin like parchment as the snow fell on their cheeks as delicate crumbs of black and gray.

Leaned against the side of the command center were laid out the fallen bodies of his men. The Chinese who had given their lives had been laid out and arranged. There was more ceremony in their place than the Russians that had been tossed aside and stacked like chords of discarded wood. Their fallen comrades had been set on the ground like they were sleeping. At their sides lay their rifles and automatic weapons. A heavy blanket had been pulled over them, hiding everything above their ankles. And still their bodies were attended to as the examiners went between the fallen, or recently found were laid out.

“I'd say it would have been more effective if in the end we had not driven in circles around their base.” an officer said, walking up to beside Yun-Qi. He looked tired and pale. His coat had been tattered and a splattering of blood had been painted over a shoulder. A heavy collar of thick gauze was wrapped around his neck, holding in a bloodied wound.

“It certainly ended quick.” Yun-qi observed, looking over the scene of battle, “I had hardly come in with the rest. It was starting to quite. Do you know how?” he asked.

“All I know is that at one point we were making circles around their compound. I was first to tear through the fence in my group. We had it empty and we tore through the defense like I would expect from a tub of butter. But as we filled in I don't think there was much room to keep up maneuvers.” he pointed over to a collection of bent and crashed buggies

“I nearly got blind-sided but another cart passing between the CP and their firing range.” he said, “The Russians packed things hot and heavy in here. I think this place wasn't meant to house that many soldiers in this sort of space. Their command center looks too much like a prison, we broke into their yard.”

“A prison?” Yun-Qi quipped, “I can see that.” he nodded, looking at the parameter. The spindly, wooden guard towers formed an even enough parameter, and it'd explain the barb wire.

“So maybe if we rode you around the edge.”

“Wouldn't have stopped the stalling. I fucking hate those things.” the officer swore. Pointing to the wound on his neck he continued, “As soon as our cart stalled someone clipped me with a rifle round. If it was just a few centimeters off, comrade.”

“A terrible shot then, the Russians.”

“I'd say it was luck if I wasn't in this army.” he quipped.

“Now, why is it burning?” Quan asked bitterly, turning in the kicked up, blackened slush as he threw his hand out, brushing through the drifting soot and ash as it fell back down over them.

“I can't tell you.” the officer said, “After I got stuck and my driver and I took shelter in one of their bunkers we heard explosions. Must have been...” he paused, thinking, “Seven minutes in. If I can get back to my squad then we'll put together an after action report.”

“Good, good. Thank you comrade.” Quan Yun-Qi mumbled appreciatively. He turned and looked over the scene. “Is their headquarters secured?” he asked dryly.

“I believe it is. Man Hu went in with his men to sweep it out. They've been pulling out prisoners since. No word on their CO.”

“Keep looking then.” Quan nodded, “I need to ask some more questions.”

“Certainly.” the officer bowed, “We'll join up later for hot tea under a roof, shall we?”

“Consider it an open invitation.”

“As I would expect.” the lieutenant replied back as he turned. His boots scuffing along the whetted cement as he and his superior parted.

Along the sides of the open court yard sat in park or in salvage the buggies produced for them by the Siberians. Their spartan and open design clearly having not favored the battle well. And with the flurry of fight done, so were these motors silenced. Frames either dented, or blood splattered on the seats they sat quiet along the side. They were not nearly as touched as the smaller Chinese variants, which were looked at with a certain amount of pride by their users.

Not having been simply left behind, the Personnel Carriers that had so swiftly reinforced the spearhead into the compound were not left ignored or unwashed. Done with battle, their attendees crouched beside them, painting out the scars of war. Or patched what holes had been made in any one of their six wheels. In the aftermath, it was clear what horse the men favored, and which had unlikely bore the blame of casualties.

The piling dead and waiting wounded weren't the only things collected by the end of this. As Quan rounded around the corner of the immense plain brick and cement monster he walked along a gathering of prisoners. Battered, pale, and bloodied those Russians who had laid down their arms – wounded or otherwise – in battle were forced to crouch. Hands over their heads they sat in the cold mud facing the plain exterior of their command's barren gray wall. Patrolling the edge armed guards watched over the clearly tired defense as another dug through their weapons. Checking, counting, and cataloging the day's praise.

Yun-Qi didn't know where they'd go in the end. But what ammunition could not be used would be sent somewhere. The command wanted it so.

Yun-Qi was greeted by salutes as he passed. He returned the gesture in kind as he made his way through.

And beyond where the prisoners were being held, was the source of the ash. At the bottom of a low dip, behind chain-link torn and ravaged was were the Russian garrison had set itself. Flames fielded the shanty camp, chewing into the air and spreading like a field of toxic roses. A hundred trees of black smoke clouded into the air, carrying out over the fallen installation. The remains of the site raining down as the ash.

Standing posed and proud at the mouth of the muddy road leading to it stood Tsien Huang. His coat frayed with burns. Dented tank rested in the dirt.

“My work his done.” he said smiling as Yun-Qi walked up alongside him, “It is art, a victory.”

“An art?” Quan said in awe. He felt the shock in him like the wind that poured over his shoulders. Drawn into the breathing field of flame.

“Well, not all me.” Tsien admitted humbly, laughing. “I had help. But it forced many of them out.

“Comrade, I saw the leaves in the tree shudder and break from their branches!” he cheered, clapping, “I don't know if any cooked. But they ran as we drenched them in flame. These Russians, I don't doubt they were proud. But they are no longer.” he grinned.

Yun-Qi thought of the ragged prisoners. What army were they fighting indeed? Was this what turned them away years ago?

“What happened...” a shocked Yun-qi mumbled. He hadn't see this use of fire in a long time. Even on Mindanao had the flames ever been small and shallow. But there wasn't much the reactionaries could use to cause such fires. Glass bottle fire-bombs and aerosol cans. What was done so violently was for more primal urged to impress upon the enemy. Crucifixions, bodies rigged to explode. But not the unguided, unrestrained flame.

“Fire.” smiled Tsien, “Have you not ever been impressed by it?” he asked, “It gives life. It takes it. In my youth, I saw half of Nanjing burn in Japanese bombing. At a distance, I was awed.

“Now I am them. Now I am the Japanese.” He sounded cheerful, proud. His eyes shone with the same terrifying brilliance as the fire that engulfed the camp below. Yun-qi felt pity, and fear. And he wondered, what had Mindanao done to him that he never experienced.

Train to Perm

The rails could be felt as the train rode over top. Its weight swaying it side to side as it sailed over the small imperfections in its route. The rocks, the track laid just an intangible distance off. Or just the turning and wear on the tracks as it lethargically trailed through the terrain on slow, gentle turns. Rising up softly carved hills and passed barren farmer's fields. The dark loamy soil poking out from under snow melt.

In the back of a empty cattle car Jun's breath passed through his lips in a silky cloud. Head bowed he turned over the blade of his sword. The smooth polished metal shimmering as it caught the wayward early spring light that dripped through the weathered and wooden boards. He was tired, but he had kept moving. There was no stopping to be had, he had a mission.

Sighing deep he leaned his head against the back of the car. He had been walking for days, finding the tracks west and hitchhiking aboard a west-bound train. This was what was left of the Trans Siberian Railway now. A duel pair of tracks running east to west, but ending short of Siberia. It wasn't anything grand anymore, and the extent of its cargo showed in this.

As long as it was, the train smelled and felt empty. No new hay had been laid out in any of the stalls. What was left had either fallen through the cracks or turned to a wet spongy bed. Too cold to lay in, even for him.

Between floor boards Jun could watch the ground underneath whip passed at speed exchanging between slow crawl, and a brisk breezy speed. The sides let in too much wind, and it tore over him as he sat in the back.

Clearly this car wasn't used, nor would it likely any time soon. But it was there.

He had heard the train coming as he walked down the tracks. He heard its bellowing horn as it plowed west down the tracks. He had bound into the bushes along the side.

It was a massive monster of a turn-of-the-century engine. The smoke that coughed up out of it thick and black. Cars of faded red and brown trailed after it. Much of it had looked like it was being used. There were cars packed with coal, and tanks of gasoline or oil. Above the loud clacking and crashing of the wheels along the tracks he thought he could hear the sounds of animals. The bellowing of cows and the whinnies of horses.

He had hoped at the least there would be a warm bed between two cows. But when he jumped aboard, he had forced his way into an empty car. Now he could not hear the sounds of animals. Perhaps it was an illusion based on shallow hope. Or the cold had frozen them. Or it was the groan of the wood and metal.

Jun felt naked without his gear. But under fire he wasn't going to spend time looking for it. Without his pack he was reduced to a few rounds for his revolver, and hardly a edge to tune his sword on. In his pocket was a single canister of pills he'd need to register pain; it was probably why he wasn't freezing. And he had a small knife. But bandaging, communications, maps, and intel was all in his bag. And someone had grabbed that before he could.

The failure made him feel better. It was a hot rage. Anger tensed him as he looked at the glowing steel of his sword, teeth gritting. The light shone off it like liquid silver. Somehow he knew he'd have to get it back. Somehow. Somehow he'd re-establish contact, re-organize. Maybe after he killed his man in Perm. Maybe.

Through the boards he watched the countryside pass by. Hills and forests were giving way to more and more farms. And distant buildings could be seen over the terrain. Electrical poles marches along the tracks. He was drawing close to something. With a steady breath he sheathed his sword. He'd need to make the jump soon. And then came the tracking game.

Omsk-Kalachinsk, Russia

Farm fields stretched for miles in a smokey haze brought down by war. The rumble of engines and orders became a foggy blur between the sounds of weapons fire as the Chinese and the Siberians pushed west-ward. The roar of the weapons doomed to echo out everything else. Even through the narrow plate of thick ballistic plastic that made up a window, war was becoming a blur.

Push forward, pull back. Wait for return fire. The fields around Omsk had been churned to mud beneath the treads of the Chinese armor and the craters of artillery and mortar shells. What few stalwart men the Republic could produce were thrown like rats into the countryside where they dug in. Throwing over their heads nests of sticks and branches as they lay down in the wooded groves between the fields and between the corners. Tracer rounds lit up the grime that clouded Tsun's vision. It was the only thing clear in the mess.

But in the long days and nights spent driving the countryside. Moving from location to location to uproot a wooden pillbox the conditions of war was becoming as blurred and mundane as the orders shouted by his commander. At night, he lay behind the tank as it rested in the same trees they turned to shards. He stared into the cold, starry sky. And he was afraid. It was an unspeakable fear. He was afraid to go out, and then afraid he cared so little being in it when he came out.

Now again in the front seat he floated along on the sea of war. Riding over the waves of craters and earthen walls as they hunted the skyline of Omsk. Between the barren trees and the leveled forests the faint ghosts of the city lingered in the distance across the perfect flatness of Russian Siberia. Smokey clouds plumed over the horizon in the gray afternoon.

In the turret Song rode silent. Hui and Lin rested back against the walls, leaning against the gun as they waited out the deadness of travel. The clattering of the treads against the ground and the systematic rumbling of the engine blurred together into the same ambient song. They drove along the side of the railroad, what was left of the Tran-Siberian rail. The sound of the tank was almost in itself a train. Low, monotone. Constant.

“Friendlies at three and nine o'clock.” Song reported in a soft voice. He sounded as enthused as Tsun.

As they rocked up and down the gravel berm the tracks rode on Tsun felt almost sleepy. It was back again to long train rides from home to visit the relatives who had gone east for work. And those long rides back. It was all free, for the most part. There was no reason not to. When his parents could find the time off.

He had always slept well at those long rides.

Even the tank was starting to smell like the train. The light clinking of the shells sounding like the clattering of glassware as the food trolley was wheeled along the cabins. That same sound high note a drink made when in its coaster.

It was enough to make someone's eyes go heavy.

He leaned back into his seat. Fighting himself to keep awake. He'd need to be. But, he also felt he needed shut eye. The ride was smooth, for the most part. They'd been driving in a straight line for the better part of the afternoon. The sound of machine guns had waned. If there was anything left of external simulation, it was in the low distant thunder of larger guns. But the steel and the engine dulled this sound.

Tsun leaned back into himself. The cradling movement of the tank and the droning sound of the engine playing into that distant inspiration of sleep. If he could ignore the diesel, he could almost smell the tea. His grip on the controls relaxed. His shoulders dropped as he leaned his head to the side. His vision fogged as his lids dropped tired.

Song's voice said something. But it was distant. It almost sounded like the trolly-man’s. It almost sounded like the kick of a horse.

But it did not feel like a hammer to the head. With a bolting start Tsun was awoken from his daze as he was launched from his seat. The low hanging roof of the cabin was short at hand, and with a splitting crack it connected to his head. Pain shot down through his head like a spike of lead driven deep into his skull. His neck shuddered as a fiery splitting roar boomed in the empty drum of the tank and metal squealed outside. Loud bangs crashed against the right side of the tank. Outside he saw the world spin by as the Tei Gui swept to the side.

Shock washed over him as the dam in his head broke and he shuddered alert at his post. With a jolt he stepped off the controls and the vehicle was brought screeching to a halt. Debris pattered against the metal like rain as blood dripped through his hair and down the side of his face. He felt his face go gaunt and pale.

“DAMN IT!” Lin screamed. She leaned out of her chair, clinging to the side of her turret with bare white knuckled. Her shoulder inches from the sharply pointed tips of the explosive shells below her. Tsun leaned to the side, shocked and angry as Hui clung to his seat.

“Tread out!” Tsung screamed. He threw himself out of his seat, throwing open the turret hatch as the familiar sting of bullets smashed against the side of the hull. Sharp sparks and stinging pings of recoiling bullets hurried him back into the turret.

“Under fire!” he cursed, doubling back.

“From where!?” Hui shouted.

“On our left, eleven-fifteen.” Song called back.

“What about the treads though!” Tsun shouted back. He fought panicking with the tank controls, but only sluggishly turned the tank around drunkenly. He could hear gravel being kicked up against the underside of his carriage.

“For fucks sake stop!” Song roared in anger. “Lin, I want you to see if you can reconnect the treads. Hui, on her gun!” he boomed. “Tsun, get the hell up here and collect Hui's shells!”

Tsun stuttered shaken and shocked. His arms felt like rubber as he fought to climb out of his cramped seat. Already Lin was bounding out through the turret hatch, dodging a spread of fire as she vaulted the side. Hui was moving over. Tsun struggled over the rounds as the ensuing skirmish poured with thunderous applause through the open patch.

“Hostile target, two-hundred degrees, hundred meters! HE!” Song screamed.

“Wh-where?” Tsung stammered, confused. He looked at the targeting systems at his side, but could not make sense of the dials, or read half the labels and readings.

“Don't you fucking mind, put a shell in the chamber!” Hui barked, stuffing his hands into the side of Li's auxiliary machine. The turret turning as he made the adjustment.

Tsun leaned over the loader's seat, fumbling for a shell and grabbing one at random. Craddling the heavy cone of brass and explosives like a newborn in his arms he wormed back through the turret.

“WHERE'S MY ROUND!” Hui screamed over the cacophony.

“I- W- Ee-” stammered Tsun has he fought the chamber open. Hastily stuffing the loaded round into the gun and closing the breech.

“L-loaded!” he stuttered fearfully.

“This is Q-41I!” Song yelled into his radio, “We're damaged and incapacitated. We're taking fire!” he shouted. The sound of the firing canon briefly drowning out his voice as he bellowed their position into the mic through closed hands.

“Comrades!” Lin yelled from above, poking her head above the turret, “I need my tools!”

“Hui, crawl down by the engine and get Lin's tools.” Song ordered, “Tsung, on the machine gun. I want suppressive fire on those trees.”

“G-gun...” Tsung stuttered weakly, searing around him for the armament in question.

“It's in front of you for fuck's sake!” Song roared.

“Got Lin's kit!” Hui shouted. A brown bag soared past Tsun's face as he lay his hands on the turret's secondary gun.

“Tsun, I need fire on those trees!” Song continued to roar.

The sights of the machine gun were foamy and faded. A scratched and clouded scope in all cases. He felt hesitant to pull the trigger.

“Give us cover!” Song yelled, whipping the young driver on the back of the head. He was urgent, channeling his own fear to anger.

Tsun gave in, pressing on the trigger and firing. It clashed and rattled in his hands as he swept it. Firing outward. He watched as trees splintered and broke as each bullet bit into it. Faded figured got up to run, scattering from the chain of fire that he swept across.

“I think I can patch it up temporarily!” Lin shouted. She was barely audible over the sound, “But we'll need to pull back for permanent repairs as soon as I'm done.

“Get it done, we'll hold cover!” Song roared back, “I got help coming now.”

Hong Kong, China

There was a palpable curiosity as the auditorium filled. Bright young faces taking advantage of the distraction stepped in through the doors. Butting shoulders with the politically active older generation and the news crews. Light chatter filled the air. But all of it was hushed. Under dim lights they milled about, taking their seats.

From behind the heavy back-stage curtains stood Zhang Auyi. He fiddled nervously with the cuffs of his white suit. He fought to keep his breath steady. It wasn't the largest group he held court to. But no matter the size, he still felt nervous. The anxiety before stepping out before cameras would never go away. And he never believed it when his contemporaries said they didn't care, or notice.

Looking at the lights and the cameras he wondered if he could truly win this. His rivals were likely much well built. And that nagged him. It ate his guts like a insect. It only made it worse. Some had gotten a head start. He was only just beginning.

“Nervous?” a voice said behind him. Auyi turned, one of the stage hands. His simple jumpsuit was tied tight with a number of tool bags and pouches. Hanging in his lips a loose cigarette.

“A little...” he said.

The stage hand laughed softly. Leaning over to get a view of the small congregation. “They don't like that vicious.” he joked, “The young one's teeth are too unformed, and the old one's don't got one any more.

“But I don't imagine you've fought off worse sharks.”

“I have...” Auyi said, “But that was usually more personal.”

The man nodded, smiling quietly to himself. “You got a few more seconds. You ready?”

“I am.” Auyi nodded, pulling his suit down flatter, clapping his hands together.

They couldn't be that fierce a tiger. They were always more violent demons in the forest. He fought the thought into his mind. Planting it there. It would bring comfort. As much as the exercises in the back did. Deep breaths. Inhale. Four seconds. Exhale. The sun rose in the east, set in the west.

Set on Europe. He was in the east. Where the sun rose. He would be fine. Always.

“Comrades, Minister Zhang Auyi. Open press conference to Hong Kong University of People's Law.” an anonymous figure read as the lights in the audience dimmed. It was his cue. He took the stage with a confident stride. Turning out to the audience and smiling.

They at least were ghosts in the darkness.

There was a light pattering of applause as he took the podium at center stage. It was modest. Humble. Subdued. Not likely anyone knew enough to care. Just here for the sights.

“My brothers and sisters of Hong Kong,” he started, “It is with the grace of our beloved Hou that we now choosing a new path. As much as I'm sure we would love to see him continue, we must accept this as it is now. It is in his graces we seek for ourselves a course to the future. One to progress forward. One to meet our enemies on the doorstep, and to safeguard our Revolution in its finality, and in its continuation.

“We are the electors and the people's voice! We are the proud ones, and I do humble admit that now I request your assistance.

“It is today that I do announce my candidacy for the position of Grand Secretary of our New China. I, Zhang Auyi shall set his ship to sail to the waters of a better future. But the wind that steers me forward is not one made from divine right as others in less free nations will claim. I will not steer my ship from blood. I will not build it from gold stolen from the people.

“No, my ship shall be piloted by the people for the people. I understand this virtue and this necessity.

“We have only gone upwards in our last twenty years. I have fought for this present as many of you – or your fathers – have in the past. And I have not stopped fighting! Even with war no longer dividing us and preventing us from being a unified people there is still much work to be done. We have a status quo, but there is no use in maintaining this. We should push on! We shall build onto the Status Quo!

“China and her people deserve a brighter future! For the darkness we have been through. The people we have lost and the blood spilled we need better! It is not to say we now still live in such conditions still. Any person who might see can look out and find more rice on their table. They have their bread. They have their pork. We have our family. We have our hope. And we have our future.

“Our enemies say we are suppressed and ineffective. But it is only because they fear our own success.

“When I look at China now, I see a land of expansive hope and promise. We have come this far in twenty years, have we not? Now imagine, how much further can we go in a twenty more? How can I improve the nation? I shall promise a land in which every man is master of it.

“Congress now looks into this. And I accept their fight to expand the representation of everyone. To bring balance in our nation. Hou said so. And there is no man nobler than him. And if the nobelist of men say it is right, then it is.

“But there are parties who do not think so. And I refuse to sit by and let them not see this happen. To stifle our diversity and our common heritage. We are a rich – united – people and I will not sit by and see it squandered away in Beijing. The light of millions will be glow equally fierce, and none will no brighter than the rest.

“And the world will see us, and we shall be a model! And they shall see our wealth, and they will wish to be us! And the world as diverse as it is, it is not unlike China. Here shall be the testing ground for the world of tomorrow.

“And we will all grow. Even here in China. I promise that we will seek to expand our avenues. We will expand the wealth. And in it our influence. I make this no secret. We know it will be healthy.

“Openness for our country will be the way to the future. We are ready now! There is no threat the outside can have to our success. And there is no danger they have to fear in us.

“For Spain, we will prove we are a peaceful people. For our allies we will prove we will always be there. I promise we will reach for the stars.

“Brothers and sisters. Comrades. Let's build a new world for everyone.”

Sevan, Armenia

The drums set the beat. Trumpets shouted, and when they went quiet there was a fast, but folksy, clarinet solo. Two singers took the stage. One was a man with a salt-and-pepper beard, grinning and hopping to the beat. The other was a woman, taller than the man, with an olive-complexion and bushy hair reaching past her shoulders. Sahle watched the rest of the room nervously. The attack in the Dead Man's Den had him on alert, even after Vasily had mysteriously taken care of the problem. Vasily was with them now, on the other side of their table, but Sahle couldn't rest. He held tightly to Aaliyah's hand and spied on the other patrons.

They were watching the show. They were laughing, and talking, and flirting. Some drank, others paid more attention to dinner, tearing into their lamp and popping stuffed grape-leaves in their mouths. None of them looked Egyptian, but it was difficult to tell. The room was full of people who could pass for Arabs. Some were. Others were Persians. Most were Armenian, but many of them looked Arabic.

Everything in the room was a deep red. It was only the stage, with its heavy blue curtains hanging to the side, that looked any different. The floor was red shag-carpet, the tables draped in red cloths. Lamplight glowed orange and cast everything in a Gothic light.

"I am thinking Oziryan will be liking you." Vassily warbled. "He is smart at this business, you are knowing. Smart at this business more than the old man Horasian."

"Will we be doing shows here, friend?" Yared asked. His wiry beard was wet with champagne. Vasily had insisted they all wear suits, and when he discovered that they didn't own any, he had them outfitted. Yared and Marc looked ridiculous. The neatly pressed, pristine black suits did little more than accentuate how unkempt they were. Why Vasily had not insisted they shave and rein in their hair Sahle did not know. It occurred to him that, though they did not know it, their "Samel" was the only one who had any real experience with the trappings of wealth.

"Maybe, if you be wanting." Vassily answered. "Oziryan will be wanting favors, but I am not thinking that he means your work. Entertainers are not hard to find in Sevan, you friends."

Sahle glanced up at the stage, at the prancing singers smiling like they were mentally unhinged, and hoped he was a better entertainer than that. He looked at Aaliyah.

She had covered her eye-patch with a lacy veil that only covered the one lost eye. Perhaps she hoped it would be mistaken for high fashion. Since they were sitting at the Owner's table, it was possible that it would. She was wearing a dress of pure white silk, in a way that made her look like she was ready for a wedding. In the deep bloody red of the club, she stood out like an angel suspended in hell. To Sahle, she almost seemed to glow.

"I apologize." a young voice said. Sahle looked up and saw their host as he sat down. He was young. Younger than Sahle. Seeing him now, a pale skinned boy of a man with grease-slicked hair, Sahle couldn't believe that he could help him.

He was followed by two other men who wore pistol holsters over their shirts as if they were carnations. A woman was with him as well. Though she looked older than Oziryan, she was young. A blonde-haired European, with a sequin studded red dress that caught the light and glittered. She looked at him in a way that Aaliyah only ever did, as it made him suddenly aware of how slender her hips were, and how excellent her breasts must be beneath the tight-fit of her dress. Thinking about another woman's breasts was not infidelity, he reasoned. It was involuntary, and completely natural. Surely Aaliyah thought about how fat other men's dicks were, or whatever it was that women looked for in a man. Perhaps she was thinking about Oziryan's fat dick? That made him feel jealous for a split second before he realized his hypocrisy. He put it all out of his mind.

"I was talking to a friend in the foyer." Oziryan said. He sounded strong and sophisticated, much more than a man of his age should be. Sahle considered that maybe he himself was getting old. He had never truly considered old age. It was always in the future, and the future was too far away to worry about. Now that he might be reaching it, it started to worry him. He had been the Emperor of Ethiopia at a younger age than Oziryan was now, after all.

"Apparently the Chinese are approaching Omsk." he explained. "I am curious how Russia will take it when the Orientals rule them."

"They will be appointing Red Russians, I am thinking." Vasily said. "And Omsk is a long away. I am thinking that Russia will not be easy. She is not a girl who spreads her legs to the mongols"

"Siberia has, it would seem." Oziryan added.

"Siberia is a floozy, I am thinking. Her vagina is wide open like the sea. She has had that many sailors too." he chuckled to himself, and then bowed his head. "I am apologizing to the ladies for my foul joking." he warbled.

"So, Samel." Oziryan said. Sahle felt a shock go down his spine from the way the Armenian talked. "What are your thoughts on Omsk?"

Sahle paused. "I don't know much about it, to be honest." he struggled. "Vasily is the only Russian I know."

"Oh." Oziryan said. "Well, did you know that Vladimira here is Russian."

"Finnish." she corrected bitterly.

"Finnish." Oziryan repeated. "That is right. She worked with Viktor Laine and Juhani Mikhael, right up until the end."

"I was their driver." she explained. Sahle could hear the empty yearning in her voice. "They were revolutionaries."

"Yes." Oziryan replied. "That is an apt way to describe people who fight in a revolution." he paused for a moment to pull a cigar from his vest. "They have done good by me, anyway."

The upbeat Armenian jazz cut away and was replaced by a quavering Russian cello. The bandstand was moved to reveal a painted plywood scene of snow and pine-forests. Dancers took the stage, dressed like Russian boyars and Tatar warriors. The lighting dimmed and the room darkened, and the den of crimson reds was obscured by shadow so only small patches of velvet purple stood out near the flickering lamps. Across the table, Oziryan's face was lit up by the burning glow of his lit cigar.

"I am in the business of security." he explained. All at once, he sounded twenty years wiser. "It is not my primary business, but it is one of the many. I am told that you are being hunted by people from the south. I can stop this, but you have to come under my wing."

"What does that mean?" Yared asked.

"It means that when I need your services, you will comply." Oziryan answered. The singing intensified, proud military horns joined the cello. The dancers were leaping, and there was a cool smoulder in Oziryan's eyes. "I am in many business, as I have said. My brother and I started as weapons smugglers. My country helped me to become rich. Smugglers are important people. You come from Africa, you know this. The Emperor's of Africa have been Smuggler-Kings since Iyasu. Yohannes, Yaqob, Sahle..." he paused, and Sahle felt a shock go down his spine again. "I have bought guns from the last two. I have bought from Persia, and Canada and Spain. And I have sold plenty as well. I have the resources to make your problems go away. I have the resources to let you come in orbit around me and become rich because of this. You only need to answer."

"I still don't get it, friend." Yared said. "What services? We aren't smugglers. Or killers."

"No." Oziryan paused. "But there are many ways to serve."

"How do we know this isn't, like, a hoax, brother?" Marc spoke.

Oziryan smiled and pulled a small bag of white powder from his pocket. He slipped it over to Marc. "You have some blow." Marc said. Sahle could tell that had been enough to buy him, but the Armenian continued.

"I have a friend who procured this. There is an island of the coast of Venezuela that is owned by the person of Alfonso Sotelo. The very same man who is Prime Minister of Spain. The island exists solely for the purpose of growing his personnel supply. He has hired the best drug chemists he can find. He has men from Africa, from Columbia, even an American from the state of New Mexico. Their purpose is to distill a product so pure that it can feed his purported addiction. You are only allowed to reach the island on a single steam-powered paddle boat, a boat slow enough that hijacking it to flee would be futile. The hand-pick their smugglers, doing their best to check for any inconsistencies that would lead them to believe theft is in a smuggler's repertoire. They have armed guards, several private jets dedicated entirely to this venture. They do all of this, but what I have just handed you is his product. Sotelo's own cocaine."

Marc stashed it in his jacket. Sahle had his doubts, but the thought of snuffing Sotelo's own snow was strangely exciting. He looked forward to it.

"Even if you doubt my claims, it still remains that you need help. If I can help you, you would do good to accept my offer. If I can't, you would owe me nothing."

Sahle nodded.

Joint Base Sevan Lake, Armenia

It was an hour into the morning, according to the watch on Haroud Abbasian's wrist. He rode in a white bus traveling down a lonely paved road through a forest, duffel bag stuffed awkwardly between his legs. He had donned his worn olive battledress the previous morning on his way to the train, and hadn't had a chance to change since. All of his worldly possessions were in the bag in front of him: the rest he had left at his parents' house in Shusha. He had told them of his decision to rejoin a week before the train from Stepanakert left, and that was that. No further discussion. They were less than happy, of course, but Abbasian had made his commitment. Beside him, another man sat silently in much the same way. Maybe he was pondering the same things. Nobody spoke on the drive through the dark night. The atmosphere was not unlike a prison bus: the bus itself was actually most likely surplus from the correctional facilities, and Abbasian noticed some screws bordering the windows that may or may not have once been used to hold bars in. It wasn't a palatable thought, so nobody particularly focused on it. Instead, the soldiers like Abbasian sat in the hard, ancient seats and looked at the ceiling or out the windows. They were on their way to the Armenian Army's Officer Candidate School.

Abbasian watched the faint forest speed by the window. The bus rattled as it passed over potholes and bumps in the road: the people responded in turn by being jumped up and down in their seats. He had been awake for almost a full twentyfour hours, almost. The night was beginning to take him in. Many of the others were asleep already: across the bus was a pair of Sergeants who had quite literally fallen asleep on each other. Abbasian felt his heavy eyes close, brought down by the sheer weight of exhaustion. Within seconds, he was asleep. But not for long. Instantly, the bus jolted to a standstill. The former Corporal, unprepared for the stop, almost flew straight into the back of the seat in front of him. The lights on the ceiling turned on, and the instructor who had, until now, sat wordlessly in the front had stood up. He was shouting at the top of his lungs. "Get the fuck off the bus! Let's fucking go! Go, go, go! Grab your shit, Candidates!" Behind them, a second bus's instructor was screaming the same thing. Abbasian was in a haze: he saw the front of the bus scramble to get off, making haphazard attempts to stumble over into the hallway. People ran into each other on their way off the bus, while the instructor continued roaring: "You're not fast enough, Candidates! Get the fuck out! I want to see you move, you lazy fucks!"

Abbasian fell out into the alley, clutching his bag with a whiteknuckled deathgrip. Sitting near the back of the bus, he was thrust into the line of people all trying to get off. It was chaos, plain and simple. Nobody could function with the sudden environment put down on them. The Candidates slowly shambled their way towards the exit at the insistence of the instructor, whereupon they were unceremoniously pushed onto the hard asphalt and told to collect their bags that had escaped them. Abbasian went behind his seatmate, holding onto the ceiling's handrail as he dragged his feet to the door. The instructor, obviously not amused, grabbed Abbasian by the shoulders and howled: "Why the fuck are you so slow, shitbag?" A clearly rhetorical question that the instructor wanted no answer to, as he proceeded to throw Abbasian into a ditch by the side of the road. The former Corporal landed with a dull thud, and his bag landed on top of him. With a groan, he rolled over to face up and blindly grope for his duffelbag. The world was spinning. At the corner of his vision was Abbasian's seatmate: a darker-skinned man with a full beard and hair that slightly bordered on unacceptably long. His Corporal badge shone in the glare of the buses' headlights, and he offered a hand. Abbasian blinked, staring the man unsmilingly in the eyes. Abbasian's seatmate's expression never changed from a neutral, blank slate. The Corporal took his hand.

"Formation! Formation!" the instructors cried. "Two columns, move!"

The gaggle of Candidates were taking longer than the instructors liked, as evidenced by the audio haze of screaming and shouting. The dark forest seemed more alive than ever, with the Candidates learning their lesson within two minutes and assembling into a makeshift formation. Their backs were lit by the headlights; their shadows towering tall along the road. In front of them, five kilometers down the road, were the gates to OCS. The instructors jogged to the front of the formation, cupped their hands, and bellowed: "Run, Candidates, run!"

Abbasian and his newfound partner shouldered their bags, feeling the weight drag them to the ground. Motivated by fear and adrenaline, they picked up their feet. Behind them, the instructors seemed to run faster. The Candidates, many of them out of shape, were easily surpassed by an instructor who was setting the pace. Others continued shouting at them for their lack of athleticism. Their megaphones carried their booming voices through the night, shaking the trees and instilling the deepest primal anxiety possible in the fresh Candidates. Abbasian's train of thought led him to believe that running faster would get him out of the way of their infinite wrath, so he pushed himself into speeding up despite the massive weight on his back. Behind him, his partner struggled to keep up. Abbasian's legs moved on autopilot: after a few kilometers he simply couldn't feel them anymore. Yet his sides ached, cramped and twisted, and his breathing was shallow and struggling. Others in the formation were wheezing - some violently - from the speed and the distance. It was there that Abbasian realized that this was a death march, or at least as close as the instructors could legally get to it. It was like basic training, of course. It was designed to break a man. And break men it did: at least one Candidate was vomiting onto himself and the road as he sprinted past the five kilometer point. They were on the home stretch, for now. As they approached, the gate to OCS appeared. It was almost like returning home.

The run was just the beginning. The instructors kept the pace going past the gate, directing them into a large grounds of asphalt in front of the main building's entrance. When the Candidates reached the assembly area, they were instructed to form up again. Remembering the events of a half hour ago, the Candidates - many fearful of another physical reprisal - formed without incident. Then, they were instructed to drop their bags on the floor while the instructors jogged to a small portable wooden podium that had been placed at the entrance. One of them, wearing his battledress with the instructor's gold cord and black beret, climbed on to address the crowd in front of him. Silence fell upon the Candidates for the first time: the only sounds heard were the exhausted breathing of the ones who were particularly hard hit by the run. Nobody moved or dare look away from the instructor on the podium. Their eyes were fixated on the man's godly posture and status. And it was true: for the next eight weeks, the instructors were gods on Earth. They had the power to overrule any divine order that came their way. Each and every Candidate now belonged to them. It was the kind of control that dictators in poverty-stricken African countries yearned for all provided legitimately and without strings by the Armenian government. They said that Hell was a place on Earth, and the stories perpetuated from the place confirmed that Hell took the form of Officer Candidate School.

"Good morning, Candidates!" boomed the instructor with a sheepish grin and a Western accent. "I trust you are awake and ready for the day now?"

He surveyed the motley group of Soldiers assembled beneath him, and shook his head. "Don't answer that, Candidates. I know you're ready! Let me be the first to introduce you to the Armenian Army's Officer Candidate School. You have been selected to attend based on your demonstrated capabilities! It is here where we take you, crush you up into a little ball, and meld you into the ideal warrior leader that this nation deserves! I hope you enjoyed your little warmup today, because this is going to be your life for the next eight weeks. I don't want to give too much away, now: I must save that for your briefings. Today will be inprocessing day. You will register into our system so that you will transition in with little difficulty. Then, the fun begins! Enjoy yourselves, Candidates, but not too much!"

His laugh seemed diabolical to Abbasian. The instructor stepped down from the platform and into the midst of uniformed figures standing in front of the entrance. They all bore the instructor's cord, and they stood ready to facilitate the welcome. The Candidates were instructed to collapse their formation: the square of Candidates fell into a tightly-knit marching group. The former Corporal and his seatmate became shoulder-to-shoulder in the midst of a hundred other sweaty, tired Candidates. The order to march soon came clearly over the air, issued from an unseen officer with a megaphone. The mass of Candidates began moving towards their new gear, bunks, and briefings. The day from there on out was dominated by the hectic schedule. The Candidates, however fearful of another physical punishment, were complacent. They sat and suffered through the agonizing wait. But nothing came. And then they went to bed, climbing into the bunk beds in the concrete barracks to spend their first night at Officer Candidate School. Abbasian and his partner from the bus were assigned to the same room along with two other Candidates, and they spent the night staring at the ceiling as they tried to sleep. Nobody talked: Abbasian hardly even knew his partner's name. They were more than mildly concerned about reprimand, of course. The time for socialization was later. For now, they waited. The game had begun.

Bosporus Strait, Istanbul

It was like history had been turned on its head. Independent Istanbul had thrown out the Turkish military only three months earlier and proclaimed independence. The city's militia - consisting of ethnic Turks and minorities alike who believed in independence - had secured the borders in the establishment of this citystate. The Turkish government was in shambles after the death of the Sultan. Politically, their power had dwindled. The only thing left was military force. And their military had been forced out by less-than-savory measures, of course. Militias ramped up violent killings and kidnappings in the months before the Ottoman Empire's collapse. The Turkish had fled to their evacuation points in the chaos following carbombs at their mostly ceremonial barracks and parade grounds, militias hounding their trails and making sure that they didn't come back. It was a tremendous shaming rout for the Ottomans: another salt in their gaping wound. Their former capital, seized by a liberal revolt demanding citystate status. Their stated rationale was that they no longer belonged in a Turkic state, owing to their diversity. The Turks, seeing Istanbul as the rightful center of their empire, found themselves unable to cope. The remains of their government were exiled after a standoff in the Parliament, and had taken up shop in Ankara. But the threat of the Turks loomed on the horizon, as the new Turkish state prepared its counteroffensive. They would go down swinging, trying to reclaim what the Greeks stole from them.

The MV Breadwinner of Rize sailed through the Straits cautiously. While Armenia had expressed positive relations with Istanbul, the city was quite lawless. The Merchant Mariners were posted to their stations: 12.7mm guns overlooking the hull, men with rifles hunkered down behind steel plates welded to the rails. A pair of 23mm antiaircraft guns on the bow and stern were angled parallel with the deck to deal with far-off targets. No air power to worry about here. Mattresses had been pushed to the railings to deter grappling hook attacks, and sharpshooters trained by the Army were ready to take out a target that tried to climb aboard. Of course, Captain Vartanesian was less worried about the Istanbul criminal elements than he had been about Russian pirates operating out of Volgograd, but the Merchant Marine's advisory was clear: he needed to take precautions. Besides, the city was ready for war. The rumor mill was articulating stories of Turkish troops, fueled by vengeance and rage, preparing for a petty counterattack on Istanbul. They had lost their colonies and pulled back to Turkey proper. They had been humiliated at Ethiopia. If anything, they wanted their capital back. But for now, Istanbul awaited its next challenge. For now, Armenian and Georgian vessels were allowed through the Bosporus as part of an ongoing trade agreement: a emboldening opportunity for Armenia and its place in the world. The Breadwinner was selected to be the first Armenian ship to circumnavigate the globe.

Captain Vartanesian felt like it was a great honor. He would be the first Armenian ship commander to sail the globe. To his knowledge, nothing like that had ever happened before. Armenia was never a nautical nation. It had only gained the capability through the capture of the Rize and Trabzon ports. Captain Vartanesian had been a shipowner, chartered under a civilian Ottoman shipping company before the war, and had defected with his crew to Armenia. He now ran his own business, shipping back and forth between Armenia and Poland. As a pioneer of the Armenian nautical scene, Vartanesian was becoming widely respected amongst his peers. Not a bad place for someone who had dropped out of law school in 1955. A board of mariners had convened to say that he would be the one to break out of the Bosporus and Dardanelles. Alone, under Vartanesian's supervision, the Breadwinner traveled through the straits without much fanfare. Gaggles of Istanbul Armenians would congregate on either side of the canal to watch in a muted interest, while the rest of the city went about its business. The tension was everpresent. From the bridge, Captain Vartanesian could see Istanbul militias setting up flak cannons on flat rooftops. Mortars were being adjusted downrange to the east. But the Breadwinner sailed through without incident, even if something in the Captain's gut told him that the Armenians wouldn't be seeing the last of Istanbul for a while. The Greeks were approaching from the west: the Turks from the east. No official peace treaty was signed. Istanbul fell squarely between their claimed territories. Everyone knew what was going to happen.

But alas, it was not the concern for Captain Vartanesian. The crew breathed a silent sigh of relief as the ship exited the Bosporus and sailed through the Sea of Marmara. The sun glittered off of the diamond-colored seas, shining a shimmering orange up at the sailors. They unbuckled their helmets and lowered their rifles. A pair of dolphins played in the ship's wake. Two Greek patrol boats sailed in to escort, flanking the Breadwinner on both sides. Captain Vartanesian was expecting them - a thin smile gracing his pale lips - and responded positively to their hails. The Turkish Navy was busy steaming back and forth the coastline, transporting troops back home and being harassed by Cypriot aircraft. They offered no threat to what was now Greek waters. The Greek Navy - mostly privateers at this point - had locked down shipping lanes in the east Mediterranean. The Breadwinner was offered full transit rights of them, with a Greek escort for most of the ride. Their stopping points in the immediate future: Cyprus, followed by Crete, followed by a peaceful commercial visit to Italy. Each time the Breadwinner docked, the crew would visit the port and the businessmen onboard would trade with the local firms. The ship's cargo holds were loaded with containers carrying Armenian goods: mostly cultural things like perfumes, foodstuffs, and gifts. The voyage was meant to build relationships. The sentimental sharing of Armenian culture was decided to be the way to do it.

the Breadwinner of Rize slipped through the Dardanelles without incident as the sun set on the Mediterranean. Cyprus would be the first port call the next day. While Armenians were no strangers to the Cypriots - indeed, rumors of Armenian military forces based in Cyprus had been abound the past few months -, it was the first time any of these sailors had stepped foot in a Mediterranean land. The excitement was palatable on the ship. They could hardly wait.

Yerevan, Armenia

The outskirts of the city were bare, the urbanization not having taken full hold yet. For the most parts, empty lots and industrial sheds or warehouses sparsely popped out of the Hrazdan River's banks. The city center's tallest buildings were silhouettes on the horizon: all dwarfed by the half-built Yerevan flak tower on the west bank. The one point of interest, however, was the north/south highway that snaked south to Nakhchivan and the lower Armenian provinces. It was clearly well-worn, built in the 1940s by Ottoman engineers for the purpose of traveling across their dominion. The two-lane road, divided by a grassy median with little to no modern conveniences, was cracked and littered with potholes. The chaos of the revolution had left no concern for the management of infrastructure: the Ministry of Transportation was merely a formality on paper without much funding or even a permanent office space. A new building in downtown Yerevan, erected within the prior months, had solved the latter concern. The Parliamentary vote on the National Recovery Agency's highway plan had allotted millions of newly taxed dram to the MoT. The NRA had begun aggressively hiring civil and infrastructure engineers - oftentimes military engineers just getting out of their conscription period - to survey and plan for roadways and infrastructural improvements. They now employed several thousand laborers to make that plan happen. And today was the first day of work. They had 150 kilometers of roadway to build in the initial stages.

Several newly-painted yellow construction vehicles lined the roadway. The existing lanes were being resurfaced, one lane at a time in a staggered method to allow traffic to traverse - albeit at a limited rate. Four more lanes were being added while in the city: a startling jump forwards from what had been established in Ottoman times. This was to support the predicted ownership of private automobiles as the availability of them and standards of living increased. The Ministry of War had also requested that these highways be capable of supporting military operations, meaning that the highways were to be used as a defense tool as well. The six-land road tapered down to four at the outskirts of the city, narrowing to three on the larger routes inbetween. Two-lane roads would be less-traveled, commonly known as parkways. They would be built around major cities like beltways, or as bypasses between major highway units. But the road about to be built was planned to be a major renovation and expansion. The ceremonies were over: Assanian's speech had rallied the nation to support the project. It would bring new jobs, new income, and new prosperity, he proclaimed. Now, thousands of men awaited the order to begin. The sun, rising over the horizon, cast its orange lights upon the workers. A watch clicked to six. A whistle blew. Engines started, equipment rumbled to life. The workday had begun.

The men walked to their jobs, toolboxes and tools slung over their shoulders in satchel bags. Clad in dingy jeans and flannel with some having stripped off their top layer to reveal striped blue telnyashkas, they donned yellow hardhats and climbed aboard their vehicles. To pave new roads, the land in front of them would need to be flattened. Advanced surveyors had determined the necessary courses of action, and bulldozers were busy filling in ditches and scraping down hills to ensure a uniform path for the lanes. Roadworkers had traveled to the potholes needed filling with hoses and mixers filled with asphalt. While it was dry out, water and debris was removed from wherever there was a need before asphalt was filled in. Crews would then cut a square out of the pavement to ensure even sides for the repair before filling the pothole with asphalt. A steamroller would come along and compact the fresh fix before they moved onto the next one. It was a hard day's work under the beating summer sun. The men were drenched in salty sweat. It dripped off their hair into their eyes and mouths, stinging along the way. Progress was slow, yet steady. It would take time to build the roads, for sure. By the end of the first day as the sun began to set, most everyone knew this. The whistle blew eight hours later as their day ended. Another rotation arrived from the nearby worker's camp to take over for the evening. After them, a graveyard shift. And then the cycle would start again.

For the men laboring away, nothing could be better. They had a job. They had money. They were doing their patriotic duty. For them, it was their sacrifice that President Assanian so often talked about. Almost each and every single one of them held the earnest belief that their work was shaping their nascent nation.

Madrid, Spain

Alfonso Sotelo - strongman of the Spanish Republic - strode with purpose down the corridor of the Hall of the Republic. Clacking of his leather dress shoes against marble tile echoed through the cavernous hall and beat a martial rhythm to which his entourage bodyguards and of assorted goons marched. Behind him they traded folders and parlayed in hushed, hastened tones; preparations made ahead of the words their Prime Minister would soon declare before the whole of the Earth. Sotelo shared none of their concern.

Suited guards standing at rigid attention on either side of a doorway nodded respectfully as their head of state approached. From beneath the threshold, the dull roar of a gathered crowd could be plainly heard. Sotelo stopped before the threshold and took a brief pause, collecting his thoughts as his fingers wrapped around the handle. His shoulders rose and fell as he took one last deep breath. He siezed the handle and drew open the door, leaving his entourage behind as he stepped outside to make history.

Beyond the doorway was a bannistered patio overlooking the parkland of the grounds; an empty platform of tile and mortar save for a vacant podium at the fore that beckoned Sotelo forward. On the manicured grounds beneath, a throng of camera-wielding onlookers leveled their lenses and took aim at Sotelo as he stepped outside. A thousand lightning-flashes of white light greeted the Prime Minister as he approached the podium. Camera apertures snapped shut again and again, joining together with the polite applause of ten thousand onlookers and journalists. Crews representing the televised networks honed the lenses of their tripod-mounted cameras as their Prime Minister took to the podium decorated not with the coat of the Second Republic as would be expected - but that of Alfonso Sotelo's administration: a red shield emblazoned with a white lion.

"Spaniards," Sotelo began, gripping the podium and pulling himself to the triad of microphones pointed up to his mouth. His cold eyes scanned about the gathered throng, immediately squelching the applause. "Italians, Portuguese, Maltese, French, Prussians, Americans - and all people that desire a just world - I thank you for joining me today. Whether you stand here in the very nexus of this great nation, or instead listen by radio from some far-flung post on the very fringe of the world, I thank you all for joining me for the passing of this moment into history... This watershed moment that will be remembered henceforth for as long as history is written down.

"Today is a day four years in the making. Since the day of my inauguration, I have lost much sleep to see that the efforts of the coming days came to pass - this endeavor born from the dark days in the summer of 1976. That black August, where Marxist fanatics - brutes who attempted through sadistic means what they could not accomplish through the channels of democracy - so callously ended the lives of three hundred of our countrymen, destroyed the very center of governance of our nation, and in so doing stole from us the greatest statesman Spain has ever seen.

"For four years, we have remembered our dear Miguel Tejero, but on this day, we avenge him!"

Applause erupted from the audience at this juncture, putting Sotelo on hold as he held his leveled hands out, signalling for quiet once more.

"Today is the day that the Republic takes the offensive against the communist threat. As I speak, our grand Armada has positioned itself off the coast of North Africa and begins now its assault against an expeditionary force of the armed forces of the Ethiopian Empire. In a bid to expand their socialist sphere, an Ethiopian army has moved in recent days to claim Egypt - leaderless and adrift in the collapse of the Ottoman Empire - to lay claim to their northern neighbor. Today the battle has been joined."

"The Republic will tolerate the presence of a socialist state on its periphery no longer - the zenith mark of global communism is today, from now on it shall recede across the globe as in Africa. From this day forward, the armed forces of the Second Spanish Republic have been wholly committed to the destruction of the House of Yohannes and the liberation of Africa from socialist meddling. The hour for diplomacy and negotiation has passed; the might of our Republic's armed forces takes the place now of bargaining and talk."

"And to those sympathizers of Marx - puppets of the Chairman Hou - know that nowhere on this Earth will you be safe from the wrath of a vengeful Spain. The hour of your reckoning has come at long last - and we will be the ones to administer it."

Golondrina, Port Fuad, Egypt

Klaxons rang through the interior of the cruiser, sending soldiers bursting forth from their cabins into winding hallways of riveted bulkheads and metal. Boots rumbled down the grated floors as they coursed through the vessel's insides like rats scurrying from a sinking ship. Red strobelights washed over the faces of the vessel's security detail - among which was the fresh Ejercito recruit Luis Morazan. Red light illuminated a worried visage as he made for the sunlight at the end of the corridor.

No sooner than Luis stumbled out into the harsh white light of the Egyptian sun, he was directed by a shouting deck officer to the prow, where the rest of his squad had taken up position along the waist-high extension of the hull that demarcated the edge of the deck. Luis fell in alongside his companion Hector and a smattering of deckhands - all distinguishable from the Ejercito soldiers by metal flack jacket draped over their chests.

"This is it, cabron!" Hector grinned, jabbing Luis in the side with his elbow. "We get to see some fucking action!"

Luis gave a weak and unconvincing smirk before glancing out to the scene playing out around him. Beyond the water, a little less than a mile away, the twin ports of Said and Fuad smoldered - evidence of the battle between the Ethiopians and the forces of whatever Egyptian warlord had assumed control of this swathe of the former Ottoman Empire. Columns of black, acrid smoke joined the minarets of the the Port Fuad Mosque in reaching into the hazy, azure sky. And betwixt the two ports, straddling the Suez Canal and the path of the Spanish armada, was a single warship anchored defiantly in place - her guns pointed at the great flotilla lumbering toward it.

The Aksum, Luis had heard it called, was all that stood between the Spanish Armada and the coast of the Ethiopian heartland. The fifty warships of the Armada could have reduced the lone Ethiopian ship into a hunk of scrap at the bottom of the canal without the slightest difficulty. And that - Admiral Santin seemed to believe - was exactly what the Ethiopians wanted. The canal as it was could only barely accommodate the draught depth of the heavy Spanish destroyers or the mighty aircraft carrier that served as the Armada's flagship: La Ira de Dios. A sunken wreckage across the floor of the canal would render it impassible to anything heavier than a dingy for months, forcing the Armada to backtrack across the Mediterranean and steam across the entire coast of Africa - giving the Ethiopians a month and a half or more to prepare their defense. If the Spanish were to attack from the Red Sea - the Aksum had to remain intact.

The Ethiopian ground forces that had taken up position at the mouth of the canal, however, had no such importance to the Spanish mission. They were to be destroyed with extreme prejudice. Luis could feel the cruiser's engine rumbling under his feet; crushing waves beneath it's steel bow as diesel smoke belched forth from a smokestack amongst the radar masts and antennae. The two 80mm turrets that comprised the Golondrina's primary armaments pointed steadfastly forward, but the smaller deck guns could be heard chattering as they turned portside - toward Port Said. As they pivoted toward the cities, a pair deck officers marched by briskly pushing a cart of firearms by as they went. Wordlessly, one of the officers shoved a FE-74 assault rifle into Luis' arms and continued on down the line. The ugly, metal contraption felt greasy in his fingers and stank of gun cleaner. Luis had practiced extensively with Spain's standard issue rifle in basic training, but this was the first time had held a gun in a combat scenario. It felt so much heavier than he remembered. Beside him, Hector grinned widely as he inspected the weapon in his arms.

"Listen up!" A deck officer commanded as he strode by the Ejercito contingent and the armed deckhands. "As of 14:35 local time, the Prime Minister has issued a declaration of war against the Ethiopian Empire! The Estado Mayor has passed down orders to engage the Ethiopian armed forces or other hostile elements in Port Fuad and Port Said!

"What that means is you are to hose the shit out of anything without the God-given sense to get out of the way of our Armada!" The officer explained. "The deck guns will have the first volley - after they have fired, weapons will be free! Under no circumstances are you to fire upon the Ethiopian vessel anchored in the canal! Do I make myself clear?"

"Entendido, senor!" Was uttered in unison.

"Then lock and load!"

The FE-74s made a metallic clank as their levers were pulled forward and the safeties disengaged. Luis, upon readying his weapon, glanced up at the bridge above them. The captain was visible through the glass, looking through a telescoping eyeglass. He slapped the instrument shut and pointed at the base of a collection of tenement buildings. Luis' eyes followed his fingers and saw what he was pointing at: figures darting through alleyways and into the wharfside edifice. For the first time Luis had seen the enemy with his own eyes.

"Hostiles sighted!" Was called from the team manning the deck gun. A sweat-drenched deckhand donning a flack jacket spun a handcrank wildly, gradually lowering the cannon down to the appropriate angle - the third or fourth floor of the building. Once the gun had been aimed, the deckhands loaded the breaches with two shells the size of a fire hydrant. Screeching gulls, pops of gunfire coming from the harbor, and the sound of waves breaking against the hull prevailed for a moment.

The calm was broken by the roar of thunder across the water. Fiery flashed burst from the deck guns of a nearby cruiser, and then the cruiser directly behind the Golondrina.

"ABRAN FUEGO!"

A deafening blast shuddered the deck of the Golondrina, and again a second later... followed shortly after by another two blasts from the battery at the rear of the cruiser. A loud ringing buzzed through his ears as he recovered his hearing - a sound followed shortly thereafter by cheerful whoops as puffs of pulverized plaster and brick came off the top of the tenement building, bringing down a large chunk of the facade in a shower of debris. All along the waterfront of Port Said, clouds of smoke were materializing as Spanish shells pummeled the last-known position of the Ethiopians.

Rolling thunder came again from across the sea, this time behind the Golondrina - a salvo so loud and so powerful that the sheer concussive force of the blasts shook Luis' insides. The destroyers had joined in the assault. Above their heads, the heavy shells whistled through the sky and then arced down, landing deeper into Port Fuad and Said. Great plumes of fire and black smoke blossomed as the heavy shells found their mark - if there was any target at all to begin with. The destroyer volley was more probably a message - the Spanish would suffer no obstacle to stand in their path.

A flicker of movement along the waterfront drew Luis' eye - an armored truck of some sort, speeding along the waterfront road. A wet hiss could be heard over the sound of crashing shells in the distance as it drove past; his eyes registered a flicker of white. Behind him, the deck officer's eyes widened and he braced himself against the metal side of the deck next to Hector.

"HIT THE DECK!" The officer screamed.

A triad of white contrails bobbed and snaked across the water toward the cruiser from the truck. Like a striking Hydra, one of the missiles fell upon the upper hull of the Golondrina, rattling the vessel to its core. Another missile weaved over the lip of the hull and planted itself down into the superstructure of the cruiser - blooming fire and smoke before raining hot scraps of steel down upon the hull. Luis ducked under the lip of the hull and covered the back of his neck as the rockets jarred the ship.

"OPEN UP ON THAT TRUCK!" The deck officer screamed hysterically as he scrambled back to his feet. Hector planted himself back onto his feet and joined the rest of his squad in firing upon the truck speeding down the road. Arpeggios of assault rifle reports rang out across the cruiser as the armored truck made its getaway, soon joined by both of the cruiser's deck guns - eager for revenge. Mushrooms of pulverized asphalt sprang up on the heels of the truck as it drove away, eliciting small arms fire from behind the corners of tenement buildings. Splashes of water and metal pinging against the hull announced to the Spanish that they themselves were under attack. The armed deckhands and Ejercito squads quickly reverted their attention and returned fire on the Ethiopian fireteams across the harbor.

Luis, however, had not fired a single shot - and the deck officer had noticed that he had only come up from cover to peek out at the situation before ducking back into cover. The officer seized Luis by the collar.

"Whose side are you on?!" The deck officer demanded, choking the panicked Luis.

"Your side!" He gasped. The officer dragged Luis up to his feet by his collar.

"Then act like it!" He barked, pointing out across the water. "Fucking shoot something!"

Luis nodded shakily and unleashed a string of bullets across the water. His heart wanted to explode every time a bullet clanged against the cruiser's hull, but fear of the officer kept him firing upon his Ethiopian adversaries. A few meters away from Luis, one of the deckhands caught an Ethiopian bullet to the shoulder, sending him to the deck screaming and clutching at a bloody crater beside his neck. The officer came to his side and flagged a medic down, who immediately set about applying battle dressing. Luis had never seen so much blood in his life. His heart palpitated and his stomach nearly wrung out his lunch onto the deck - and he had only been at war for a little under ten minutes.

As he peered out from behind the lip of the hull to fire, the nearest deck gun exploded with another two reports. Before his very eyes, the deck gun shell hit an abandoned car - obliterating it in a fireball of ignited gasoline. At least two Ethiopians had taken cover behind the car, and Luis saw as both of them ran out from behind cover - each totally ablaze. They ran across the waterfront road toward the harbor. One made it and landed in the water with a foamy splash, the other was less fortunate and caught a bullet in the leg. The burning fighter fell to the pavement, still alive, still burning profusely. The African soldier made a dogged attempt to crawl to the seawall, but the flames soon overtook him and snuffed his life out.

Luis' stomach could not handle the sight of the smoldering man in the distance. Vomit poured down over his chin, and the the fresh recruit collapsed to the deck and fainted.