Djibouti, Pan-African Empire

With all the grace of muddied rats, Luis and Hector's adopted platoon escaped the inferno.

One by one, they scrambled through the opening of a drainage culvert on the far side of Djibouti. The filthy concrete tube, barely wide enough to accommodate an adult man moving through at a crouched scurry, left each passing Spaniard thoroughly smeared with what they dearly hoped to be mud. Even so, it was preferable to braving the flames. Tongues of flame crawled down the berm from which the culvert emptied, unfurling a red coal carpet of smoldering scrubgrass as it spread; winds flowing off the sea blew hellfire seeds over the land, depositing them on the dry hills where they sprouted into wildfires. The inferno was growing out of control; it seemed Luis and his compatriots were fortunate to escape the city when they did.

The landscape laid out beyond the outskirts of Djibouti was a rugged and barren expanse. Wadis ran down from the hills and then expanded into dry gravelly washes that ran down toward Djibouti's western flank. The hills themselves glowed, reflecting the light of burning Djibouti.

A shooting star flickered across the smog-choked sky, a bright red cherry illuminating the hellclouds wafting from Djibouti with a spasmic glow. It raced overhead at great speed, arcing over the city on a sputtering contrail of smoke and embers and fell down to the mountains. It fell to Earth with a white-hot flash, generating a blossom of pulverized rock and soil that ringed a flowerhead of orange fire. Before the rumbling bang traversed the kilometers separating that burst from the Spaniards' ears, another four fireballs howled overhead with a whistling scream and crashed into the hillsides with a high-explosive punch. The hillsides roiled with ejected dust and rubble, it reminded Luis of the clouds of agitated silt that invariably kicked up when his feet hit the bottom of his childhood swimming spot.

"Prometeos..." Hector declared in reverent murmur. "They're firing the Prometeos."

The shadows cast by the Spanish infantry pivoted about their boots as the fireballs arced past. The Prometeos, armored rocket artillery that had so terrified the Batistan Loyalists in the Italian Civil War, had finally issued their response to Hassan's incendiary shells. Rockets laden with explosive warheads rained destruction upon the hillsides where the Ethiopian artillery had been positioned minutes before. Any soldiers or equipment that had not yet escaped the abandoned lines would be destroyed utterly.

Under the withering fire of the Spanish rockets, the platoon advanced. In the scrublands beyond the city, suitable cover was scarce and far between. Maneuvers had to be conducted quickly and with appropriate strategy. Luis and Hector scurried across the gravel and dust to a cluster of scrap-built huts situated alongside a gravel road far enough of Djibouti's outskirts so as to not succumb to the blazes. Rusting boxes of corrugated metal orbited around a scorched pit of ashes, crude doorways were shut with splintered pallets, chain link fencing, even mattress springs. Whatever the city could not find use, the tribesmen who occupied this camp utilized.

"Clear the buildings!" The platoon leader ordered as the Spaniards approached the camp. Any edifice that remained unburnt could very well harbor Ethiopian soldiers or armed militia; any building encountered had to be assured to be clear of any potential threat. The machine gun team took care of this duty on behalf of the platoon: the gunner bore the mighty firearm down on the shanties and squeezed the trigger. His body shuddered as the machine gun coughed forth a torrent of lead. The sound of metal on metal was heard as the bullets tore jagged holes through aluminum and tin, one particularly flimsy hut collapsed in a cloud of dust and rubbish under the fusillade. A small pile of belt links and hot bullet casings clinked at the gunner's boots as he raised the gun back to his shoulders.

"Clear," the gunner declared, admiring his work as his companions moved forward around him. Luis dearly hoped that nobody had been inside these huts, but made sure his expression betrayed no sense of disapproval. He had learned by now that any lack of enthusiasm was best kept to himself.

"Good work. Go and check these things for supplies. After our landing, I don't know if I can trust our leadership to supply us once we move inland. Meet back here in two minutes."

The Spaniards fanned out into the slum, tearing their way into the refuse-built shanties. Luis made his way to one of the nearer huts and wrangled with a 'door' made from the springy skeleton of a mattress - tatters of upholstery flesh still hanging to the rusting bones.

"Hey, Luis, try knocking!" Hector teased. He launched a booted foot into the tin wall of the same hut, kicking his way clear through the flimsy metal sheeting before barging inside and ransacking it.

Luis joined him through the gaping hold he had kicked in, searching for anything they might need. Firelight flickered inside through a scattering of bulletholes in the walls, but there was no corpse laying in their midst. It seemed the tenants of this place had fled before the arrival of the Armada, a relief to Luis. As Hector rooted through the inhabitant's meager belongings like a famished hog, Luis noted an opened can on the dirt floor beside a bedroll. 'Kippered Herrings' the label read in English. Only two filets of oily fish remained - the dweller of this hut had been diligently rationing this meager can. Perhaps it was the only protein this person would consume in an entire week. For Luis, it brought into question the validity of Spain's mission in Africa: how much threat did the Ethiopian Empire really pose to Spain when this sample of its citizenry seemed worse-off than many beggars in Madrid. Luis and Hector returned to the rally point empty-handed, as did most of the other infantrymen.

"This is what I get for expecting to forage from a people who haven't evolved past hunting and gathering." The Lieutenant declared, unimpressed with their findings. "I hope for our sake that our supply routes remain intact."

A deep, gut-rattling blast shook the land, shaking the earth beneath the Spaniards' feet and even knocking down a poorly-constructed hut. Their attention was immediately raptured, Luis and his countrymen turned to the hills to their west, and discovered that one of them had ceased to exist. A cloud of dust spread and collapsed where one hill had stood moments before. The pitter-patter of rain could be heard falling on the hard desert earth around them - except it wasn't rain, but rather tiny fragments of pulverized rock. A brief flash of yellow-white light manifested as another peak tumbled down in a cascade of dust and rock. Another hill had succumbed to the Armada's cathartic vengeance.

"Safe to say, any enemy presence in those hills that was there before is gone now," their Lieutenant spoke up, bits of rock plinking off his helmet. "Let's advance." To the drumbeats of naval artillery in the harbor, the Spaniards left the slummy encampment and made their way westward down the gravel road. The road was filthy, even by impoverished, East African standards. All manner of refuse, from cigarette butts to goat pellets, had fallen into the gravel; much of the litter appeared to be fresh. A great deal of traffic had traveled these roads recently. Refugees, likely.

And a new surge of traffic was coming down the road now. Phlegmy diesel motors roared behind the infantrymen as they hiked up the road, dozens and dozens of pairs of headlights coming up the road going westward from the burning city. The Spaniards stepped off the shoulder of the road to make way for the approaching vehicles. The first column was comprised of armored trucks, each one a metal-plated brick of an automobile riding on massive tires with aggressive tread. They moved at a respectable speed for rigs of their size - every bit of 50 kilometers per hour by Luis' reckoning. Gunmen stood waist-high from portholes on the top of the cars, each one manning high caliber machine guns or fat mortar-esque cannons depending on the vehicle's loadout. They regarded Luis and his adopted platoon with apathetic curiosity as they sped past into the night. The armored cavalry units of the Third Mechanized was on the move.

Not far behind the armored trucks came the halftracks - giant trucks fitted with huge tires in the front and treads in the rear like a tank. The first ones to trundle past were fitted with howitzer-like guns in the rear; these were vehicles equipped to deliver firepower comparable to that of a tank in a vehicle that was twice as mobile. After the cannon-mounted halftracks came those carrying personnel. Beneath canopies of olive-colored fabric, up to ten Spaniards clad in the khaki combat dress of the Spanish rode past.

“Hector!” A familiar voice called over the din of the heavy motors. “Luis! Is that you?!”

Before Luis and his companion could ascertain who called for them, someone vaulted over the lip of the bed of a passing halftrack. He tumbled to the ground and jogged over to the pair. It was Lieutenant Ayesta, their superior who they had presumed killed in the landing.

“Christ, are you two a sight for sore eyes.” Ayesta gave Luis a friendly knocking on the helmet. “I’d thought I lost you all.”

“What happened?” Hector blurted. “What happened to the rest of our platoon?”

“Our boat was torpedoed not long after we’d disembarked. Wasted them all except me, or so I’d thought.” Luis felt Ayesta’s matter-of-fact tone seemed rather inappropriate. Here was a man who had been charged with the lives of twenty subordinates, and virtually all had been killed in a single fell swoop. For loosing perhaps eighteen of his men, Lieutenant Ayesta seemed to be in fantastic spirits. Luis expected just a little more despair given the circumstances. “What a relief to see you two, and to be rid of that clusterfuck.”

They glanced over to Djibouti burning bright against the night behind them. Winds bearing down off the sea agitated the inferno behind them, churning and bellowing the blazes into swirling torrents of fire. It would be weeks before the fires died completely, all the while burning hot enough to reduce metal to wilted lumps of formless slag and render brick and mortar chalky cinders. Djibouti had ceased to exist, there would be nothing for the Spanish to occupy here.

“Then what do we do? What is our aim now?” Asked Luis.

Ayesta pulled his lips taut and whistled sharply and loudly enough to be heard easily over the halftrack engines. He waved up into the air and flagged down a halftrack coming down the road, which pulled off the dusty shoulder and came to halt before Ayesta and the other Spaniards.

“We give chase to the Africans, and repay them.” Ayesta declared, nodding to the parked halftrack.

“Mount up!”

Argentina

While the leaders of other South and Central American countries applauded and licked the bum of Brazils new government, President-General Peron of Argentina was slowly pacing down a vast expanse of a vast factory floor, the measured “click” of his heels seeming to echo across the space. He could feel the breath of the men who stood silently beside their massive machines and he mused quietly to himself about how much effort it must have taken to make concrete gleam in a space that would ordinarily be filled with billowing steam and covered in the sparks of welding crews.

It had been a long time since he had been anywhere near a factory but now, with the news from Africa, the small idea at the back of his mind was becoming a reality. And that reality was, Argentina was a nation longing for greatness. For as long as they had could remember they had languished under the watchful eye of the Brazilians or the Americans, always someone trying to impose their foreign policy and direct Argentina in a direction that best suited them.

Well, no more. Argentina would forge her own path.

It would begin here, in this long factory, its usually roaring machinery and shouting men deathly quiet as they all waited. The President-Generals visit had been sudden and unexpected, announced only twelve hours before his arrival. There had been a panic as the management rushed to ensure that the facility was spotless for his visit. It was impressive, if he was honest with himself, but it was not the gleaming floors he had come to see, not the newly washed and pressed workers uniforms. It was the machines they built he was interested in.

Rows of half built aircraft filled the factory floor. Some looked ready to fly that moment, only a few touches of paint left, while others were nothing but skeletal frames. Each had a small snub nose and a powerful engine on either wing. These aircraft, nicknamed the Mosquito, were the product of the brilliant mind of George Volkert, an Englishman who had fled the United Kingdom during its trials and internal conflict. He had virtually launched the Argentine aircraft industry himself almost twenty years before and now, as he planned to retire, the Argentine Republic found itself more in need of his skills then ever before.

So far only thirty of the aircraft had been built, those on the factory floor would make sixty and after that the project had been slated to end and the factory to return to producing civilian aircraft but that could change, in fact it would change, on that very day.

The Mosquito was a fighter-bomber, fast, agile and well-armed. It was like everything else that the President-General considered useful in a military machine, adaptable, light and fast. Not for him the interest in heavy battle tanks. He had seen in the various conflicts around the world how air power could dominate even the most heavily armoured tank and so he had steered his nation away from getting caught up in the main battle tank frenzy and instead focused on small, highly mobile fighting forces. He had yet to test this theory but it seemed he would be given a chance after all.

“Impressive!” He had halted, raising his voice so that it seemed to echo in the vast building. “Very impressive! I am delighted to see so many aircraft on the verge of completion!”

His eyes darted down the length of the manufacturing line again and in his mind’s eye he saw the aircraft darting through a smoke filled sky, the landscape below them shifting from desert, to jungle and eventually to a small series of islands surrounded by an angry sea. He took a breath, paused, and then changed the course of his nation forever.

“I am delighted to announce that his factory has been chosen to produce another one hundred and twenty aircraft!”

There was a stunned silence and for the first time the workers moved, glancing around at their compatriots. For them this was good news, it meant work for the next year at least. But the underlying meaning had not escaped them, something was brewing.

“You are Argentina!” Said the President-General. “And with your help she will grow strong again!”

Then he turned and walked swiftly down the long rows he had just traversed, his staff officers running after him to catch up. He did not stop until he stood before the plant manager, a burly local man who had gotten rich off this government contract. He was staring at the President-General in amazement.

“Mr. Monreo, I expect this plant to be running at full capacity within a week.”

Then the President-General was gone and silence fell across the space again until Monreo started as if waking from a dream.

“You heard the man, get to work!”

***********************************************************************

Loyada, Pan-African Empire

“The sky is burning.” Said the policeman, his hand clutching at the worn grip of the revolver at his waist. He, along with the rest of the villagers, were clustered on the western edge of their tiny town staring towards the flaming sky that had replaced the normally placid nightly glow of Djibouti.

“It sure seems like.” Replied one of the village elders. He held his own weapon, a short-barrelled rifle that his grandfathers grandfather had passed down the family until it came to him. “The Spanish have great ships that can burn the very ocean itself.”

As if to prove his point the burning trails of fuel from the smashed Spanish warships had caught fire and the ocean seemed to dance with a thousand red gems. If they had known anything about war, or warships, they have realized that not all the fighting was one sided.

“Will they come here?” Asked a small woman, she was the bakers wife, only 5’7 and almost 300 pounds and her chins shook slightly as she talked. It might have been comical but for the intense fear in her eyes.

“Probably, it is the only coastal road.” Said the policeman. He was lost in an inner thought. Would he resist? It would be futile he was sure but he did not want to disappoint his Emperor. But then, would the distant emperor even hear of or care if a lone policeman tried to stem the invaders, wouldn’t it seem more foolish than brave, a revolver against a tank. Foolish. Definitely foolish.

“Listen.” Snapped a youth, he was tall and lanky and wore a basketball jersey showing some American sports team called the “Bulls.” They had always called him “Little Bull” as a joke but now his voice was deadly earnest. “Engines.”

They all fell quiet and sure enough they could hear the growl of engines in the darkness, coming towards them from the north. The policeman glanced behind them to where a small knot of militia were huddled together. He wondered if they would surrender or fight.

Their officer looked towards him as if reading his mind, gave an apologetic shrug, and the militia melted into the darkness. The policeman supposed he hadn’t considered running away but he couldn’t leave his home, two wives and nine children, they would forever regard him as a coward.

The noise grew quickly until, quite suddenly, a vehicle loomed out of the dark. It wasn’t what they had been expecting. The Ethiopian soldiers had long told them stories of the huge tanks the Spanish had, how they could breath fire and crush men with their treads. Instead this vehicle was not much larger than an army truck. It had four tires and an armoured head that rotated from side to side, the long muzzle of the gun blackened to match the night.

“What are you going to do?” The elder asked the policeman as they stood together, their weapons clutched tightly to their chests.

Headlight snapped on, blinding them, and the vehicle stopped. They were aware of other shapes moving in the darkness around them now. Men on horseback, and behind the armoured car more engines growled like lions on the prowl.

“Drop. Weapons.” The words were poorly pronounced and barely understandable but the policeman got the gist of them and, staring into the horribly black muzzle that suddenly seemed to yawn bigger than any cave in the world, he felt his bladder let go and he hastily threw down the revolver. The elders weapon hit the ground at the same time his did.

“Behave, no harm will come. Where soldiers?” The voice called from the vehicle again and the policeman shook his head violently, gesturing towards the darkness and doing his best to make the unseen voice understand that they had gone.

There was a long pause and then a voice called from the darkness in a foreign tongue and a horseman rode passed along the edge of the headlight beam. He was tall, well dressed and wore a cloth cap rather than a helmet, a sword dangled from his hip and the policeman could see a carbine thrust into the saddle holster. There was a brief exchange in a language he did not understand and then suddenly the light went out.

There was a click of hooves against the roadway and then the horseman loomed over them in the dark. He leaned down and the policeman could just make out a large bird clutching a skull and crossbones on the mans cap badge.

“You will behave?’ The question was in marginally better accent and the policeman could only nod. “Good. No behave, we shoot. Bang bang.” He made the motion and the two local men only nodded harder. “Good, my thank, now move.”

He waved them to the side of the road, engines roared and the armoured car tore off into the darkness. More came, more than either man could count though neither had any schooling, but it seemed like an endless parade of armoured cars, cavalry, lines of marching infantry and artillery pieces. When the last of them had vanished into the darkness the two men breathed a sigh of relief.

They would be dead two hours later when regular Spanish army units, following on the heels of the Condor Legion, secured the village and shot everyone they could find.

Though legs of numb jelly are not the best to walk on, it was granted that even mastery of bed-tired legs would come to bare control. In the late of night Jun shuffled about upstairs. Slowly working his muscles and getting them to move as he wanted. The cold numbness that had gripped his lethargic muscles ebbing to a dull throb. He could place one foot before the other, and eventually get dressed.

His clothes were sparse and thin. Filled with their own fair share of holes that left his skin and scars exposed. Though for over-top, one of the house inhabitants had donated their own clothes to wear over top his chaffed and singed outfit. And that was all he had left. Padding himself down the terrifying realization that he was effectively naked came upon him. It spoke the cold uncomforting words of reality in his ears and left him to his own fear.

He had no coat, and he had no gun. Not even a sword, a knife, or basic food supplies to carry him on. All of those were gone, missing in some way or another. He found and figured himself stranded and alone somewhere in Russia.

He wasn't alone though. Not yet. And with his legs recovered from their sleepy numbness he took the daring adventure down the stairs of the house. The stillness of late-night had rendered all things to slumber in a deep mortuary calm. So much so that the rattle of the pads of mice in the ceiling echoed like foot falls in a temple hall. And there was among the eccentric clawing of mice in the attic a certain human noise. Something that was not asleep in this late hour. It was a something that grew louder as Jun forced himself down the stairs.

At the bottom of the landing Jun stepped out to a part of the house he had not had the careful moments to see behind the gawking faces of children and youths as he was wrestled up the stairs. It had been a moment in his tenure that brewed an intense discomfort from everyone present. Something commanded with the fluid skill of the young doctor Alexandrov.

The home carried a shady sort of faded luxury. A luxury though that was of overabundance, but one of comfort. But in the years of abandonment and poor management that glory it once had faded back. The cracks in the walls and peels in the plaster spoke of the same retiring pride as present among the rest of Russia. The crayon and marker drawings of the wall – both born juvenile innocence and adolescent angst – straddled the same space as printed roses in the stark dichotomy of contrasts that became all the more apparent in Russia after the czar's violent passing; the juvenile pursuit of color and pride of identity having now matured when the failures of their once youthful era came to light. It had matured the and galvanized the Russian people far faster than many Europeans would have like to experience, and spun them into their middle years before they knew what happened of their younger days. And Russia's newest generation would have to bear witness to this before any change could happen.

Jun's feet wobbled the moment they touched the carpeted floor, unsure where to bend and he swayed on his feet to recover balance as he tipped towards the dining room, where the dozens of chairs sat tightly packed around a dark oaken table, stripped of a varnished shine. In the dim green light of a gas lantern a long shadow cast itself across the table and onto the wall.

Stumbling into the room, Shu spoke: “I was wondering how long you'd stop stumbling around.” he looked over his shoulder as he fingered a bottle of beer across a faux-marble counter-top. Alongside him a battered olive-green lantern burned bright. Its harsh light glowed on every surface and threw sharp bladed shadows against everything else.

“If I can, I think I'll be leaving.” Jun said.

“I realize that.” nodded Shu, “Come sit though – or stand – but don't be heading out just yet.” he invited dryly, looking up at him. In the dark wells of his eyes Jun couldn't tell if Shu was bordering on the edge of intoxication, or the slow languid pace of his voice was legitimate pained loss. But he obliged him all the same, walking to along the counter where he leaned up at its edge.

In the lamp's lime-light Shu's face glowed pale and wraith-like. He frowned like a corpse as he starred into the smoldering gas-light. His hands idly playing with the long neck of the brown bottle. “I think the solace I might be able to take these days is China is on the move.” he opened softly, “The latest news has them on the other side of Vladivostok. The Republican army is in chaos and someone's shooting up the capital itself. I don't know if it's China or someone in the Mafiya taking advantage of the current political state to exert himself. All I know for certain is everything passed Tyumen is completely dark.”

“What sort of dark?” Jun asked.

“Radio dark, broadcast dark. I wouldn't be surprised if the lights went out. Power can already be sketchy here in Perm, more since oil and gas production was slimmed down and diverted to military use. I have my cards on our brothers being the reason for the Republican East seemingly falling off the face of the world.

“It's scary, being on the other-side of the war curtain. You spend so much time on our side and in the loop everything becomes comfortable. But truth be told I don't know where we're going to start bombing Perm, and that scares the shit out of me.” Shu shivered and he took a swig from the bottle of beer.

Jun could understand, and knew he wasn't the only one being isolated here.

“I don't know if you ever told me why you were in Perm or not. Did you?” he asked.

“I don't believe I did.” answered Jun.

“Did you ever want to say?”

“Chasing the Mafiya. I'm not going to elaborate.”

“Well I guess that's how it happens.” Shu sighed, “But I suppose that's what someone wills. Although I don't know how well with only one person on the job. Do you got back up?”

“Just me.” Jun answered, “But tell me, what's up with the doctor?”

“Peter?” said Shu, “Oh, he's a local. I think this house was connected to him or a relative at some point. I never got into it, he just let me and my partner take up residence here. Now we all live here as his tenants.”

“Tenants? So does he collect rent?”

“Oh hardly, it's just what he calls us when the city comes to wonder. They stop asking at that, and I redirect them to him if they get me. Same goes for the rest of the kids.

“But Peter, he's got some spark by design that wants him to do something positive. I might say he may have supported Dimitriov before he went ape shit or whatever drove that man. But since then he got disenfranchised with the government's policies, and that's where I found him in his life.

“China was his next model of inspiration. I assume he ate up what the NPN puts out. I don't know. Fuck I sound cynical about us, all of us now.” groaned Shu as he lowered his head into his arms.

“So was collecting a bunch of kids part of your original plan?” Jun inquired. He leaned from one foot of the other, kicking one against the floor to wake the muscles back up as he put his weight on the other. His hands planted on the counter for support.

“Not initially, no. But it evolved into it.” Shu told him, “We were to put up a network so locals might see China in a better light. Or get some demographic that'd favor us. We weren't going to be silent on the matter, but we weren't certainly going to be telling people we were IB. Our cover was a fictitious charity group out of China looking to simply help up. No one would shoot at charity: that's how we built it to interpret the orders.”

“But your partner gets killed all the same.”

“And now I'm stuck holding the weight and no where else to go with it.” Shu bemoaned in a mournful tone, “The project isn't gone, but it's certainly not going anywhere.

“I just want an escape. I want out. I want to be recalled and go back home to Hainan!

“You don't realize how nice warm beaches are until you're removed from them, and frozen in a ghetto.

“But Peter, he's a good man. He does what he can and tries to keep us funded. We all work together to help each other out. There's not much for school but the older ones help the younger in their studies. From time-to-time I offer informal Chinese lessons. The youngest here is eight and she can count to twenty confidently.”

“Eight? What happens for that to happen?” Jun inquired. Shu needed to let it go, by the way he held himself and the low, soft, agitated tone. He hovered somewhere near being a bereft mourner, and his clear disposition was becoming bleak and scary.

“Parents die. Municipality and country doesn't really have a child support network. There's no adoption system in play and no foster service. What does exist is poor and underfunded and they prioritize based on class more than anything. And what ultimately happens then as I've found is they simply get the kids out of the nation to Spain, Germany, or America.”

“Sounds dire.”

“It is...” Shu said with drifting words. He lapsed into silence as he turned to look into the light of the lantern.

“I suppose you want to go.” he said again.

“I need some gear.” Jun said.

“Thought so much, look in the cupboard under the sink.” Shu invited, pointing a weighty finger towards the corner of the room.

Under a porcelain wash basin was a simple hand-carved cupboard door. Jun opened that up and rifled in the harsh darkness, pulling out a heavy package wrapped in cloth. He pulled it out.

Wrapped in a tight bundle by twine was the coat of an IB agent. Placing it on the table Jun unrolled it. Revealed to the lantern light among the embrace of the heavy black fabric gleamed the familiar handgun of IB service. Though grimy with the chrome finish scratched deep in more than many places it lay on a bed of spare clothes alongside a box of bullets.

“I don't know if any of the spare clothes will fit you, but it's the best I got left of him.” Shu said, in reference to his former partner, “I got all his pertinent gear to turn back in if I get home, his knife namely. But it shouldn't be hard to excuse the absence of his fire-arm.

“Just turn it back into the Xianjing headquarters when you get back to China for me.”

“All of this?” Jun exclaimed, looking down.

“Of fucking course.” Shu barked, “I'm not going to use it. And you have better use of it than I.

“Just as a fair warning though: at least one shirt has the exit and entry wounds of his death. He never wore the coat except in Winter. And Summer in Russia can be shockingly humid and warm, so I wouldn't wear the coat.

“Unless you can get a horse head, I wouldn't really think of wearing the coat. Use it as a blanket.” he rambled dryly and distantly, “And one other thing...”

Reaching into his pockets he rummaged around. With a satisfied grunt he smiled, and placed on the table a pill bottle. “Peter had to jump through some intense hoops. I'd say he's more scary than me at the smuggling business to get these.” he pushed the bottle across the table. And though in Russian, Jun could tell what it was: naloxone.

“Medication?”

“I don't know how much doctors back home order you to take regularly to treat your condition. But Peter got a hold of it and told me to give it to you when you leave. But to offer the warning: be discriminate when or if you take any. You maybe have enough for a weak and certainly popping some right now will summon all the hurt of your injuries and you being bed-ridden for so long at once. If your body doesn't properly heal, then it won't be pleasant.”

“I'll be sure to keep that in mind...” Jun wondered, as he picked up the bottle and turning it over in his hands. Watching the deeply silhouetted pills against the then orange-filtered lamp-light.

Jun nodded as he popped open the main cylinder of the hand-gun, loading in fresh brass-encased bullets from the musty cardboard box. It wasn't well kept, but that was only in appearance. And each smooth pass of the brass against the walls of their new home brought a new relaxed sort of pleasure to Jun's ears.

“... And one more thing...” Shu started up again, voice restrained by hesitation, “I suppose I should give you a name, someone you can go to for support. And maybe give you a new stepping stone on your mission; however insane it is.

“Yu Quan is the leading agent serving in the Russian south, in the steppe north of the Caucus. Word is: he and his partner contacted a Chinese expat community that fled home during the Revolution hoping to find someone in Russia who'd hear their pleas and rush to restore the Qing when they fell. No one listened, but they stayed.

“Now, I- uh... Don't know the condition of what's going on there.” he added in frustration wrapping his hands around the neck of the beer bottle, “So it could be anything. But there's been a surge of Cossacks entering the region from Ukraine and elsewhere to feed off of the Turkish power-vacuum. They're in conflict with some of the regional Mafiya gangs, and I think the Horse Lord had some tentative interests in the region, but that could be in question with him out of the picture. Alongside that: Georgian, Azeri, and all kinds of bandits down there. The region is wild, and I'm pretty sure it's rife for the picking for Mafiya interests.

“If there's any kind of action, there's going to no doubt be big names down there. But Quan and what sorts he can muster would know more, and know the situation better.” Shu paused briefly as he rubbed his eyes, “Fuck I'm tired...” he complained silently to himself.

“Where's Quan then?” Jun pried flatly. The cylinder of the revolver clapped back into place with a satisfying jerk of his hand.

“On the shores of the Caspian, northern side. If you take a boat down the Kama river to the Volga and head south along it, you'll come to Astrakhan or somewhere like that. Passed the city into the Volga delta somewhere in the Volodarsky region you'll find him. I'm sure you could ask about the Chinese commune and someone will direct you, but it'll be risky.”

“I'm sure I'll find it.”

“I'm sure you will...” sighed Shu.

There was a moment of silence and calm between the two. Shu starred off into space as he rapped his fingers against the counter-top, Jun checked over the gear.

“When I get back home, I'm going to retire from this shit.” said Shu. His voice low but knowing, “Go back home, to Hainan. Open a flower shop.

“I'm over this. I'm over all of this, comrade. I'm burned out. I want to handle something that doesn't kill, or lead to others' deaths. I'm going to open a flower shop.

“What will you do?” he asked.

“I don't know.” Jun replied.

Paris, France
Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré

The streets of Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré were busy as usual even known it was raining hard. People were soon dried under their umbrellas or inside one of the many art galleries. Cars drove on the street to get to one of the many landmarks in Paris, especially to Salle Pleyel. One of the many famous concert halls in Europe and it was highlighted as one of the best concert halls in France.

A woman with a blight yellow umbrella walked the sidewalks as she was looking all over for something. She looked into buildings, alleys, anywhere that was accessible. She looked like one of the models from the fashion magazines as her white skin stool out from the cloudy skies and anyone around her. And she was wearing a red dress with red high heels as she tried to find the thing. Then, she dug in her purse for a piece of people and it took her a moment to dig until she found it and brought it out of the purse. The tiny paper read in France:

"Passer à Palais de l'Elysée et vous me verrez là - Adélaïde" ("Go to Élysée Palace and you will see me there - Adelaide")

She kept a strong grip on the paper and umbrella as she kept walking until she stopped near the intersection. There she saw the palace's monumental gate with four Ionic columns, flanked by walls topped by a balustrade. The guards, with their blight uniforms, marched near the gate of the palace and they didn't mind the flashes from their cameras. She looked at the gate and the guards until she saw a figure inside the palace's gate. The woman was interested in the figure and tried to get a good look of the figure. Then, she heard her name being shouted out loud by another woman. "Victoria! Victoria!" the woman shouted and waved at her as she was also holding a blight yellow umbrella. She turned as soon as she heard her name being shouted and walked towards her as she said, "You must be Adelaide.".

"I am Adelaide and you must be Victoria." Adelaide said to Victoria with her broken English as she wished that she could speak in her native language. "Yeah, I am Victoria. It's amazing here! Better than back home in Washington!" Victoria said with excitement as she couldn't wait for her first day at her new modeling job. Adelaide smiled her Victoria's excitement as she said in a happy tone, "Then, let's go! Follow me to your new home!". The women began to walk and Adelaide talked about her new place; however, she was still curious at the mysterious figure she saw earlier. But that soon stopped as Adelaide got her attention and sighed as she had to explain it again in her broken English.

---

Paris, France
Élysée Palace

The sounds of raindrops was relaxing for the president as he was busy overlooking papers about the current war with Spain and Pan-African Empire. Things were getting interesting as the Pan-African lost an important battle near one of the coastal cities near the Mediterranean Sea. And they suffered heavy losses. The empty tea cup was near him and he was too busy reading in order to care about it. Is this the moment that he had been waiting for? He wasn't such, but he was willing to take a risk on it. He stopped reading the papers and looked at the time. 3:30. The Minister of Defense should be around her at any moment and then he could ask about this opportunity.

He waited until he heard a knock and he got out of his chair and said, "Come on in.". The minister walked in and greeted the president and sat down on the chair near the desk. "President, I just got word about the battle that was a heavy lost for the African nation." the minister said as he looked around the office and saw the president, sitting on his chair. "I know, Michaël. That is why that should take this opportunity and launch the invasion." the president said with a smile on his face as soon as he said the word 'invasion'.

"President." Michaël begun to speak, but he was cut off from him as he said to him, "Come on now, you don't have to be all formal on me.". He sighed in annoyance and then said, "Élie, I know you want to launch the invasion; but, I am not even such that our men are ready for it. I mean, they have been training in Madagascar for almost two months. But, France doesn't need to be in war to gain land.". Élie shook his head around as he said, "What? You think that Spain will just give us Algeria back? Don't be that stupid.".

"I'm not. I am just being careful about this. The Confederation of Tanganyika and Mozambique have a powerful ally, even from our standards." the minister said as he was going to get him calm, "I am just saying that we take our time in this.". The president stool up from his chair and walked over to the window and said out loud, "Look outside. It's cloudy as hell out there. Just imagine what it is like in Tanganyika and Mozambique. All sunny.".

The Minister shook his head around in shame and said, "I don't care about the sun. In fact, I like the clouds here more than the sun. Anyways, I think it's dumb to go into this head first. We still need time.". The president has got sick and tired of the minister's delaying of the invasion and he said, "We have been training our men and ships for months at Madagascar. And we can rely on the United Kingdoms for support, if they do decide to help out their allies. And we have half of our navy in the Mediterranean Sea and half in base in Madagascar. I am such that we are ready for this.". Michaël gave up fighting against him and said to him annoying, "Fine. I will inform the Major-General of the navy and Commander of the army that the invasion is underway. It will take a few weeks to launch it from our base in Madagascar, but we will be at Maputo as soon as possible.".

The president smiled and said to him, "I knew that you would come around.". The Minister got out of the chair and walked to the door as she said, "I just hope to God that you know the risks of this invasion.". Then, he exited out of the room and walked as fast as he could to get out of the palace.

---

Toliara, Madagascar
Toliara Military Base & Port

The military base was busy with supplies on the move and soldiers just returning for their training in the jungles. The base and port is located about a mile and half away from the city of Toliara to pervert the citizens to have to deal with the military and their daily tasks. Plus, it was near a large, thick jungle perfect for training soldiers. They train in the jungles daily to defend Madagascar if it does get invaded and to get know the jungles of Africa.

The port was also busy with French ships waiting for the next missions at sea, which were just scouting the other countries in Africa. Overlooking the ships, Major-General Martial Solé was sitting in his office as he waited for something to arrive at his desk. Martial was just getting done with his tea as he heard footsteps coming from the hallway. He set down the tea as soon as he saw that an officer was at the doorway. The major spoke to the officer first as he said, "Why are you here?".

"Major, sir, The Minister of Defense wishes to talk to you on the phone." the officer said to the Major as he left the doorway and headed back to his position. Interested at the minister's request, he picked up the phone and put in the numbers. A moment later, he heard the minister's voice as he said to him, "Major, are you there?". Martial silently laughed for a moment at that sentence and then said, "Yeah, I am here. What do you need, sir?".

"The operation is activated. Get your ships ready for the invasion and the long trip." the minister said on the other line as there was silence from both sides of the line. "Well, I will inform them to get ready for it. Does the commander know about the invasion?" Martial said with doubt in his voice, as he thinks that they aren't ready for it. "He does know and he is currently talking to the generals at Madagascar." Michaël said towards the major as he was getting ready to hang up the line.

"Thank you, sir. I will talk to you again." the major said as there was still the shock in his voice. Michaël said his goodbyes to the major and hung up the line. Martial was still holding the phone as he decided to call the guys at the radio tower. He needed to inform everyone that the invasion is a go.

Addis Ababa, Ethiopia

Action Tiem Music For Playing And Reading

When Yaqob was told that his wife and child were still alive, he received a second wind. He remembered that there was a war to fight and he became involved. He even did something that no Emperor had done since Menelik II. Yaqob went to church.

He stood in the back, dressed in humble white robes, and listened to the first liturgy, where hymns were sung in low somber tones coming together like the sound of a medieval choir. The church was decorated with golden crosses, and gold-framed portraits of ancient saints. Richly covered tapestries covered the walls behind the alters, while the walls themselves were brightly painted with religious scenes. He felt... something, though he didn't know what. Yaqob's grandfather had been Muslim, and his own father had payed lip service to the Islamic faith, but Yaqob was barely involved in any of that growing up. He felt as if he was outside of religion, with only a vague sense of God in his thoughts. But the church had an effect on him none the less. Perhaps it was in the beauty of the building itself, or in the haunting hymns that echoed between the hard stone walls. Perhaps it was being part of something so old; a faith that had brought his people together since the days when the Romans still ruled Europe. Or maybe there was something more to it all. Maybe the religions were right.

When the first liturgy was over, the unbaptized were asked to leave. Yaqob knew that the priests would have loved to make an exception for him, but Yaqob politely followed the traditional laws of the church and left. He heard the tap-tap-tapping sound of Mvulu's peg-leg as his guards fell in around him.

His mind was still swimming with thoughts and impressions about religion when he was ambushed outside by journalists. They had been descending on the Ethiopian capital for weeks, men and women from all over the world. They came from the United States and Brazil, France and Prussia, and all other places where the national media could afford to keep their employees in an overseas war zone. The Italians garnered the most suspicion from Yaqob's guards, who eyed the ferengi for any sign of a threat.

It was not that Italy had tried to conquer Ethiopia once before; that had happened ninety years ago and very few held grudges about that conflict anymore. Rather, the Walinzi had reported that many of the so called 'Italian' journalists were actually disguised Spaniard reporters. It was difficult to blame them for hiding their identities. There was already a seething animosity toward white people in Ethiopia, but Spain was especially hated. If somebody was open about their Spanish nationality, they would be a target for the frustrated masses. Yaqob's advisers had insisted that he place more limits on the foreign journalists, and kick out any who were not being completely honest or open handed with their official papers. Yaqob refused. He wanted as many stories and photographs leaving the country as possible. He wanted the rest of the world to know who his people were, and what they were up against. He wanted the world to know what was at stake.

And so they followed him down the streets, dozens of foreign men babbling in broken Amharic, or in their own native tongues.

"Do you think that the rest of the world will come to your aide?" A Brazilian reporter blurted.

"I hope so, for the sake of my people." Yaqob answered.

A Chinese correspondent for the NPN spoke next. "If the Pan-African Imperial Union is cut off completely from the sea, will she be able to produce enough grain to feed her people, or do you think the Spanish war-effort will cause a famine?" he remarked in clear Amharic.

"Africa is a large continent, and we produce most of our food at home." Yaqob replied. "We hope the Spanish won't stoop to such low tactics, but we are stockpiling in case of such an event."

"Have you considered stepping down to save your people?" an Italian shouted, forcing his way through the crowd.

"The Spanish Empire declared war on us without any provocation, there was no ultimatums or backroom diplomacy involved. I am convinced that Spain is in this for blood, and the suddenness of the invasion seems to prove it."

Yaqob eyed a Prussian journalist for a long time, expecting him to speak. He looked as if he was formulating a question, but the words never came out. Instead, a Persian spoke up.

"The 'Good Green Book'" the Persian journalist started, "That many of the youth carry around your capital now, it has some quotations that I think are interesting and relevant..."

"You read the entire thing?" The Chinese corespondent interrupted.

"I have read it three times." The Persian pulled a thin green book out of his pocket and waved it around. "It is small, and reading is not that difficult if you try." Everyone who understood the exchange laughed, and Yaqob smiled.

"But as I was saying." The Persian continued. "It has some quotations from you that I think are interesting. Here you said, at your coronation, that 'It is our duty not to participate in the wars, but to do everything peaceful within our power to effect peace on earth. This is no easy task, and I recognize that the average man can not accomplish such tasks. I do not ask you to all gather and stand directly in the way of conflict.' do you think this could be interpreted in reverse, as a request for other nations to stay out of the African war?"

"As an aggressor or a defender?" Yaqob asked.

"Either way." The Persian replied. "On the Ethiopian side or the Spanish."

"I was young when I said that." Yaqob replied. "And perhaps too hopeful. The Spanish invasion shows that there are evils in this world that cannot be stopped by non-violent righteousness alone. I have been Emperor through trying times, and I have seen the truth."

"If this is a war of evil versus good." another Italian spoke up. "Then how do you explain the violence in Hejaz? It is my understanding that the rebels were not well treated there."

"The Hejaz Arabs were treated fairly. The rebels are violent men, but they are only a few, and their violence does not represent the whole country. Besides, if Spain had been worried about the welfare of the Hejazi Arabs, they would have came to talks rather than declared a war of invasion. Now if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have came this far for a reason. You are welcome to join me, but I cannot answer any more questions for now.

The grueling walk through the city, and the suffocating press of people that surrounded him as he went by, caused his old chest-wound to ache. He put on a brave face and endured it, knowing that the whole world was looking at him. The thought of his beautiful wife and their brave son safe in China gave him the energy to hide his discomfort.

--

The refugee camp sat in the shadow of Negus Mikael General Hospital. It was a small tent city, where the Walinzi worked alongside international charities to assist civilians fleeing the war zone. Yaqob was here to help in the kitchen, but the cluster of his bodyguards made him feel that he was only getting in the way of the real aid workers. Mvulu was not happy with Yaqob's decision to come here, and the doubled number of guards was his cautious response. They stood like alert blockages, placed just in the way of the human traffic as aid workers tried to carry pots full of steaming stew or dirty dishes on their way to be cleaned.

The Imperial Guard had once been a lax duty during the reign of Yaqob's father, but Yohannes' death and the attempt on Yaqob's own life changed all that. They stood wearing gilded white coats and pith helmets with ostrich feather cockades, like a dandy battalion of Victorian soldiers on parade. Swords dangled by their sides, and they held stubby assault rifles in their hands. Still, these were picked men. Mvulu, their commander, stood with a Walinzi agent in the shade of a Eucalyptus tree and observed the crowd suspiciously.

Yaqob inhaled deeply and took in the spicy smell of the wat he was stirring. It was incredibly simple, consisting mostly of lentils and the mix of onion, butter, and spice that started any proper Ethiopian wat. Still, this meal was so humble that he felt almost foolish for his moping. When he got home, he would be able to chose from any number of professionally cooked meals. For the refugees however, it would be a dry-smelling stew outdoors in the heat. He couldn't excuse himself his emotions either.

It was true he had thought his family murdered at sea, but most of the refugees had known people burned alive during the Spanish assault of Djibouti. There were reports trickling in from the airmen flying missions over the city and the soldiers skirmishing on the front line. Djibouti, and all who had been in it, were black ash. It was being said the canals were so polluted with ash that Spanish attempts to drain them were leaving behind trails of caustic lye. It was also being said that people had crawled into wells trying to get away from the fire, and their corpses now poisoned the water supply.

"Your Imperial Majesty." an elderly volunteer approached him. "Is the wat ready? We need more for the far table."

Yaqob smiled and sniffed it again. "Yes, I think it is done. Wait here, don't worry about taking it." the Emperor motioned to one of his guards. "Carry this pot for the young lady. Careful, don't spill it." The guard did not look excited about his task, but he wasn't the kind of man who disobeyed a monarch. The volunteer smiled and gave them both a light bow.

"What would you have me do now?" Yaqob asked her, cleaning his hands on a towel.

"I would not presume to question my Emperor." The old woman replied. "But if you can prepare onions for the next soup, I would be grateful."

Yaqob winced in his mind, careful to show nothing but courtesy. This was not a republic, and he did not need to worry about reelection, but working here was still a political move meant to inspire loyalty in his people and respect abroad. Crying in public, even an artificial onion cry, might be taken by the journalists as having another meaning. They were kept out of the crowd and distant enough that they could not question Yaqob, but they had cameras. An onion cry would make an inopportune photo.

Yaqob borrowed a combat knife from one of the guards and made a show about handling the onion, hoping it would deter any awkward media tales. He spun it in his hand like a Shakespearean actor handling a skull. When his eyes leveled with the street he saw a couple of Walinzi hurrying from a staff car to the agent with Mvulu, and he wondered what they had to say. Yaqob made the first slice into the onion slowly. It felt as if him and the onion were both virgins, and he was trying so prudently to be gentle that he was getting nothing done. On the second slice, the onion vapor started to irritate his eyes.

"Your Imperial Majesty." he heard Mvulu's voice, and when he looked up his Captain of the Guard was standing in front of him with the Walinzi in tow. "We need to... are you crying, your majesty?"

"Onions." Yaqob wiped his eyes with his sleeve. "What is it?"

"These men would like to speak to you privately." Mvulu answered. "We should return to the palace."

"Is it the Spanish?" Yaqob asked. Had they broke through Djibouti already? He was preparing himself for the day the enemy would continue their advance, but he had not thought it would happen so soon.

"No." Mvulu answered. "It is about your sister, the Princess Taytu."

"Taytu?" Yaqob sniffed wetly. "Has she reported in? I want to know why it took her so long."

"We should talk..."

Yaqob stopped. "Is she dead?" he said flatly, staring at the agent.

"No." the agent replied. "No, but she is not safe."

"We can talk here then." Yaqob answered. He felt worry swell in his chest again, but that was normal now. He was beginning to get acclimated to constant emergency.

"The Confederation of Tanganyika and Mozambique are withdrawing their support for us. Both countries have agreed to this" one agent said.

"It was a bilateral move. We haven't heard and hints of dissent in either executive branch." the other agent added.

"And Taytu is, in talks? Perhaps she can reverse this... situation." Yaqob finished an onion and pushed the slices to the side. He began to dice another.

"Well, she has been imprisoned. Your majesty."

"Imprisoned?" he put down the knife. "For what?"

"They say they do not trust our intentions. We suspect they were unprepared for her visit and panicked." one agent said.

"That suggests to us that this withdrawal from the war is unpopular there. At least in the cities." the other added.

Yaqob pondered it. "They were afraid she could overthrow their governments with a few of our agents and the help of their people. They are not threatening to execute her, are they?"

"No. Not at all. That would be an even stupider thing to do. Still, we need to get her out of the country before it becomes and embarrassment."

Yaqob balled his fists and bit his lips. It was beyond insulting. Locking up the Foreign Affairs Advisor, his own sister? What could they be thinking? He couldn't lose his temper here, not in public with the world's media watching on. "If we had the manpower, I would see both governments burning in a ditch somewhere between Dar es Salaam and Mombasa." he muttered so only Mvulu and the agents could hear. "I would force them to feed their own genitals to the hyenas. But..." He paused for a moment, killing the rage he was building up with vengeful talk. "Are we capable of extracting Taytu right now, agent?"

"We are struggling to make contact with agents in the country." the agent said blankly. "If it wasn't for the war, this would be easy. We have one-third of all our field agents in Spanish West Africa, and what we have close to home are occupied with preparing the country for war."

"Do not do anything that will endanger her life too severely, not if you can avoid it. And for now, let us pretend we do not know they have betrayed us." Yaqob said.

"Yes, that is wise." Mvulu nodded. "Alerting them will just embarrass them and put them on the defensive."

The agent nodded. "Yes. I will give these instructions right away, your majesty."

--

The Emperor spent the rest of the day meeting with his people and inspecting the capital's defenses. Anti-Aircraft batteries had been installed near most government buildings, and on the top of several hills. There were several on the side of Mount Entoto, half a mile from where Emperor Menelik's palace stood. Yaqob had insisted on that distance despite the objections of Hassan's officers. They wanted the guns nearer to the palace, where they would have a better view of the countryside. To Yaqob, it didn't seem tactically vital to have the anti-aircraft guns further down the hill. It certainly wouldn't be enough to lose them a battle. The loss of the old palace, however, would be the loss of their national heritage. It would be like using the underground churches at Lalibela as trenches. There were things too sacred to be risked by war.

The sun was beginning to set when Yaqob arrived at the makeshift stage constructed in front of the University of Addis Ababa. The University was hosting foreign volunteers who had came to Ethiopia to fight. Many of the students had volunteers for military service themselves, leaving empty dorms that could be converted into temporary barracks as the foreign battalions organized. The few remaining student were mostly women, or men not fit for service, though some able bodied men had got deferments due to the importance of their academic work. These students offered their services in different ways, helping to prepare the defenses of the city, working in the refugee camps, and doing what they could to entertain the foreign volunteers. Here, they were putting on a play, and they had invited the Emperor to attend the performance. It was a good opportunity for Yaqob, a chance for him to show his appreciation for the international supporters of Ethiopia, and to support the people who were working so hard to prepare the capital's defense.

He stood on the makeshift wooden stage and smiled at the crowd as they applauded him. Streamers in Ethiopian colors hung from the stone posts of the imposing iron-wrought fence that surrounded the campus. He saw that many of the students in the crowd were growing their hair out so that men who would have once been clean cut now wore bushy afros and unkempt beards, and women did their hair in the styles they remembered their grandmothers wearing. Traditional clothing was popular now as well, and people wore mutely colored robes that looked like togas or dresses with fine patterns decorating the fringe. He saw in the front rows evidence of the Pan-Africanist elephant badges that had become so common in the capital.

When the applause slowed down, Yaqob spoke into a microphone.

"People of Africa." he started, "I have not come here to speak to you about our troubles. Every one of you understand what we are facing, and you have stepped up to the challenge. I see before me the faces of an enduring Africa, a continent that will not see itself in the bonds of slavery ever again. I do not need to express how powerful your courage is, or how impregnable our continent's spirit. I do not need to express these things because the world is expressing it right now, out there beyond the borders and across the sea, where millions of people all across the world join their voices to sing praises for the mother continent! We are starting a fire here that will burn away tyranny across the globe!"

"And so." he paused, waiting for the cheers and enthusiastic shouts of 'Lee-lee-lee!' to slow down. "And so we, the grateful peoples of Africa, are here to sing praises of the men and women who come to us from across the world to fight the evils of colonial invasion. I am honored and humbled to be the first to introduce a man who has seen war in his lifetime. He is a veteran of both North American Wars. This man is Corporal Bucephelus L. Scott."

There was a cheer among the crowd that sounded like a war-cry. A man came up from among the quietly gathered foreigners and approached the Emperor with what Yaqob sensed as an uncertain dignity, like a fish out of water trying to look natural on land. Corporal Scott was a tall man, not quite reaching Yaqob's lanky height but tall enough that very few Ethiopians managed to dwarf him. He was dark-skinned, a black descendant of former slaves, and the way he dressed recalled the painful memories of America's first civil war. He wore a smashed old Union uniform kepi, so old that its original blue hue was faded to black. He also wore the detached cape of an old Civil-war era great-coat, which he draped over his fatigues. He sported a wiry van-dyke beard, though he lacked the mustache to compliment it.

When Bucephelus Scott reached the Emperor, he fell down on one knee like a medieval squire preparing to be knighted. Yaqob had not expected that. Bowing in the Imperial presence was still common, but not in the way that this American did it. He politely tapped the Corporal on his shoulder and smiled at him beamingly as he rose.

"Corporal Scott." Yaqob said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I am told you fought on the front line during both North American Wars."

"Yes sir." American said in broken Amharic. "On the western front. I fought the Canadians when they invaded, sir, and I figure I am well suited for fighting invaders. When they told me Spain was invading the mother land, I thought to myself that you might make use of my abilities, Mr. Emperor."

"The African people cannot thank you enough for the sacrifice you have made coming here, Corporal. The experience you bring us cannot be undervalued. That is why, with the support of my advisers, I have chosen to give you the title 'Fitawrari' and present you with command of the First International Sefari!" there were more cheers, and more war cries.

The newly made Fitawrari Scott grinned as he shook the Emperor's hand. "Thank you, sir. Thank you indeed. But, I was reading about this country when I came here." he said smiling. "And I read that the old Sefari's used to be named after places."

"Yes." Yaqob confirmed, unsure what the American was getting at. "That is true."

"Well then sir, with your permission, I would like to call this Sefari you have been kind enough to lend me the 'Andalusia Sefari', because my boys will whip Sotelo's army quick enough that I will be setting up headquarters in Andalusia before next's years snow falls in Chicago!" The audience renewed their battle cries with even greater fervor than before, their emotions pouring out in bloodthirsty shouts and screams. Yaqob laughed and shook the American's hand once again. "Well of course, Fitawrari. You can call them whatever you want, just win us some battles."

The media was invited to take photos near the front of the stage, drowning the momentum of the ceremony in volley after volley of flash photography. Yaqob's part in the events ended then, and he took his place in a raised private booth that had been constructed in the back. As he sat down, he saw from the corner of his eye a student leader walking up to the stage.

"Brothers and Sisters of Africa!" The speaker started. To Yaqob, the speaker seemed over the top. He was chewing through his words like an overconfident new actor. "His Imperial Majesty. I invite you all to experience a gift brought to us from across the chopping sea, in Italy where the evil influences of Spain can still be felt. From there comes the Society of the Modern Gracchi; Italian Communists who fled the oppression of the evil Batista. They lived in Greece for a time, until murderous war was brought to the crystal shores of beautiful Africa! They saw glory in our plight, and they have came to aid us in our hour of need. When I met with them last Saturday to help prepare their applications for citizenship, they told me of a play one of their own had written before he was executed by Batista's hounds. It is the story of Caesar as it has never been told before. When I first read it, I cried."

Yaqob heard somebody take a seat behind him. "Your Imperial Majesty." he heard the familiar voice of Zerihun Biruk. He was the elderly priest who had once attended the Ark of the Covenant, before it was slated to be moved to China. Now Yaqob kept him around as a personal adviser. When Yaqob nodded at him, the priest spoke again. "They are putting on Julius Caesar for an Emperor? That is a risky choice"

"It was written by a dead man." Yaqob replied. "I wouldn't have taken you for the sort of man who learned his European history."

"A priest who doesn't know who Caesar is?" Zerihun responded. "Well, I have met men like that, but I know things. They don't let the least of us attend the Holy Tabot."

"I am sorry that it was lost, Zerihun." Yaqob replied. "I know it was important."

On the stage, the actors were beginning to take their places. Some were the Italian Communists, while others were Africans. They wore bed-sheet togas, but otherwise the play used very few props.

"I do not weep for God's tabot." Zerihun answered. "It will survive as long as God wills it to, and it will cease as quick as God's will changes. No, I weep for the soul of the man who shot the plane that carried it. They will open the darkest pit in hell just for him."

"Good." Yaqob said simply. "I can't weep for the soul of a man who murdered my mother, and tried to murder my wife and child."

"If you cannot weep for him." the priest replied. "You do not appreciate how dark his pit in hell will be."

On the stage, Caesar was giving alms to the poor. It was a strange move for communists living under a dictatorship that hated them to portray a dictator as a communist. It was only when Caesar talked that Yaqob understood the writer's intent. There, in a scene that supposedly took place in Caesar's house, the dictator told Antony that "The issue dear comrade is not in a God - helping or not - but in the ability of man." Those words, Yaqob knew, had came from Hou. Gaius Julius Caesar was speaking with the voice of Hou Sai Tang

"I went to church today." Yaqob told the priest. "The first time I have been in one for a long time."

"Have you found God?"

"I have found church. That is all I can say. God... I confess, I don't understand what that means."

"You do not understand what God means? It is a heavy thing to explain. I can tell you the things you expect to here from me, about love and omnipotence and the creation of the earth, but I know that you know all of that. What does God mean, though? I cannot explain it if you cannot feel it."

"I don't know what I feel." Yaqob replied. "It never mattered before. How I grew up... it never mattered."

"Your family has been detached from the church for a long time."

"I think it is heritage that brought me back." Yaqob admitted. "I have been thinking a lot about that, about who I am."

"Perhaps that is why you don't feel God." the priest responded. "You worry about heritage rather than your soul, you understand everything through books. You did not learn to feel the world until you were too old to be natural at it."

Caesar was speaking to the Plebs now, who had gathered in the forum to hear him. "Send out the Optimates and the Bourgiese" He said. "Make our homeland pure and revolt against their decadence. The Republican image of the nation is outdated and passed. We will someday usher in the new path. The new society."

Yaqob paused and tried to remember where that particularly Hou quote was from. He could not recall, so he forgot about it and turned back to the priest. "I used to pray, when I was a child. I had saw my mother pray to herself, and she taught me how. But it didn't work, so I stopped."

"It didn't work? You did not get what you wanted?"

"No." Yaqob sighed. "It seemed pointless."

"It would be, if you saw it like an order. To stop praying because you don't get what you want would be like... divorcing your wife because she does not do as you command. Things like this should mean nothing when it comes to love."

"I got no answers" Yaqob insisted. "It isn't like communication with people. I can speak with my wife, but I can only speak to God. If I never saw, or touched, or talked to my wife, and if all I could do is send her messages of which I could never know whether or not she received, then could we be said to be married at all?"

"I have seen men talk to the graves of family members who were long dead. I have met women who love their unborn children with more ferocity than they have for themselves. And... I have been in a room with the Holy Tabot."

"But that is different." Yaqob grimaced. "That is nostalgia, and... biology."

The priest smiled. "You talk in data, like a man who thinks reading is understanding."

"I try to understand." Yaqob replied. "That is all I have ever tried to do, I think."

"That is good." the priest replied.

When the play reached the death scene of Caesar, night had fallen and the stage was lit by spotlights. There he stood, an Italian actor dressed in bright red robes surrounded by senators wearing black and gold. The senators were wielding knives and circling for the kill, but Caesar had his last words to say. There was no 'Et Tu', or 'Then fall, Caesar.' Instead, the actor gave a line that seemed to be the thesis of the entire play.

"When the freedom of the senator is built on the misfortune of the plebian, the republic deserves to crumble."

Yaqob did not recognize Caesar's final phrase. It had not been a quote from Hou, or anyone else as far as he could tell. It seem that finally, at the end of the story, the playwright used his own words.

Madrid, Spain

White-gray roads snaked across the dusty brown chaparral that dominated central Spain; the scraggly pradera grass had all been desiccated under the dry sun of a Spanish June. Highways that radiated out across the whole of Iberia, from Lisbon to Barcelona, from Santander to Tarifa, all began to converge in an urban nexus fast approaching on the horizon.

Madrid, the capital of the Second Spanish Republic, was a sprawling red city framed within a spider's web of modern thoroughfares and bypasses, the warm hue imparted by the traditional sienna roofs of the older districts of Pozuelo, San Isidro, and Vieja Ciudad - Old Madrid. The traditional neighborhoods surrounded a core of ultra-dense development. High rises rose upward from the fertile soil of La Zarza, Lucero, and Plaza Abdicacion. In Manzanares and the Distrito Financiero, development culminated in towers of glass and concrete that glinted in the sunlight. Occasionally, their glittering facades were cast in shadow by a creeping eclipse - great zeppelins droned high above the reach of even the tallest skyscrapers.

Sotelo paid no attention to any of it. He bridged his hands and tapped the tips of his fingers together, ignoring the updates from his pilot as they came ever closer to his destination. His mind was in Ethiopia, where some great calamity had surely befallen his army. Some imbecile must have destroyed his dreams, it wouldn't surprise him. Following an attempt on his life - a botched coup, it had turned out - Sotelo combed through the republic's military hierarchy. All those high ranking officers and generals who did not strike his Excellency as utterly loyal were quietly disposed of. Seasoned brass who had served since the days of the monarchy were replaced by a crowd of underqualified officers. There was no choice in the matter for the Prime Minister; Sotelo would always prefer an officer corps of loyal imbeciles to deceitful geniuses. Of course, all choices have their consequences; Sotelo feared that this choice had already born bitter fruit.

"Making the final descent, your Excellency!" One of his pilots shouted over the roar of the propellers. "Please buckle in!" Sotelo threw the pilot a dismissive wave of the hand before returning to his thoughts.

The Prime Minister's helicopter halted high above the placid waters of the Rio Manzanares, descending gently over the Hall of the Republic. The recently-constructed center of governance for the republic was commanded by a great rotunda and collonaded annexes radiated outward from that dome-capped hub. With its dome held high by Atlean columns, its building style hearkened back to mighty Rome. And though it was officially built in homage to the Roman Republic, the Hall of the Republic had become instead a palace to Spain's Julius Caesar.

With a soft bump, the helicopter's wheels found purchase on a rooftop helipad, the propellers wound down with an audible whine as the engine was allowed to idle. Without so much as waiting to be addressed by the pilots, Sotelo stood up from his seat and slid back the chopper's passenger door before letting himself out into the swirling downdraft of the propellers. He had to know how badly his invasion had been bungled.

On the rooftop, a welcoming party of aides, bodyguards, and assorted lackeys had already assembled themselves at the base of the helipad waiting to attend to the prime minister's.

"Welcome back to Madrid, Excellency!" One goon announced warmly, combing wind-teased hair back into place with him palm. "I trust Gibraltar was pleasa-"

"Dispense with the platitudes," Sotelo snapped. "Where are they?"
_____________________________

The roar of propellers on the roof had quieted. His Excellency was in the building, and they had precious little time to prepare.

The highest echelon of Spain's military commanders were gathered within the Cuarto de Guerra, a cavernous space dominated by a long, monolithic table with seating for twenty-one; all but one seat at the fore end of the polished, black counter were occupied. The empty space on the far walls was illuminated by the beams of projectors - for the time being the projectors displayed nothing but a quivering rainbow band signifying a lack of input. Draped about the War Room's corners were four yellow-crimson banners bearing the lion coat of the Second Republic. The white lions snarled at a massive globe suspended over the central table by a steel cable. Lighting within the glass sphere illuminated the Horn of Africa with an embery red glow.

Beneath the Earth, the high commanders of Spain's military fretted over reams of reports, documents, photocopied dossiers translated from Amharic into Castillian with notes scribbled sloppily on the margins. High Commander Velasquez, broad-shouldered and stoic, maintained a statue-esque composure, mentally preparing himself for the abuse that he would soon be subjected to. Sergio Severino, Head of the Oficina de Inteligencia Militar, huddled with his analysts, poring over reports from field personnel in Africa.

Over the din of a score of military commanders preparing their briefing, there came the sharp rapping of hard soles against cold marble tile. A menetromic 'clack-clack-clack' resounded through the corridors outside, silencing everyone at once. Alfonso Sotelo had arrived.

Armed guards escorted his Excellency into the war room and remained at the entry after closing the door behind him. Clad in pressed tunic jackets with gold-striped slacks and epaulets, the presence of the Guardia Republicana served as a tangible reminder to those present that Sotelo had not yet forgotten the coup attempt of 1978. Never again would he offer his commanders a chance to destroy him. The Prime Minister occupied the vacant seat at the fore end of the table, meeting those anxious faces looking upon him.

"A pleasure to have you in attendance, Excellency." High Commander Velasquez spoke on behalf of the assembled commanders.

"Oh, I certainly hope it to be a pleasure," said Sotelo with a venomous snideness. "I was asked to leave a conference in Gibraltar 'with all deliberate haste' to be briefed on matters concerning the conflict in Ethiopia. As you might imagine, that led me to believe that something grave has transpired. How reassuring, then, that you are pleased to have me! So, by all means, share with me what I trust must be good news!"

Nervous eyes flitted about the War Room, nothing of import had been said and already Sotelo was angry. How would he react when he actually heard what had happened? The collective attention of the war room refocused on the far side of the room - the rainbow band projected upon the wall melted into flickering static before displaying a live telecall video feed. Standing before them on the bridge of a ship three thousand miles away was Admiral Santiago Santin. His lips moved about silently for a few moments before the audio feed could catch up.

//You know, Excellency,// Admiral Santin's staticky voice rasped through the War Room, //it's often said that a picture is worth a thousand words. Before these people try to explain what happened last night, let me show you.// One could almost hear the worried gulps of the commanders as the projector showed Santin's meaty hands grasping his telecall camera and turning it around. The projector's view of the bridge spun about, stopping at the bridge's windshield.

Beyond the glass and the officers and ensigns scurrying about in the foreground, the wake of Ras Hassan was projected for Sotelo and his commanders to see. Half-submerged hulks smoldered above the waterline, six of them were in view of the camera staggered about the intact vessels of the Spanish Armada. Far off in the distance, a truly massive column of black smoke billowed into the air. The mammoth plume rose far into the sky, where stratosphere winds blew it far over the coast.

"How did this happen?" Sotelo asked gravely, steel gray eyes taking in every detail. "Those ships... I was told that their navy was completely destroyed. How did this happen?"

//Their fleet was destroyed at the Mandeb, yes. Their air forces, however, are very much intact.//

"Air forces?" Sotelo was dumbfounded.

//Those were my sentiments as well, Excellency. Our intelligence suggested that the Ethiopians had no air force to speak of. But there they were - two to three hundred fighter aircraft attacked the Armada while the landing was underway.//

"How did this happen?" his Excellency repeated. No responses from the assembled commanders. He bolted upright, knocking the chair out from underneath. "How was this allowed to happen, damn you!"

//I'd like to know the same thing.// Santin spun the camera back to face him. //Nearly 4,000 soldiers and 600 seamen lost their lives last night due of gross incompetence on the part of our intelligence apparatus.// Even Santin, watching from a television screen halfway across the planet, could see Sotelo trembling with fury.

Sergio Severino spoke up for the first time to attempt some measure of damage control. "Certainly, this was a regrettable turn of events, howev-"

//Regrettable?// Santin scoffed. //I will be signing at least 608 letters of condolences to parents and wives in these coming days. These were men whose safety I was personally responsible for. You know nothing of regret, you imbecile.//

Sotelo's soles clacked against the floor as he paced about, his face flush with red fury. His eyes widened as he remembered a critical detail he had overlooked. "Admiral Santin, was the Cascabel damaged?"

//No, your Excellency. She is safe. It would seem we did see some measure of good fortune. If the Africans had known to target that ship... I shudder to think of the consequences.//

"Once our forces had landed on the beach, they did not meet enemy infantry." High Commander Velasquez began; if Admiral Santin was allowed to continue explaining what had transpired, there was a good chance Severino would see the gallows after this briefing. "Upon circumnavigating the burning city, our forces were free to rally and move forward. Even now, General Ponferrada is pressing into the Afar. Contingents of armored cavalry are pursuing the retreating Ethiopian forces as we speak."

//Only after their planes had been dispersed by our Fantasma... which I must add was shot down. If that brave bastard hadn't taken those planes on, I wouldn't be speaking with you today.//

"We lost the Fantasma?!" His Excellency bellowed. Spain's fleet of jet fighters remained in its infancy. The one lost at the battle of Djibouti had been one of only four in the possession of the Republic's fuerza aerea. It would take perhaps a year to replace such a machine. "That same one shot down the Chinese jet, did it not? How did an Ethiopian plane even get close to it?"

//One managed a lucky shot, to be sure.//

"Worry not, Excellency," High Commander Velasquez assured. "Our forces remain nearly 20,000 strong. The Third Mechanized Infantry division is moving into the heart of Ethiopia as we speak. They will catch Ras Hassan's forces and destroy him. And when that happens, there will be nothing between General Ponferrada and Addis Ababa. So quickly will they besiege the capital, that the Yohannes Dynasty will be terrified into capitulation." Sotelo drew an audible sigh, perhaps of relief.

"I do not believe that to be a likely scenario." One of Severino's Ethiopia analysts spoke up, a young professional with slick, combed hair. "We have learned in the preceding days that Emperor Yaqob Yohannes' immediate family had fled the country as the Armada entered the Red Sea. Recall the combat incident report filed by the Fuerza Aerea concerning that skirmish over the Gulf of Aden between the Fantasma and the three Chinese jet aircraft. That pilot had originally been drawn into the area to engage a cargo aircraft heading for Persian airspace. It turns out that very airplane was carrying the royal family to safety. We've wondered how the Chinese fighters were so fast to respond to the engagement, and seeing as the royal family was aboard, we have a reason.

"The Emperor's family is slain?" Sotelo inquired, seemingly hopeful.

"No. The country has been celebrating the fact that the royal family found refuge on a desert island in the Gulf of Aden - Soqotra. They were rescued by the Chinese. The Emperor's wife and child are in the custody of the Chinese now. With his wife and heir safe, we can expect the Emperor to fight to the last."

"Damnable Chinese, the continent is infested with the communists!" Sotelo groaned.

"The Chinese presence in Africa is based on Pemba, Excellency; an island just to the north of Zanzibar," Severino corrected. "Several years ago, Emperor Yaqob offered the communists space on the island for a military facility. We know there to be naval facilities, runways, and housing for a substantial contingent of Chinese personnel."

"But there is another matter of interest in regards to the royal plane." The Ethiopia analyst chimed in once again, holding up a photocopied sheet of Amharic characters. "The Oficina's agents in the field have collected documents that suggest that something else was aboard that plane bound for China."

"Precisely what else was on that plane?" Sotelo demanded.

"That's just the thing, Excellency, it's never specified. But it is noted that this 'parcel' was not recovered by the Chinese. A sense of disappointment is communicated... a loss, perhaps."

"So a box of the royal crockery was lost in the wreckage," Sotelo huffed. "It is no concern of mine."

"Consider the circumstances of how that plane was intercepted. The Fantasma fired upon the plane, and without warning, this state-of-the-art aircraft had it's electrical components shut off. As if God himself had flipped its switch like a lightbulb.

"Lightning, was is not?" Commander Bodevín of the Spanish Air Forces added. "On a clear day, too. I've seen my share of aircraft and I've seen some strange things happen to them. But when I heard about that... very strange, indeed."

"You imply the Ethiopians were carrying some sort of weapon on board that aircraft?" Sotelo asked, suddenly sobered. "You know as well as I do that Africa does not have the technological capacity to realize a device with that sort of power."

"Probably not," the analyst ceded. "But who knows? And if that's what it was, then we need to find it before the Chinese decide to come back for it."

Sotelo paced silently for a few moments, sighed, and turned his attention to the projection of Admiral Santin on the far wall. "Admiral, dispatch whatever vessel you can most readily do without to Soqotra. If this wreckage is even remotely intact, I want it recovered."

//As you wish, your Excellency. If that plane is down there, the Delfín's salvage divers will find it.//

"As for the Ethiopian air force, I will not permit another debacle of this magnitude. I want plans drawn up for an air campaign into the heart of the Pan-African Empire. Every airport, runway, hangar, and fuel depot shall be bombed into oblivion. I will not have enemy aircraft strafing my forces or harassing the supply lines. This threat will be eliminated. Am I understood?"

"Completely, Excellency." Commander Bodevín acknowledged. "However, I must advise you that even from the captured runways at Port Said, our bombers will only have access to fighter escorts throughout the north of Ethiopia."

"Fair enough." Sotelo propped his fallen chair back onto its legs and eased back into his seat at the head of the table. "There is the matter of this Pemba Island as well. I will not accept a Chinese foothold in Africa. I want preparations made for a bombing raid against the Chinese base."

"Excellency, I would advise against such a move," said High Commander Velasquez. "We've came dangerously close to an outright declaration of war from the New People's China with the skirmish over the Gulf of Aden. Chairman Hou might abide a lost jet airplane, but he will not be able to ignore the destruction of an entire base. We can ill afford open war with China now, Excellency."

"After this disaster at Djibouti, I admit I put little stock in your counsel, High Commander. Let the Chinese come, and we shall shock them."

"Our bombers will not be able to go that far and return to Port Said in any case," Commander Bodevín added. "There are simply no available runways anywhere near that area."

"That is not true, Commander Bodevín." Sotelo looked up to the colossal globe hanging above them all, and pointed up at the great island just off Africa's eastern coast.

"We can use Madagascar."

potato

Holhol, 40km West of Djibouti

Ras Hassan was being boiled alive in a rubber undersuit, and that did not make him happy.

He made his headquarters on the flat roof of an abandoned mudbrick home, where he could see the village and its every approach. Ethiopian soldiers filled the plain in temporary camps, while the Islamic Afar who lived here tried to go about their lives in their small village of Holhol. The eastern horizon was blotted out by a shadowy mountain of thick black smoke, leaving behind a grey haze that filled the air with a nasty stench, like that of a burning trash heap. The village lay at the meeting place of two dry river beds which only carried water when the rains came. Across a scrubby desert were the hills that surrounded Djibouti, and it was there that the Ethiopian army made its stand. From Holhol, all that Hassan could hear were the muffled claps of artillery shells, and the occasional report of a machine gun carried by the wind.

"The Spanish will break through here." an officer argued, pointing to a place on the map. "The line has fallen back twenty miles. The enemy will try and use the main road to move their armored battalions to the front, and they will do it quick."

"I agree." another officer said. "We need to bolster the left flank if we are going to hold them back long enough to effect a retreat."

"A retreat." Hassan spat the word. He had planned this battle knowing that he would be falling back almost as soon as it started. Still, the concept of retreat was bitter, and it made him feel almost as sour as the rubber suit did. "We will plan this as we go. They are moving quick." He sighed and leaned into the table. "These Spaniards, they are like locusts. You can watch a cloud of them come at you and plan for how horrible they will be, but when they arrive you find you're still unprepared."

"We must start the evacuation to Dire Dawa soon." an officer urged. Before he was finished speaking, a commotion in the dust-filled street below drew their attention. A small crowd of villagers were shouting insults at soldiers deconstructing a train trellis. The trellis was a steel structure that crossed a dry riverbed and connected with a station just on the other side. As far as train stations went, this one was modest, but it was the only advanced job available to the locals. These people - the ink-skinned Afar of the low desert - would be forced to carve a living out of the rock now that the Ethiopians were taking away the train.

"Ras." a soldier reported. "What do we do with them?"

"The locals?"

The soldier nodded.

"Offer the men a chance to fight. Remind them of those shiftas who came in to conduct raids on the enemy. If they want to be men like those men are men, they should fight with us." The whine of steel echoed through the valley like the moans of an abandoned warehouse, temporarily cloaking the distant sound of guns.

"What plans do we have in place for the dash back to the highlands?" a tank officer inquired. "I need to know, so I can prepare my boys for what's to come."

Hassan felt like snapping at the man for asking probing questions, but he did not. It was not an unreasonable thing to ask, but there was a primal anger throbbing in the Ras's core. The sense of defeat, the slimy puckered feeling his gas-suit gave his skin, and the murderous temperatures of the Afar triangle were affecting his mind.

"I... we will." he took a breath and composed himself. "We will call on the air force to help. It's not my plan to hold the Danakil any longer than needed. Don't expect a drawn out fight with the Spanish armor."

"It would be suicidal." the tank officer agreed.

"On open ground, their contraptions would make paste of ours. We'll save our strength for the inland. There, we will have the advantage."

There was more shouting now, this time coming from the Ethiopian soldiers. They were scampering from the site of the trellis; from Hassan's point of view they looked like ants fleeing from a damaged ant hill. The trellis was leaning precariously to one side now, held up by a few rusty beams. Something had went wrong.

"Get them out of there before they kill themselves." Hassan said to nobody in particular, though it was not like they had needed his orders to scramble.

"That is good steel." an officer said wistfully. "It is a shame to damage it."

"This entire day is enough of a mess as it is." Hassan replied. "I don't want to add getting defeated by a fucking bridge to my list of problems."

A soldier rushed up the stairs and onto the roof as if Hassan had called him telepathically. "Ras..."

"Tell them to dynamite the shit-heap if they need to, just get it out of here cleanly." Hassan ordered. The soldier flitted back down the stairs just as quick as he had appeared.

"This desert is no good for us." Hassan grumbled loudly, patting the sweat on his brow. "It's too fucking hot."

"We've struggled to keep water flowing..."

"I know." Hassan snapped. He looked out to the east now, watching the mountain of smoke on the horizon. The inferno he had ordered. History might hate him in the future, but he felt vindicated that he had done the right thing. The thought of Spaniards struggling in the corpse-choked ashes was enough for him to be satisfied with his decision.

"They are in my hills. God damn them all, these are not their hills, but I cannot chase them out." he turned around to the other men. "If we're going to pull out of here, we'll need a counter attack."

"Where..." one officer started, but he was interrupted by a second.

"The left flank. Pin them to the road."

"Yes." Hassan agreed. "Exactly that! If we can stop their armor from advancing, they won't be able to push us. Not for a time, at least."

"I'll assemble some divisions from the reserves."

"I will take them them to the front." Hassan stated.

"You..."

"I will."

The officer nodded and left the roof.

Hassan looked east toward the smoke and wondered. Where exactly was the fighting now? How quick were the Spaniards moving? He couldn't tell from here, not by sight. All he saw was smoke and rock. He wanted to be on the battlefield, fighting in the same blood-soaked pits that his men were dying in. He wanted to kill something, and feel the satisfaction of watching it bleed.

"I will update air command." the second officer excused himself. Behind him, the tank officer followed, leaving Hassan alone.

He watched where a makeshift field hospital had been set up. It was inside another abandoned home. People had fled Holhol along with the refugees from Djibouti, leaving many of the old stone houses derelict. Sometimes, he could hear the wounded crying above the battle sounds. They would not get much help in that hospital; they would have to wait to be sent back to Ethiopia before they could expect proper treatment. Out here, they had alcohol for killing pain and knives to do the rest. He watched a woman carrying a bucket of water from a well just out of town. She wore a floral patterned hijab over a dusty red dress. Hassan noticed how she avoided places where soldiers were lingering. When she passed the field hospital, she stared at it as if it were haunted.

The sudden whining hum of an speeding vehicle put everyone on edge. Hassan gripped the parapet and watched the dirt road to the south, where the sound seemed to be coming from. It seemed as if at any moment it would appear on the horizon, the echo teasing them with the impression that the vehicle was approaching perpetually from the southern road. When it did finally appear from behind a hill, Hassan's heart skipped a beat.

It was a Spanish armored truck, and it was throttling into camp at top speed.

Some soldiers fired their rifles at it in a panicked frenzy, but the enemy did not shoot back. Instead, they cried out in celebratory shouts that did not sound European. Who were these drivers? Where had they came from? He rushed downstairs and outside to meet them.

"They are ours." a Palestinian guardsman said near the bottom of the step, pointing to the truck. Hassan squinted and tried to see.

"They are the shiftas." the Palestinian added. It all clicked into place in Hassan's mind right then. They had went out to raid, and somehow they had stolen an armored truck. The same recognition was slowly setting in for the other Ethiopians, and their apprehension soon turned to hoots and laughter when they realized what had happened. As the truck came to a stop in the center of the village, the shiftas hopped out like giddy children who had just taken their first ride in a car.

Shiftas were outlaws in the official record - the vigilantes and gunslingers of rural East Africa, and the heirs of a time when village warlords ruled the highlands. They stood as monuments to a fading history of swashbuckling banditry and cattle raids, when shiftas could rise to be Emperor and the Emperor's were little more than powerful shiftas. In the modern world, they were the unofficial police of the countryside, prevailing in the rural places where Yaqob's city-based government was absent. These were rough men, with big wooly afros and wild facial hair. They wore an inconsistent mix of clothing, some with traditional robes and tunics as common as surplus military clothes. For weapons, they carried whatever they could get a hold of - rifles, shotguns, swords. Many carried the knock-off Chinese assault rifles the Ethiopian government manufactured to keep the people of Africa armed.

"Brothers!" Hassan greeted the men. He shook their leader's hand and patted him on the back. "You bring me this?"

The shifta looked back at his prize with glowing pride. It was decidedly Spanish - a new, sleek type of vehicle that looked almost like a small tank. Blood was smeared along the inside of the driver's side door so thick that Hassan could see gel-like clots dripping from the bottom. The shiftas were greedily pulling stolen equipment out of its seats.

"How did you take it?" Hassan asked. For a moment, he forgot about his bad mood.

With a smile, the lead shifta tapped the side of his head as if he was pointing to his brain. "I do not think they knew what to expect. They expected to see an army, but we came from the dust."

"Where did you take it?"

"Loyada."

Hassan's eyes went wide for a moment, like those of a lion watching his pride-mates make a kill. "Loyada is on the coast. You brought this from that far away?"

"We did not take the roads. We drove in the riverbeds, and on the old paths where the ferengi don't go. It is true, we were shot at, but that is what happens in war. But come." the shifta smiled wider now. "We have another gift for the Ras."

They led him around back, to where another shifta held tightly to the handle of a closed rear door. "There was a slaughter in Loyada, did you know? The ferengi murdered everyone in that town, even the old ladies in their sick beds. And the children. They murdered everyone." the tone of the conversation grew somber then. Nearby, an Ethiopian soldier spat. "So we did not have mercy. No, there was no mercy for the ferengi who did that thing."

The lead shifta waved his hand and, with a sudden jerk, his cohort opened the back of the truck. A man poured out onto the ground. He was white - a Spanish soldier. He was not conscious, and with his deathly pallor and shrunken appearance, Hassan thought he was dead at first. It was the layer of sweat dripping from his skin that indicated he was alive.

The shiftas had tied a rope around his torso, and they dragged him along the ground like a log as both soldiers and shiftas spat on him. His face was battered and bruised so badly that it looked like a rotten pomegranate, and his breathing seemed labored and broken. His clothing was disheveled and torn, and his pants were caked in blood. The blood on his pants, and on his bare stomach, told Hassan everything that the shiftas failed to say themselves. They had captured this man and beat him.

And then they had emasculated him.

In the old world of tribal warfare, castration made sense. It had been a way for warring tribes to cause lasting damage to each other. It meant that an enemy warrior couldn't have children, and when so many wars were little more than village versus village, every warrior was important. There was a symbolry to it as well. It meant that, when you defeated a man, you could deprive him of his manhood entirely, showing your own dominance. It was said that many Italian prisoners has been castrated at Adwa, though nobody had eve proven that claim, and Hassan had once heard Emperor Yohannes claim that Menelik 'Asked his soldiers to give him the men, not their testicles'.

The Ras knew he was dealing with something precarious here. The man - this Spaniard - was already defeated, so Hassan did not see any point in abusing him now. There was something to say about scaring the Spaniards with this sort of treatment, making them fear for their genitals any time they were sent on patrol, but there was another detail that Hassan understood. In bombing Djibouti, he had enacted an old custom. When the innocent died on a battlefield, it was considered a tragedy, but an understandable one. But mutilation of prisoners... that was something that foreigners did not approve of. It was true, he had used mutilation as a weapon in the past. He had ordered the arms of children chopped off in order to dissolve the rebellion of the Rouge General, but that had been different. That had been a civil war, but this conflict was larger. In this war, the opinions of foreign powers mattered. Hassan knew he needed to quash this quietly.

"This is revenge, brothers!" the Shifta leader shouted, kicking the Spaniard in the side. Aside from the force of the kick, he did not move. He was dying, and Hassan knew it. He leaned to one of his Palestinians and whispered.

"When this is over with, take this man out to the desert and give him mercy. Burn his body and bury it afterwards."

The Palestinian nodded and Hassan eased up.

"You have won a great victory!" Hassan proclaimed to the shiftas, "But tell me, where is the fighting?"

"The ferengi push along the south-east road, and along the west road." the shifta leader explain. "Your men still hold the south road very near to the city. I think they are trying to trap you."

"I agree." Hassan said. "Are your men tired, or do they want to help me fight this war?"

"We are not done for today."

Hassan nodded. "I am going to the front myself to reinforce the north. I would like you and this armored car to join me."

"We will follow."

Hassan turned to another one of his Palestinians and barked an order that everyone around him could hear. "Get me a sniper team. I'm going to go kill some ferengi!"

The air filled with war-cries as Hassan climbed into the passenger's seat of the armored truck.

--

"My girl is not a tall girl." the Afar tribesman sung. Two of them, young men from Holhol, had taken up Hassan's offer and joined the fight. "My girl is not a short girl. "My girl is perfect, my girl is medium."

They sang these lines from time to time, intermixed with other old caravan songs. They sat in the back of the armored truck, invited by Hassan to ride along with them as a reward for their bravery. Some of the shiftas, including their leader, rode inside the truck as well, while their comrades clung to its roof. These two groups - the shiftas of Ethiopia and the Afar goatherds - did not look the same. Where the shiftas wore dusty tunics and robes, the Afar wore sarongs and waistcoats. The shiftas had unkempt bushy hair and beards, but the Afar wore no facial hair, and used butter to tightly curl the hair on their heads in a way that made them look like Ancient Egyptians.

Hassan watched through the shrunken window of the armored truck and inspected the surrounding land for signs of battle. Here, closer to the front line, the haze was thicker. They were get closer to the wreckage of Djibouti, who's black-smoke cloud filled the sky with a grey smog. He could see the sun moving into the western sky. It was a pale circle, so weak that he could stare into it without any discomfort. There was something other-wordly about this landscape, and the sight of the military caravan following Hassan to reinforce the front line. They looked like the last survivors of an apocalyptic war.

The hillscape surrounding Djibouti was as series of webbing bluffs, most crowned with sandstone caps. Flat-topped acacia trees grew interspersed in parched wadi's and thin valleys. It was a difficult land, where the only places to hide were behind rocks or in the shadows of cliff faces. This did not mean the Ethiopians lacked any advantage at all. Most roads here were goat paths, save for the one paved highway that meandered west from Djibouti into the Danakil desert. This was also one of the hottest places in the world, and the further you went from the sea the hotter it got. Temperatures in Djibouti hovered around 100 degrees Fahrenheit in the summer - which would be considered a cool day in the Danakil, where temperatures typically reached 120.

The evidence of battle slowly appeared as they drove along. They saw where a stray Spanish rocket had overshot its target and struck the ground near an Acacia tree, impaling a camel with a splinter of wood. The beast lay dying, simmering in its own blood. Soldiers were appearing on the roadside more frequently now. After they passed an Ethiopian encampment in the flats, groups of soldiers became a common sight. They were leaving the front bloodied, or approaching it with the distant stare of battle-hardened men already in their eyes. There were more rocket craters now - blackened patches of land where the foliage still burned. One they passed had a smear of blood covering the rocks around it, as if the force of the impact had completely obliterated an unlucky man.

The road was approaching a bend now, where it entered a narrow pass between the hills. That is where they were confronted by an Ethiopian soldier standing and waving his rifle in their path and holding his palm out to stop them. The Palestinian driver stopped the vehicle and climbed out of the car. Hassan followed. As he opened the door, the echo of distant rifle reports washed over him all at once.

"What is up here, soldier?"

"Ras." he said surprised, bending his arm in an informal salute. "I did not know you were coming."

"I wanted to get some fighting in before you men finish this thing." Hassan replied. "But tell me, what is up there?"

The soldier pointed to a thin plume of grey smoke climbing from the mountain. "That is a Spanish tank that is burning. One of our mortars got it, and now it is blocking the road."

"How far?"

"About a mile. The enemy is trying to clear the hills all around here so they can get through."

"How far have they pushed into the hills?"

"Not far." the soldier tapped the butt of his rifle against the ground. "We fell back after the rockets came, but we have learned how to hide from them. They only come from one direction, and there are many rocks to hide behind here."

Hassan was satisfied with this information. They climbed back into the truck and heading up a ravine.

The armored truck had not been made for driving off-road like this, but the Palestinian managed to pilot it up a cracked stream-bed. They were seeing corpses now, all Ethiopians with their bodies twisted in uncomfortable ways. Some had been stripped of their equipment, ammo, and boots, leaving them in their bare uniforms. He could see the wisps of new smoke coming from the top of a nearby hill. Those were Ethiopian mortars, he knew. They were firing on the distant road where the Spaniards were trying to push forward.

When they reached the point where the truck no longer could move, they climbed out and walked the rest of the way. Another soldier met them and agreed to lead them to the front line. The reserve unit arrived behind them in off-road troop trucks, where they unloaded and were shown where to go by the officers on the ground. That left Hassan with his Palestinians, the sniper team, the shiftas, and the two Afar tribesmen.

There was several steep climbs and treacherous descents across rocky terrain before they reached the true front line. It was not an obvious thing - only a handful of men hiding behind rocks and in shallow foxholes dug in the difficult soil, surrounded by the bloodied figures of the wounded and the dead. They were exchanging fire with a Spanish platoon in the valley below. Even though the Ethiopians had the advantage in terrain, the Spanish had better supplies, and the Ethiopians were running low on ammunition.

"Ras." the Ethiopian battalion leader greeted with a cackling smile. Hassan found cover behind a thick slab of granite. "It is good to see you up here with us."

"I was bored back there." Hassan replied. "This is too ripe of a fight to miss."

"We have them pinned." the battalion leader peaked around a corner long enough to aim before taking a shot. "But not for long. I have been told there will be another rocket strike in an hour. When that happens, we will have to stop shooting and they will move up the valley."

"Allahu ackbar!" the Afar were shouting now, firing in the direction of the enemy. When they stood up to shoot, the gile knifes hanging from their belts slapped them in the hip. A gile knife is a twenty inch blade that is curved at the end. They are all purpose, designed with slaughtering goats in mind, but it said that they also use them to emasculate enemies. Hassan's mind drifted back to the dying Spaniard back in Holhol. Had that inspired them to fight? It was a morbid thought.

Hassan looked back at the shiftas and gave them a nod. Their leader understood, and led his men away. "We will have to put pressure on them then." Hassan said.

The sniper team was in position now; two men, one a spotter and the other a sniper. They were slow in finding targets. The Spaniards had been at this for long enough to know where to hide.

"Look there." Hassan pointed to the side of a nearby hill. It was difficult to see if you did not know what you were looking for. Movement. The shiftas covered themselves in dust so that their clothes blended in with the shade of brown that surrounded them. They moved like wild dogs - men peeling away from the main group as they looked for decent hiding places to shoot from. The end result would be such a varied number of angles that the enemy would struggle to find a place to hide.

The tension was thick now. It would take only one Spaniard to notice the approaching shiftas and their game would be up. There would be casualties that Hassan couldn't pull out of the valley. How would the Spanish treat prisoners when they discovered them to be insurgents rather than enemy soldiers?

There was a whistle, and then a pop, followed by a yelp. One of the Afar had been struck by a bullet, and he was holding his belly and screaming like a man being murdered. His friend was trying to comfort him until he could be carried away, but he did not stop screaming. That only made the tension thicker. The sniper took a shot, but Hassan did not see where it hit. "Miss" the spotter announced.

The echo of the sniper shot had not yet faded when the valley below erupted in a storm of rifle fire. Hassan did not know who pounced first; the shiftas, or the Spaniards. Whoever had started it, the fight was now on. The Africans were firing at the flank of the hiding Spanish, who were being forced to find new dens. In the chaos, some of them were left exposed to fire from the hill. The Ethiopians fired as quick as they could aim, except for the sniper. To Hassan, it seemed as if the sniper was making all of the kills.

"Sniper!" Hassan called. "Let me have a go!" Both men, the sniper and his spotter, stared at Hassan with surprise.

"The enemy is very close. This is an easy shot to make." the sniper replied. He offered Hassan his spot. "Here, try it then."

Hassan slid into place, the rubber undersuit squeaking as wrinkled and rubbed against itself. When Hassan put his eye to the scope, the whole world seemed to be a blur. He brought the ground into focus until he could see the Spanish soldiers hiding in the rocks below.

He realized this was his first true view of the enemy. There they were, in crisp khaki battle dress with combat helmets strapped to their heads in nervous haste. Hassan could even see the yellow and red patches on their sleeves. Before he could take a shot, they moved, and he swung wildly to compensate.

"Nudge to the left." the spotter said, simplifying his language. Hassan was fine with that. He followed suit. There was a body in his sights now, and he pulled the trigger.

"Miss."

As Hassan reloaded, he looked to see where the shiftas were. The battle had settled now. From here, he could not see if there were any African casualties. He steadied himself, aimed, and sought another target. This time, he saw the top of a man's head bob above a rock. He took a shot. The recoil spat dust in his eye.

"Miss."

He reloaded and took another shot. This time he held his breath when he found a target. He pulled the trigger.

"Miss."

"Captain." As he reloaded, Hassan shouted to the officer who had been in charge before he arrived. "You said the rockets are support to be here soon?"

"It will be about forty minutes now." the officer shouted.

"I'll get your men off this rock before then. We're replacing units here with fresh troops. How would you like to rest in Dire Dawa?"

"I would like that." the officer grinned. "Are we retreating?"

That word. Hassan tensed at the sound of it. "We have done all we need to do here. Our advantages are wearing out, now we're just guarding a damnable desert."

"I will follow you." the officer replied.

Hassan leveled for another shot. He slowed his breath and waited. Another opportunity presented itself.

"Miss."

Hassan realized he wasn't much of a sniper, but he was determined to get a kill. He wondered if the true sniper was irritated with him. It did not matter. Hassan was in command. He reloaded, aimed, and waited again. And when an opportunity presented itself...

...the man was aiming at disappeared behind a rock, but another shifted behind him as sudden as Hassan pulled the trigger. Hassan saw a spray of red, and then nothing.

"Hit!" the spotter said. "That was a hit!"

House of Representatives
United States Capitol
Washington DC

"The gentleman from California is recognized."

Congressman Harlan Lewis gripped the small lectern set up in the House chamber. The chamber was a ghost town at a quarter past one in the afternoon, everyone except the non-partisan clerical employees were still taking their usual long lunches. The laxness around both the House and Senate was typical in the height of summer when there were no big bills looming. After pushing for the nationalization of NEWI, the White House was mum on the rest of its legislative agenda. Congress knew a fight was coming, but they expected it from the Democratic president. Nobody had any idea that Republican Harlan Lewis would be the one to ignite it.

The recent election marked Lewis' third successful reelection campaign. California's 9th District was an easy win for any Republican candidate. It was mostly white and mostly middle class. Even the big Hispanic population in the district had comfortable incomes and conservative ideals. Even during the Socialist years they sent Republicans to Congress. The voters in his district didn't care about pork barrel or appropriations, they just wanted someone with an R next to their name on the ballot, someone to keep their taxes down. The most remarkable thing about Lewis' six years in Congress so far had been sponsoring a resolution naming a bridge in his state after early California Senator John C. Fremont.

"Mr. Speaker," Lewis said to the junior congressman who acted as speaker pro tem when Clay Foulke wasn't on the floor.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the House I'd like to introduce an appropriations bill for consideration. This bill will authorize the United States government to provide foreign aid to the people and citizens of Ethiopia. The purpose of this bill is not to assist the government and military engaged in war with the Spanish Republic, but the families who are being forced to flee their homes under threat of loss of life and property."

The half-dozen clerks sitting at the triple dais stirred at Lewis' announcement. The speaker pro tem raised an eyebrow at the congressman before whispering to a clerk beside him. The clerk scuttled off in a hurry while the speaker nodded.

"Bill will be formally introduced as House Resolution 2601 and will be referred to the House Appropriations Committee."

The clerk banged the gavel and Lewis walked from the lectern with shaky legs.



"Who the fuck is Harlan Lewis?" Clay Foulke snarled as he stalked out of his office and down a capitol corridor.

Dwight Hayes, the Democratic Majority Leader, ran after Clay in a desperate rush and called after him. Clay couldn't hear Hayes' voice over the sound of his own pulse. They had been in Clay's office just moments earlier, having a post-lunch confab with the democratic leadership and a few heads of the various democratic caucuses that made up the House Democrats. They were in the middle of their bull session when a secretary came in with a scrap of paper that had the news scribbled on it.

The Republicans. The fucking Republicans.

As Speaker, Clay could control his own party through clout with the Appropriations Committee and congressional committee assignments. A lot of what made him keep the Democrats in line didn't work with the Republicans. They were the minority party. They couldn't be bought with promises of plumb assignments since they wouldn't have a chance to really influence committee decisions. Earmarking money for their home district didn't work either, since they could make political hay out of fighting the big bad Democrats who were neglecting their constituents in a shoddy showing of partisan politics.

"Clay!" Hayes called out as he ran as fast as his chubby body could carry him.

He caught up and placed a beefy hand on Clay's neck, guiding him gently down the corridor and into a nook off to the side of the hallway. Clay continued to fume while Hayes looked around to make sure nobody was in earshot before speaking.

"This is what we wanted," he said softly. "This is what the White House wants, right?"

"Not like this," Clay hissed. "The president was going to ask Congress to allocate funds first. This guy, this Lewis guy, he threw a monkey wrench into the whole goddamn thing. The Republicans have the initiative now, they're--"

"In the minority," Hayes said with a slight grin. "They could introduce a House bill calling for the US to be reabsorbed the UK and it won't make a bit of goddamn difference without the votes. It's their bill, but it's our Congress, Mr. Speaker. The Senate is another ballgame, but we can get that bill through committee without breaking a sweat and with a Republican author it'll be a landslide vote on the House floor."

Clay crossed his arms and leaned against the wall of the nook where they were sequestered and sigh.

"You're right. I still don't like it, but you're right. The White House won't like it, though."

"Who cares? The president needs to learn that we pass legislation, not him."

Clay shrugged Hayes off and started back down the hallway, this time slower and a lot less furious.

"Where you going?" Hayes called after Clay.

"To find Harlan Lewis and scare the shit out of him," Clay said with a wry smile.



Nashville, Tennessee

"It's been a long time coming, but I know a change is gonna come."

The crowd chanted and sang their song as they marched towards the Tennessee state capitol. Unlike the march in Jackson months ago, this march was calm and orderly. The police presence was large but passive, staying on the sidewalks and protecting the black protesters against white counter-protestors. On the state capitol's fifth floor, Vice President Russell Reed watched the protest from the large window in the governor's office.

"Agitation is what it is!"

Russell turned to face Tennessee governor Jimmy Fogle. Fogle was tall, lean, and bald with a prominent hook nose. He had at least four inches on Russell and loved to get in close to anybody he wanted to intimidate or cajole.

"They just want to start trouble," Fogle said with a finger pointed towards the oncoming protestors. "They want the police to beat their asses and make us look like a bunch of mindless thugs. They're all communist, Russ. We give into the blacks, won't be long before we're giving in to Beijing."

Russell turned back to the window. He saw the black man with glasses at the front of the group. The FCB and a host of other law agencies briefed Russell on the man known as the Ethiopian. Despite all the information, this was the first time Russell laid eyes on the man. he was surprised at his age. He was young, not much older than Russell's own sons. The stories being told about this young man made it seem he was hardened anarchist. Russell saw the fire and the passion, but he saw that in all the those marching towards the capital.

"You don't think it's time?"

"Time for what?" Fogle asked.

"For them to have what they were promised so long ago."

"They got it," Fogle spat. "They just don't know how to use it. They wanna whine about segregation and Jim Crow when they've never had it better before!"

Russell's mind went back in time. He focused on a middle aged man in the crowd. He had bruises and cuts on his face. Battlescars. The man marched beside a young woman who had to be his daughter. They held hands and the man sung the protest song through a wired shut mouth.

"I'm from Georgia," he said softly. "Lavonia. That's my hometown in Georgia. I always remember he dilapidated outhouses they labelled "COLOREDS ONLY" while the "WHITES ONLY" outhouses were kept spotless. I was just ten years old when the town organized a lynch mob to go after a black man in nearby Danielsville. He had the audacity to steal a chicken from a white farm. This was during the height of the Depression and he stole the chicken to feed his six children. They tied him to the bumper of a car and drug him through town slowly, screaming his head off while white men, women, and children threw rocks at him. They stoned him to death for doing something a white man would have been simply fined for."

Russell turned his gaze from the window and looked up at Fogle, narrowing his eyes.

"Oh, yeah. They've never had it better."

"Russ--"

"When you address me, you address my title. Vice President of the United States. I think we're done here."

Russell headed out of the governor's office before Fogle could muster a response.



"It's been a long time coming, but I know a change is gonna come," James Calhoun said through clamped shut teeth.

His broken jaw was getting better, but he still needed the wire and the mesh to keep it in place as it finished healing. His daughter Sarah made up for his handicap by singing twice as loud as they marched. They were just a few people back from Isiah Wolde himself, holding hands and staying together in the jostling crowd that marched towards the state house. The crowd was still mostly black, but plenty of white people were starting to join the crowd. Most of them were impassioned northerners, a few were from the south but they were few and far between. Along with their usual signs promoting equal rights for blacks, there was plenty of Ethiopian imagery. Sarah and Wolde were among the countless who wore Ethiopian flag pins. A few people in the crowd waved Ethiopian flags and held up anti-Spanish signs.

James felt a surge of pride at the rally. They were finally making a stand on something and being allowed to protest. Along with showing the world they would stand and be counted, they also showed that they stood with their brothers and sisters in Africa. Their problems were vastly different, but at the heart of it they were both fighting a struggle for freedom and self-determination.

The doors to the state house opened as the crowd approached. A line of state troopers with riot shields were already there waiting for them to cross some imaginary line. While James was nervous of a repeat of Jackson, news people gathered on the sidewalk made the possibility a dim one. Tennessee didn't want to become the new Mississippi. From the open doors, a half dozen men in black suits marched out followed by someone James didn't recognize. He was a white man with dark hair and a navy colored suit. He waved at the crowd, the men in suits followed him and formed a protective barrier past the state troopers. The guards helped the man navigate the crowd until he was face to face with Wolde himself. James was jostled back by security, but still close enough to overhear the conversation.

"Isiah Wolde," he asked with a thick southern accent. He held his hand out for Wolde. "I'm Vice President Russell Reed. President Norman sent me here to speak to you."

Wolde nodded and shook Reed's hand.

"About time you showed up, Mr. Vice President."

Boston

Elliot Shaw felt out of place in the swanky restaurant. The headwaiter brought him in through the back. Elliot walked through the kitchen in the waiter's wake. Italians chattered in their native tongue while music blasted out a radio above the stove. A steak sizzled in a pan of oil. Fire flared by Elliot's shoulder. He flinched while the Italians laughed and said something to him he couldn't understand. The waiter shot them a look and reeled off a stream of words in Italian. He apologized to Elliot and pushed through the kitchen door into the rear dining area.

The restaurant was made up to look like the old dining cars trains had. Big booths, small tables, cheap steak and watered down hooch all for the low low price of twenty bucks a plate. Liam Kane sat in a booth in the rear, his head down and in his plate. The waiter led Elliot to the booth. Kane looked up at him and gnoshed a rare porterhouse with a baked potato and asparagus. A buck fifty soaking wet and he could put away amounts of food that would make a fat man blush. Off to the side of the plate sat a tumbler of scotch. Food crumbs flaked his expensive suit. The white shirt collar stained with steak sauce. Elliot did the math. It would take him at least four well paying jobs to buy a suit like that. His own outfit, a checkered sports jacket and white shirt with a blue tie and matching pants, had been glommed from a department store.

This year marked Elliot Shaw's sixth as a private investigator. He worked for members of the Commonwealth's elite through their high-priced lawyers. He was used to sites like the one in front of him, a man gorging himself on a steak that very few could afford. While the rich and powerful made their messes, guys like Elliot Shaw were the ones that they always called when they needed them cleaned up. The corridors of power were filled with men like him, men who stood just off to the side with supressor fitted pistols.

"Mr. Shaw," Kane said with a mouth full of food.

"Councilman Kane."

The waiter left quickly. Elliot sat and watched Kane continue eating. His eyes darted towards the scotch. The sight made his mouth water. Two years since his last drink and the shit still smelled like heaven. Kane wiped his mouth and finally took a break from the food.

"Thank you for meeting me here today. Do you want something to eat? Something to drink?"

"I'll pass."

Kane nodded and dug into his baked potato.

"Morty Hartman at Hartman-Leverett turned me on to you. He said you've done good work for the Kennedy family in the past. You made your bones as a detective, yes?" Kane asked between bites. "A BPD sergeant before you became a gumshoe. Can you tell me why I wanted to meet you here today?"

Elliot sat up and adjusted his tie. He focused on the slop on Kane's plate while he spoke. Elliott didn't want to meet his gaze, he was afraid of what he might say or do at the sight of the man's smug little face.

"You need something done quietly. If you're reaching out to me then you know my reputation. I get things done with no muss and no fuss. I know enough about you to know that you're upwardly mobile, councilman. I'd say you're eying a new job down the line, either mayor of Boston or something in the state legislature. Whatever it is that's plaguing you, it's enough of a problem to where you have to call in outside help and not get some BPD goons to help you with it. You want whatever it is handled fast and with as little noise as possible."

Kane nodded slowly, biting a piece of steak and slowly savoring its taste. When he was done, the man wiped blood from his lips with a cloth napkin.

"Right on all accounts. '82 will be an election year and I plan to run for the state Senate. From there who knows where I land up? There are a lot of people out there interested in getting in the Liam Kane business, Mr. Shaw, and me owing you is something I'm sure you'll appreciate."

"Where do I come in?" Elliot asked. "Want me to be your running mate? I imagine a Kane/Shaw ticket in '84 could at least win Massachusetts."

"Funny," said Kane. "Morty said you were funny. No, I need you to find someone for me?"

Elliot raised an eyebrow. "Who? Your father? Long lost cousin? An illegitimate son you put up for adoption?"

"Nothing that sexy. It's actually an employee of mine. Jane Wilson is part of my office's secretarial staff. She's been missing for two days now."

"And this doesn't go to the BPD why?"

Kane flashed a tight smile. "She went missing shortly after some very sensitive documents missing from my office. I have good reason to believe Miss Wilson took them. If those documents fall into the wrong hands.."

"Then the Liam Kane business will be a short lived endeavor. It's not about finding your secretary, right? To hell with her as long as I get those documents back."

"You got it."

Elliot started to open his mouth before Kane silenced him by pulling out a wad of bills. He peeled off two one hundred dollar bills before peeling off a third.

"Tell me when, Mr. Shaw."

Elliot said when after Kane got to the ninth bill. The city councilman calmly put his wad of bills up and slid the nine hundred dollars across the table to him. He tucked the money into his jacket pocket.

"Mr. Kane, you have got yourself a PI."

"That's for the first week. More forthcoming upon your successful return of those files."

Kane winked.

"By any means necessary, Mr. Shaw."



Detroit

Billy Carter stepped into the batter's box and choked up on his bat. Eight teenage black boys covered the baseball diamond at all the positions. Clark Johnson stood on the mound, his lanky arms down by his side and the worn old cowhide ball in his left hand. Petey Harris squatted behind Billy and slapped a chubby fist into the catcher's mitt.

Every evening about twenty of them gathered to play ball, enough for two teams of nine and a few bench players. They all knew each other from around the neighborhood, all of them were between the ages of twelve and eighteen. Joe Leroy out in centerfield was about to turn nineteen and was the oldest by at least six months. Most of them worked jobs, having dropped out of the local high schools from lack of interest or the need to work and help support their families. Billy was part of the latter. He'd turn seventeen back in May and was already an old hand down at the machine shop where he ran a lathe. He made shit pay and worked from six to six, but he was the oldest of five brothers and sisters and was expected to help his mother and father.

"C'mon, Clark," Petey said with a heehawing laugh. "Burn his ass up."

"The only thing about to burn is the soles of my shoes," said Billy. "You sumbitches ain't ever seen a man run like me."

Clark went into his windup. Billy felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up as Clark's long left arm snapped forward like a rubber band. The old leather ball was hurling towards Petey's mitt so fast the stitches were a blur of color.

The next thing Billy felt was the delicious tingle that ran from his hands and up his arms. The vibration from the bat making solid contact with the ball. He saw the thing hurtling towards the outfield in a low line drive before he turned towards first and took off. Billy was shorter than average, which was why his speed surprised so many people. The secret was that he had a short torso, but long and spindly legs that chewed up baselines like a fat man chewed up bacon.

The ball landed in the outfield as Billy was rounding first. Joe Leroy was upon it like lightning. He took his momentum from running up on it and put it in his throw to second. Billy was halfway to second when Joe let the ball fly. Mike Maxwell was already on second, watching the ball rocket towards his glove while keeping track of Billy out the corner of his eye. Billy knew it was going to be close. He went into second diving head first. Dirt filled his eyes as he slid towards the bag. The snap of the glove followed the feel of his chest hitting the bag, followed a micro second later by Mike's tag on his bag. Too late.

"What'd I say," Billy shouted as he stood up and brushed the dirt from his chest. "The boy is just too damn fast for his good."

"And his mouth is too damn loud for his own good," Devo Baker said from third base.

"Keep talking, Devo," Billy said with a wide grin. "I'm coming for yo ass next. I'm about to show you up like I showed Mike up."

"Try it, Negro," Devo snapped back. "And suffer the motherfucking consequences."

Dougie Turman came up to bat now. Dougie worked at a stockyard near the outskirts of town, shoveling cow shit and throwing huge bales of hay for ten hours a day. The work made Dougie's muscles ripped. Of all the kids playing, Dougie was the biggest home run threat among them.

Billy took a wide lead as Clark got set. A quick snap of Clark's head back to second sent Billy sliding back into to the base to avoid a quick tag from Mike. Clark went back to face the batter's box and Billy took another long lead. Clark, trying to throw fast but not trying to throw something Dougie could hit, tossed a ball into the dirt at Petey's feet. Billy was headed to third halfway through Clark's throwing motion. Petey bobbled the ball and Billy went into third standing upright.

"Sorry, Devo," Billy said with a wink. "Didn't get a chance to show you up. Petey saw to that."

Devo rolled his eyes and went back to covering third.

"Coming for you, Petey," Billy called out from third. "You bobble that damn ball again, and I'll be able to take my time stealing home."

"Fuck you, Billy," Petey barked. "Always gotta take this shit too seriously."

Billy smiled and started to take his lead. It was true what Petey said and he realized it. Most of them were just looking to have fun and bullshit in the few hours of daylight they had left when they got done with work. Billy always had fun, but it was always more fun when he won. He needed to be the best. He worked for twelve hours a day in a shop where he was the only black man, making half pay for doing the same job the other white men at the shop did.

Detroit wasn't Mississippi, but it wasn't much better. About two miles away from their sandlot was a wall the decent white people of Detroit erected to keep the black people from spreading into their neighborhoods. They weren't as outward with their hate like the people in the south, but they hated just as much. They couched their hate in economics and used words like 'self-improvement' and 'earn their share.' For guys like Billy, they had to work twice as hard to earn half as much as white people. That was why he played so fiercely. Out here on the diamond, a strike was a strike and a steal was a steal. He could out hit, out run, and out throw any white man this side of the Tigers and he knew it. He needed to make sure everyone else knew as well.

Clark tossed Dougie a fastball high and tight. Billy was halfway down the baseline and headed towards home when Dougie made solid contact. What looked like a home run ball sailed to the right at the last minute and went foul. The game took a five-minute break while the boy in right field dug through the field beside the sandlot to find the ball. When they came back, the count was 1-1 and Clark prepared to wind up. Billy knew the heat was coming, so that's why was already running.

Another fastball scorched towards Petey's mitt. It was low and bounced off the plate and Petey awkwardly tried to grab at the ball. Dougie jumped out of the way when he saw Billy thundering down the baseline. He was almost to home plate when Petey got a firm handle on the ball and tried to block the plate with his chunky body. Billy kept going and prepared his body for the collision that was about to happen.

Petey flew back from the force of Billy's body slamming into his. Billy bounced away and went sideways, falling into the dirt beside home plate. He reached out and slapped a dirty hand on the plate as Petey smacked into the ground and cried out in pain. Billy saw the baseball rolling past him and coming to rest in the dirt. He'd knocked the ball loose from Petey's mitt. He was safe.

"Goddamn," Petey said between sobs. "I fucked my shoulder up."

Billy stood and brushed himself off, looking down at Petey as he held his arm and began to cry.

--

Billy sat in the grass beside the sandlot by himself. He was alone. Everyone else rushed off to take Petey to the doctor. He thought about going but thought better of it at the last minute. Crickets chirped as dusk was giving way to early evening.

"He dislocated his shoulder," Clark Johnson said as he walked through the field towards Billy. "Doc popped it back into place, but it's at least gonna take a few weeks to heal right. Might not ever be right again."

"Shit," Billy said softly. "I never meant anything by it."

"He knows," Clark said as he sat down beside Billy. "We all know. That's just how you are."

The two of them let the silence envelope them for several minutes as what was left of the daylight disappeared and the stars started to show up in the sky one by one. Billy tucked his legs under his chin and sat there, lost in thought.

"I'm going down to Ohio," Clark said after a few more minutes of silence.

"What's down in Ohio?"

"Jobs. Good paying jobs. Down in Toledo, there's supposed to be an entire industry that's in need of workers. I weld over at Spartan Tool, you know, but old John is looking to sell his business. They're supposed to have unions with plenty of room for black men in them down in Toledo. I bet I can find a nice union job down there, work as an apprentice welder and get all kinds of money. Would you wanna go, Billy?"

"Why?" Billy asked lazily. "Don't wanna be no welder, don't wanna to be in no union."

"But you want to play ball right? They got a few minor league ball teams down in Ohio, one right in Toledo. You got the talent to at least make a team and they don't have many qualms about negroes playing with white folks like some of the ones around here."

"Why?" Billy asked again. "Why you pick me, Clark?"

"Because I see that look your eyes that I see in my eyes every time I look in the mirror. You're tired of the same shit every day. Tired of being in a rut you don't know how to get out of. You don't want to so much go somewhere, as you want to do something. Come with me to Ohio and we'll be doing something."

Clark laughed and Billy thought he saw a wide smile in the dark.

"Plus, I get you out of Detroit before you end up killing one of them fools we play ball with."

Billy laughed and shook his head.

"When were you thinking of going?"

"Soon as I can get the money put together. Two men traveling instead of two makes it cheaper. What do you think?"

Billy thought about what Clark said, about wanting something more. He also thought about his family, his parents and brothers and sisters. They needed support... but Hank and David were a few years younger than Billy and almost ready to go to work. They could find work and help the folks better, with two of them working instead of just him. He knew that, even as young as he was, this may be his last chance to make a break before something like a woman and children had him working in that machine shop until he was gray-headed and stooped shoulder. Clark was right. He wanted something more, and now he had at least an opportunity for that to happen.

"I think I'd like to see Ohio."

“That's the fifth I've seen this week.” Dezhi Cao observed as he looked out the back window of the command post. Framed in the window of the thinly built screen door that looked out to the beach and sea beyond was a small boat skipping along the blue waves in the distance. With how far it was, the water-craft was little more than a black speck against the ocean. But it – and the appearance of others – was a source of with held curiosity among the base and its command.

“Tanganyikan has become concerned, to say the least.” an African pointed out. Dressed in nearly all black he was very much similar to Chinese IB, save for his equally dark skin tone. Beyond the similarities of dress the man represented a completely different office to a wholly different intelligence agency. He was a Walinzi agent.

Alongside him the lead IB agent for the base sat in a chair, his legs crossed as he leaned back watching things pass by with an alert and attentive look. Though Zhou had often Chen Wu with a distrustful silence, if for his visible and active distaste for her; she was at least glad he hadn't acted smarmy. But perhaps it was for their guest.

“Concerned? How so? Aren't they allied with Ethiopia. Should they not be acting so... hostile?” Dezhi Cao on the other hand had become agitated and skittish. He made efforts to hide the fact. But there was a hesitant way in which he moved that suggested that he wasn't doing so well. Among the troops earlier he kept reserved. But the outer shell was flaking. He was due to break when everyone left.

“Just several days ago they arrested the Taytu.” Chen Wu remarked, entering the conversation. He rose a hand to his temple and rested it there, putting on a bored and placated mask, “The way it was written they're afraid of what Taytu may be there to do.”

“Arrested Taytu?” Cao remarked visibly shocked. He stammered incoherently as he turned away from the window and walked across the room to his desk.

“That's what the briefing I got said.” Wu added dismissively.

“Well that's... uh... That's got to be treason in some book...” Cao mumbled in a low restrained voice. He trailed off into whispering confusion as he shuffled through the papers on his desk, desperately looking for a paper he missed reading. Or to pretend to do something but be surprised there was anything happening.

“So, does Addis expect us to break her out?” Cao asked suddenly, looking up at the African agent standing by the office door. He looked blank at Cao until finally speaking.

“That's not in my position to say, but I can assure you for as much as I know the Ethiopian government doesn't want Chinese assistance. At least not at the moment.” the Walinzi agent softly comforted, “But there is a whole other manner.” he added.

“I- ok. What is, uh- it?” asked the commander.

“Through your embassy we were asked to inform the Pemba garrison that they're to redeploy for Addis Ababa, effective as soon as possible with all deployable units. They're to report to the command of his highness Emperor Yaqob and to perform whatever duties he feels necessary.”

Zhou's heart skipped a beat and she looked up excited at the Walinzi agent. A pleasant warmth filled her chest and she took a deep proud sigh. Chen Wu looked over at her, and seemed to smile if for a little.

“With the situation in Djibouti dire – if not totally lost – then Addis Ababa has become the next vital target. I don't know command's effective strategy on the matter. So I trust they will fill you in on the current strategy and offer you your position of it.

“I was also told you would have gotten the order.” the agent nodded.

“Oh, I... uh-...” Cao stammered.

“We did, and we'll deploy as soon as possible. We're just preparing some assets now to prepare for Addis.” Chen Wu cutting in. The sudden affirmative action of the IB agent startled Cao who may have forgotten the quite agent was even in the room.

“That's good to hear.” the Walinzi agent smiled. “I expect you'll be deploying soon?”

“We will.” Wu assured, “Now, what's the situation on the Spanish? I've had sketchy reports.”

“Well I can understand if the IB has an incomplete dossier on the Spanish. So I might as well.

“Initial Spanish losses that we can estimate put the casualty rate at Djibouti to maybe about as high as six-thousand on the Spanish side. But this is a rough idea. No one can really get to the field to count the dead. But despite this Spanish force may still have a couple ten-thousand men, including armored units and helicopters.

“Through the course of the Djibouti engagement they deployed an unknown aircraft. Though he killed many of our own pilots with ease it was eventually shot down.”

“What are Ethiopian losses?” asked Wu.

“Harder to say, the battle itself isn't really done so our casualties are going up. Yesterday it was equal to Spain. But today it could have surpassed.”

“I see.” Chen Wu sighed, “Thank you.”

“It's a trying time for Africa, that's for sure. If that's all I need to know, I will wait for your departure to Addis if you don't mind.”

“Yes, p-please do.” Cao said quietly, “You're dismissed, comrade.”

“Thank you for the time.” the Ethiopian agent nodded warmly, stepping out of the room. As the room rattled shut behind him the three officers stood in tense silence.

“You ordered my men behind my back?” Cao growled, as he turned to Chen Wu.

“To be honest comrade, it's hardly my order or yours as much as Beijing.” he said, “And I waited an hour after initially receiving the message to wait for you to do something and you didn't do it. If we were to head out then we should be ready to leave at a moment's notice.”

“You still defied my authority!” Cao roared. His anger was intense, but not nearly explosive. He rounded on Chen Wu who remained seated in his chair, staring defiantly up at his superior officer. He was neither cock-sure or directly insubordinate in his expression, but merely un-phased.

“I took initiative.” the agent affirmed. The level-headed tone of his voice was surreal and spooky. And Zhou didn't know if it was this tone that made Zao's face glow redder, or a building sense of anger and characteristic fear.

She knew he wished to deny the war existed, and being slow to move was perhaps his way to uphold the fantasy. Despite African patrol ships just off the coast of the island.

“And there is still an order to things!” Cao continued to scold, “I wanted confirmation. Affirmation we were to be somewhere and do something.”

“And you should have launched earlier this morning.” the agent hissed, “Not wait for some check-in by a foreign service!” though he remained seated, his voice became strained and tense. He wrapped his hands around his sandy-brown pants. His knuckles glowing white as he wrapped them tight.

“You're not in a position to tell me what I need to do. Let me remind you,” Cao lowered himself to face-level with Wu, jabbing a finger into his chest, “You. Are. My. Intelligence. Liason. You are not in ultimate command of operations on this base. I AM! Not even Zhou has the authority to make that order. And you – as she – would do best to not do anything in MY NAME!”

“And what value is your name if you don't do shit!” Wu cracked back, standing up from the chair. “It's worth nothing! Your command is at this point of minimal value in-so-far as I am concerned and I will do damned well to make sure that this mission goes to its furthest value. When we get orders!

“Keep denying this war exists, you will be the first to be killed by Spanish shells when they come knocking on our base. Your family will be next to die when they gas all of China!

“Do you need to be reminded of the assets the Spanish possess which will only steal the world further from the utopia that it should be? The Spanish are the tumor that needs to be cut, before they release their cancer. Stop them now, so they may never use their VX on anybody or home!”

“I will see you relieved from your post.” Cao promised, “Get out of my office!” he demanded.

Chen Wu glowered glumly into Cao's eyes. And without so much as the courtesy of a bow he turned to the door and left. For the second time the door rattled closed and the two officers left listened to the footfalls of Wu as he left. Cao looked up at Zhou. Dark rings had formed under his eyes. And seemingly within minutes he had aged by twenty years, his shoulders sagged and he took on a heavier demeanor.

“So we're committed.” he said in a low voice, as he mourning a past family member. He kicked at the ground with a boot and walked to Zhou. But he dropped eye-contact, dropping his look to the floor.

“It would seem so. Why did you hide the order?” she asked, “I know you read it.”

“I did.” Cao admitted.

“How come?”

“I suppose...” he hesitated, “I suppose I did want to deny there was a war. That in the twisted, insane logic that when there is conflict between such nations it blows itself out before it can ever flair into an inferno. The whole world I guess has been standing on the precipice such as this. Waiting and holding its breath. And I've been trying hard, too hard. Now I am drowned.”

Zhou smiled warmly, she felt she should hug the man. But needed restraint. She instead lowered her head too, gazing down at his boots as she leaned to the side, arms crossed behind her. “You knew it was bound to happen all the same.” she said flatly.

“Don't say it like that.”

“You know you did, in some way. You're cracking up. I've never seen you bent out of shape like this. Knowing of course our career together has been short. But even under duress by the Turks you never truly threatened to snap. But you're starting to show the stresses.

“Have you heard how the steel made for our officer's swords are made?” she asked, looking back up. Cao had raised his head too, but had chosen to look passed her to the windows along the wall at her back. There the men drilled. And beyond the barracks the vaulted roofs of iron hangers stood in the heat of the African summer sun. The planes they once housed though were now of course idling on the tarmac, still hidden from him but all the same there. And waiting.

“Heat-forged steel, tempered and folded several times. Hammered in a mechanical press and fitted on per-fabricated handles. Why?” answered the officer.

“Because these swords aren't just made to look pretty. Inefficient by the standards of today obviously and a relic. But their a symbol and a tool. They can cut like any other knife, they're to be used to issue the justice we the officer feels need to be issued. Or in our defense. My old commanding officer kept himself alive on more than one occasion with his sword, which outdid any club, hatchet, or machete used against him on Mindanao.

“It's a symbol, but it still has its practical uses. And is used as such. We and our swords are much the same. And we've been treated, if in different manners.

“We've been tempered, through education and experience. In practice, a well tempered blade will be strong and powerful. It'll be flexible, and always return to its strength. Pure steel and iron will reinforce it's nature, and it will never break: not even under the worse conditions. Their tempering will carry on into the end, and perhaps beyond as a symbol of our services rendered in life.

“We will die. But our legacy as leaders will continue. We should bend, but never break. Be of the most pure, uncontaminated steel. We will break otherwise.

“With all due respect Cao, your metal is cracking under his stress. It's distressing. Perhaps Chen Wu is right. You can act pretty, that much is certain. But now I don't know if you can cut. Especially when the officer needs it to the most. Especially when your men need you the most.”

Cao chewed on his lip. He still looked tired. Still looked old. Zhou wondered if she had comforted him at all, or even changed his mind. He stood silent for a while, unmoving and without speaking. Zhou wondered if perhaps she had convinced him to give up, and that actually terrified her. Command she imagined would not be thrust upon her in such a dire moment. But somehow a part of her felt that Cao using this moment to pen his immediate resignation wasn't impossible. And another part felt terrified with how he might find a way to do that.

Finally he spoke: “Let's go to Addis then.”



Even muffled, the groan of the airplane engines was nearly deafening in the cabin of the aircraft. Only thin plates of aluminum over a stocky frame separated the crew and the passengers from the abyss outside. It already did little for the cold, as it leached slowly in over their high-altitude affair. In the small windows set over the hull the soldiers could look out at passing clouds and the smoky horizon in the far distance.

Though a bomber originally, the large cabin of the Bǎolěi had been refitted to suit its new career as a transport. Simply bare-metal seats ran the length of the hull in benched units of five. Every avaible seat was taken and some stood clinging to the ropes that ran the entire length of the spine, their heads bowed as they clutched the collars of their uniforms tight to hold in as much heat as possible. For having sat in the African sun for so long, it was an understandable shock for many of the anxious-eyed young men.

Dezhi Cao through all of this had not spoken a word.

Sitting across from him Zhou sat watching her shrunken commander. He sat hunched in his seat, as doubled over as a bowed sapling as he slouched back against the cold uncomfortable steel and again forward. He held up an elbow as he rested his round face in the palm of a gloved hand. His eyes stared off into the near space in front of him. To casual observers it could be said he was looking at Zhou. But in all reality he was looking at nothing, simply having passed into a waiting coma.

Chen Wu sat separated from the two, as with the rest of the staff officers who were scattered not just within the aircraft, but among the others. But maybe it was for the best that they did not see their flaking commander as Zhou and Chen Wu knew him. Zhou looked over at the IB agent, he had become cold and impenetrable, riding the trip like a statue glued to his seat. His back lifted away from the back-rest, his signature black coat hung heavy and long across his knees and down to his booted ankles. With his face narrowed, expression frozen he resembled something akin to a priest. The sort of villainous image men in the military's image departments sought to portray the Christian preachers. 'He's only missing the collar.' Zhou thought to herself as they flew along above central Ethiopia.

A sudden sharp bump shook the aircraft and the sound of the engines changed to a lazier drone. There was a sharp electrical buzz, but not much else. But that was all they needed to know. The airplane was beginning its descent. Soldiers who had been holding shut their collars held up that hand to grip the rope for support. Those that sat grabbed hold of their seat as the plane jostled and rattled down. Some turned to peer out the window as outside the glass the clouds parted and in banking Addis Ababa came into view.

Many having not been so far from home gaped and chattered excitedly as they caught their first glimpses of the foreign capital. Zhou strained to look, leaning and twisting to look curiously out the window as her subordinates also leaned in to see. The sharp flashes of tin rooftops glowed out from behind fields of trees and the nested webbing of roadways that crossed the city. Towards its core high-rises stood out over the city-center. But unlike Beijing or Shanghai, these structures rose thin and short, like an eroded and ancient grave-yard. But in place of stone too worn to read, there was the polished shine of glass window panes.

The view did not last as the plane banked again, stealing the soldiers their view of the city as it came down to land. Instead as it swept it put into frame the distant peaks of the mountains and highlands that surrounded the city like a fortress wall, only broken by wide valley gates that nestled and funneled Addis Ababa into its triangular layout.

Groaning and frustrated, the plane erupted into irritated chatter and jeering catcalls from the men at the pilots, clearly dissatisfied with their view of this foreign land being so quickly stolen from them at the blink of an eye. What they got to watch instead was the mottled landscape that surrounded the airport as they came to land.

With a bump and a hard knock from the ground the airplane hit the runaway with a skipping stumble. The tires squealed underneath them and those who had not held themselves in tight were thrown from their chairs or from where they stood. Several took a stumble, much to the bemusement of their more veteran comrades. But as it came to a slow lumbering end, they pulled themselves up and brushed off, nervously grasping out to save what little face they could.

As the airplane drew to a stop the blaring music of whistles echoed in the metallic hull, echoing off themselves and from the walls in a great ear-rending wail summoning the men up. Taking their positions at the center of the plane the junior officers with their whistles in their mouth and hands at the hilt of their swords began directing the men up and into formation as towards the back the door of the bomber-turned-cargo plane opened with the raspy hiss of hydraulic arms.

Standing from his seat, Dezhi Cao sauntered to the opening door, squinting into the blinding afternoon sun that poured in with the hot wet air. Zhou wondered what he was going to do as he stood in the light, a shadow pressed against the burning light of the sun.

Turning abruptly he shouted, “Comrades! Parade formation!”

There was a simultaneous recognition of the order. “Yes, comrade!” the men shouted in unison. With tight step they marched from the back of the airplane. From the dusty Ethiopian runway they confirmed the order to the other unloading airplanes. And still the howl of landing cargo aircraft continued.

“Well, where too?” Chen Wu asked. There was a twisted sort of obedience in his tongue. His voice frowned with his expression.

“Yaqob,” Cao responded. He refused to look to Chu as he answered his question. Turning more to Zhou as he talked, “We're going to Yaqob.”




Passing into Addis had been at the tail end of a refugee train. Pulled along in wagons led by mules or packed in the back of trucks refugees fleeing the war with Spain all rushed south to the capital of the Empire. Desperate fearful faces peered out at the capital and them from behind the graying, darkening boards.

Mulki wove her car into the thick streams of people as they wove into the tin roofs of Addis Ababa's outer suburbs. In the shade of Eucalyptus and Acacia trees foreign journalists towered over them on stacks of boxes much like the mountains loomed over Addis proper. In their hands they flashed their cameras, desperately taking in images of the plight of Ethiopians in Spain's wake.

Has they rolled by Han Wen looked on with a captured expression of wonder and irony. The image of so many in Europe carrying perhaps for Ethiopia as their own blood propagated the violence was an astounding image to say the least. But there were those from Asia that he noticed, the leery and watchful NPN journalists who conducted their mission much more conservatively, hiding on ground level among the people and engaging one-on-one with them. Much akin to their Cambodian, Vietnamese, or Korean counterparts.

But never the less their identity of origin Wen's gut twisted inside him with nauseous anxiety. He withdrew down his sea, hiding from sight and hoping to keep from being pointed out. It would be one thing to be noticed first by a Chinese journalist, but it would be a whole new disaster if a pilot was spotted by one of the Westerners.

“What's the matter, you don't want your picture taken?” Mulki asked, obviously puzzled and very humored with Wen's shy attempts at withdrawing from view. He lay slunk all the way back in his seat, his knees bumping high against the dashboard.

“I wouldn't mind,” replied Wen, cautiously as he peered out through the dusty window, “But I'm worried how it might blow back if it was known someone associated with the Chinese military is seen here.”

“Seen!?” exclaimed Mulki, “I don't think you need to worry about that. You don't even have your jacket on, how can they tell?”

“Well maybe they just... can.” Wen frowned. The thought of them coming to know so easily was tickling in a terrifying way. And it made it worse that he fought them. What sort of assassin would the Spanish send after him if that were the case? They were known for stealing entire trains to get a single man, after all.

They continued to crawl along. Through the streets men and women walked back through the traffic, handing out charity as they went. Bottles of water and food items for the hungry travelers fleeing to the city they call home. “So where are we going?” Wen asked as he popped off the lid of a plastic canteen of water.

“I think they'd like you at the Chinese embassy...” Mulki moaned as she searched the traffic for a opening to take advantage of. But it was bumper to bumper and door to door traffic, a wall of horns and fumes, “But that is if we can get there.”

“So long as we get there before the Spanish come and I'm back in a warplane.” Wen remarked, “That would be best.”

They continued cruising. As they made it past the main thoroughfares into the city the amount of refugee traffic began to thin and mold into the local ambient activity of Addis proper. The families that fled the advance of the Spanish scattered through the city, setting up camps off the sides of the streets or finding room and board where they gathered. It was out of their way, that much Wen was relieved for.

Soon in time the two departed the shanty towns around Addis Ababa's edge and cut began its passage into the city's center. Here the poverty of the outer edge melted away into up kept homes and businesses. Addis here Wen noted, was like some melting point of the world of the Arabs and the Africans, and from Europe itself in the north. Pale, bright, and plastered banks of low townhouses marched in regular succession down a sun-baked side-walked decorated and inter-spaced with gently sighing tree.

Turning through the streets as they continued their sojourn into the crown of the city only illuminated much the same. At times inter-mixing the pale plaster walls with glass facades shiny and illuminated from the African sun. But for all the feigned attempts at modernity there gathered just nearby the still reminders this was Africa. The noble lions that were this country's emblem were emblazoned decoratively on many surfaces. Mule or horse-pulled carts still roamed the streets, and in distant corners, hidden from view behind walls, hedges, and other buildings the fleeting glimpse of grass-thatches roof-tops disappeared from view and suddenly and softly as they came.

There was a tense demeanor to the city. A constant sorrowful note of anxiety that hummed through the city. It did not manifest itself as a full song, and on some streets life in the city seemed to be progressing as it might have before. But there was an urgency in what was happening.

The preparedness and urgency finally burst when they sailed onto Embassy Row. Vigilant at its intersections the street was under-guard as white-uniformed policemen stood at watch alongside barricades, guarding the entrance to the almost idyllic tree-lined avenue. At the corners and down the length of the road the Addis Ababa police loomed in the shade of the trees, looking pomp and regal in white uniforms as they watched the empty street and the foreign embassies with a relaxed look of security.

The Chinese embassy was a starched-white building that stood behind a thick brick wall, stained brown and gray from time and the African weather. Mulki pulled apprehensively and nervously to the front-gate, bringing the nose of the grumbling, hot car to within inches of the gate. Behind, a manicured lawn of green flanked a ribbon of silky black tarmac to the front door of the large house. A guard looked out from inside, an irritated look plastered on his face as he opened the gates and stepped up to the driver's side window.

His uniform was pressed and formal. Not the condition of field fatigues, not warn or haggard. It was sutured and cared for. And by his looks, the soldier leaning in the driver's side door no doubt strayed further than the bars closest to the embassy itself.

He leered inside with a phlegmatic look dashed across his face, “Name and business.” he barked in Chinese, he turned his gaze up to Wen and he glimmer of suspicion shown in his eyes.

“Kong Jun Yi Ji Jun Shi Zhang Han Wen,” Wen barked back, “2nd jet-fighter group, Shanxi People's Defense Army, Pemba training detachment. Commanding officer is Shang Xiao Mao Hung, above him Dezhi Zao.”

The embassy guard looked up at him, with a stricken face but still coiled in cynicism. Reaching back Wen grabbed his flight jacket and tossed it in his face. The guard recoiled at the crumpled leather jacket, but more from the lingering smell of jet-fuel no doubt. “That's my fucking flight jacket. I don't have a fucking card when I crash landed. Can I fucking come in?” he snapped.

The guard looked from the coat not coiled in a lump in his arms then to Han Wen. With a groaning sigh he resigned. “You can come in.” he admitted, stepped to the gate to open the remaining door, allowing Mulki to coast in.

She drove down the drive-way. Decorating the interior side of the embassy's property wall coils of vines and flowers grew in raised stone beds to hide and shroud the stone-work in a perpetual sheath of green leaves and florescent flowers. Drawing up close to the columned front door of the embassy they passed a shallow pool of crystalline water. As a stream flowed into the pool in a trickling fountain the orange banner of China fluttered in a broken reflection in the pool's surface. Mulki parked nearby.

“We received a message that Dezhi Cao's men will soon be arriving to the embassy.” the front guard called back as he walked up behind him, the leather jacket wrapped around his arm. “So I don't imagine you'll be here long before they come in. But I'd still go and see Ambassador Long, he can at least get word into Beijing that you're not MIA.” he added, throwing the coat to Wen.

He grabbed it, the stiff sun-baked leather thumped heavily in his arms. He tossed it over his shoulders and bowed to the guard, who returned the favor. “Thank you, comrade.”

The guard gave him a silent nod of approval as he turned to the door. “You're going to need to wait in the lobby.” he told Mulki as she followed him inside.
___________________________________________________

Inside the embassy was controlled chaos. Sounds echoed from all the halls of attendants and personnel preparing to move items and furniture out. Or going through books and diplomatic files to decide what to keep and what to destroy before they left. Han Wen could not claim to understand much of it, and could only work around the hurriedly moving embassy personnel as they frantically dashed down the stairs.

“I'm looking for ambassador Long.” he told them, but they ignored them as they galloped across the wood floors with boxes in their arms. Those that did respond gave him vague direction, gently moving him in the direction he needed to go, or they believed he needed to be.

He found him though, standing in the window of a large room that might have once been a master bed-room. It's tall cathedral ceiling echoed with the pilot's foot-falls as he walked across the naked room. Much of what the room had held was moved out by now. The rest that couldn't be moved was already covered in sheets, except for his desk.

“No faith in Hassan?” Wen asked nervously as he came to a stop in the middle of the room. He didn't know how to approach an ambassador. The window the ambassador stood before was impressive, it looked out on the street below where light traffic rolled back and forth, from behind the safety of hedge-covered walls.

He didn't respond. Instead the ambassador slowly turned. He was an impressive man by any standards, in fact very mundane. He was small, even by standards in Asia. His hair was a messy mat of black and his brown eyes fixed themselves on Wen. Deep worry lines carved his melon head. “Who are you?” he asked, the question was sharp but not made out of insult given his softened tone of voice, “You're not the regular staff.”

“Han Wen, from the Pemba Training Group. I was shot down over Somalia some several days ago. I finally managed to secure a way here. I'd like to get back in a plane, comrade.”

“I understand.” Long bowed, “I'm Long Rang-je, pleasure to meet your acquitance.

“Usually I'd have papers for you and I to fill out but I don't think that'll be necessary.” he added on a sour note. His voice was withdrawn and meek, “I'm sure comrade Cao can do the required moves to correct your MIA status in Beijing to active and alive. But right now I'm afraid I can't really do that.”

“How come?” Wen asked, walking closer to the ambassador as he turned to lean over his desk.

“Just earlier this morning I was contacted by Beijing to tell me I was to evacuate Addis as soon as possible.” Long said, “I was also informed that Dezhi Cao is moving up to Addis Ababa. It's my hope that I and my staff can be withdrawn to Pemba.

“On that detachment too was notification the Third International has declared war on Spain.”

“The Comintern declared war on Spain?” Wen asked, “So what does that mean?”

“For us: absolutely nothing. But it's given us commitments. Beijing didn't tell me what they're going to use their commitments on for the war-effort or any details. I only got a briefing on it. I was to send a copy to the Emperor and that was to be my final assignment in Addis before the Spanish arrive.

“I have reason to believe in some manner in the future cooperation between China and Ethiopia will be conducted through military leadership than diplomats for the course of this conflict as long as we're both concerned.

“So: I can't do anything for you.” he smiled apologetically, holding out his hands and shrugging, “Phones even are disconnected. You're just going to have to wait for Cao's men to arrive. Last I heard they just landed.

“Welcome back.”



“When you look out at this landscape, you come to learn what made our former masters.” a man said, as he sat reclined in a wicker chair on the back porch of a secluded back-woods home. The eaves of the porch dripped with fresh summer rain-water, dropping small diamond glimmers of sun-lit water on the dark maroon handrails of the deck. Even the wood underneath had been soaked through from side-ways passing rainfall. As it had been, the rain was hard and the wind swept sharp. It had just ended moments before, as Chen Wu was told.

The campaign manager who had so quickly found himself managing a nation-wide affair sat alongside his host in a pale-yellow chair. Wrapped over his shoulders was a thin blanket loaned to him by his host, and in his hands a warm cup of tea. The spindly and meekly man had come complaining of the cold nip in the air, even if it was the heart of July and the midst of the short Manchurian summer. But it had rained suddenly, and on its tail came slinking what the weathermen were calling a Siberian low.

His host however did not seem to care.

Chen Yiaoliang was a larger man by comparison to the mousy Wu. He sat with his feet against the railing as he sipped slowly at his tea, savoring the fresh warm drink washing his tongue. A popular musician by all hours, and he looked the part. His face was round and boyish, but had a muture light that glowed from his smiling cheeks and already the faint hints of smile lines were embedding themselves alongside his cheery almond eyes. “It's a hard land, but it's beautiful. It is no wonder the Manchu in their most ancient times were so reverent of nature. It's almost a shame that much of the world has forgotten the natural splendor.” he continued warmly, holding his hands out to the landscape just outside his front-porch.

Yiaoliang's house sat at the top of a rugged hill, its read faced north towards what was often referred to as Chinese Russia. But covered thick in pine forests that sprawled and rose and fell over the broken and bending landscape there was no telling if there was a border here, or where it was. Though it was still miles behind the highest rise from either man's view.

It was idyllic, that much Chen Wu would give him. But it was isolated and difficult to get to. He wanted to out of grace to regard every bead of crystal rain that rested on every leaf and board with the same childish appreciation as Yiaoliang. But he couldn't nearly muster that much fervor for the Taoist. “It's an ocean of eternity I think.” Chen waxed, “It doesn't shift uncomfortably as the ocean would when a storm comes. It will dance if you let it and watch it. But it is resilient, and strong as the stone it sits upon.

“In several thousand – perhaps million – it will finally move. Maybe it'll wash itself as flat as Mongolia. But it will only do so at its own will. It's own natural power.” he smiled around his words, and took a cherishing sip of tea.

“It is a sight.” Wu added, himself drinking from his cup as he wrapped the blanket tighter around him. A light breeze gusted through, bringing a new burst of cool moist air. Nearby chimes sung a silver song at the blowing wind.

“Did you ever want to go somewhere just to forget things?” Yiaoliang asked.

“I never imagined I would ever want to forget anything.” Wu answered coldly.

“Well it's too bad. Man today should really take a moment to be alone and see into themselves. Or to see natural wonder unfettered by human habitation. Here I am isolated. Here I can be among myself, and to my craft. What do you think?”

“I think it sounds fine by you.”

Yiaoliang sighed deep. “So I see.” he whispered, “But really, what keeps you away?”

“My work.”

“I know of your work.” the singer nodded, “I can also guess why you're here. I don't suppose then you want to admire the mountains.”

“I admit I'm not nearly as poetic as you, comrade.” apologized Wu, “I don't write songs. I'm not an artist. I like numbers. I like the results numbers bring, and I want to bring in more. So does my client.”

“Zhang Auyi.”

“He'd appreciate it a lot more than me.”

“I imagine he thinks I owe him favors.” pointed Yiaoliang. As romantic as he was, he wasn't a moron. His poetic warmth subsided to a business cold and his feet came off the railing. He straightened the way he sat, and leaned over his tea. Wu watched in that instant as he became less the celebrity he was, and more a dealer. Something even of a politician if he chose to pursue it. He had been dealing with the political establishment for long enough. Not to know how it works, but enough to understand the intrigue and how to approach it.

This was assertion he was showing Wu.

“To be honest he didn't tell me he thinks you owe him.” Wu told him. He sat up to match, keeping the blanket over his shoulder, “And I'd like to imagine what it is you're thinking.”

“Perhaps I could do with knowing this supposed 'favor' I may be returning?”

“Auyi wants endorsement. He wants support.” offered Chen Wu, “He needs someone who can speak to the younger generation. A progressive, a poet. Someone to wake up a contingency who doesn't realize what they want, and they need to be enlightened.”

“Auyi's a politician, can he not rally the others to bring a vote his way.” Yiaoliang said in a low voice, “That is what this sort of thing turns into. He has influence over the news. He's already won with that sort of key. You and I know it!”

“Perhaps, but it doesn't help that in latest campaign polls Mang Zhu is actually a few points behind. The other part of Auyi's ministerial constituency are agricultural. These are men and their families either too isolated to be counted, too busy to volunteer, or who many not actually know what's going on.

“Do you like Xhu?”

“I can't say I'm passionate about his aggressive ideology. So what we had a successful revolution here in China? It's not a reason to roll tanks to Madrid and warships into range of Tokyo to force the world to succumb.”

“You would have the world mature on their own time?”

“The man who stands to walk against the current will be brought down by it. The people are the currents I feel, and the men who walk in it are the nations.

“I am proud of the state. But not so much to forcefully knock over the existing state on the assumption that's what the river it stands in really wants or flows too. Give time, revolution will come.”

“So you like Auyi?” Wu questioned.

“Hard to say when there's over a dozen people trying to be Hou Sai Tang.”

“Closer to thirty actually.” Chen Wu corrected, “I'm particularly fascinated by the late submissions of William Chou and Grigory Maxov.”

“Never heard of either.”

“You wouldn't have, their support groups are far too small to actually register, they lack the endorsements for campaign invitations. One is a municipal official in Hong Kong and the other is a police chief in Vladivostok.”

“Amazing.” Yiaoliang laughed.

“It's absolutely inspiring, but beyond the point.” noted a cranky Chen Wu, “So what say the offer?”

“If you had written I would have given it thought. But you're here on part of Auyi so I guess he wants an immediate answer.”

“I expect that.”

“I'll have to unfortunately say I'll have to think.” Yiaoliang bitterly admitted, “I appreciate the thought, comrade. But it's a surprising obligation to take up. You're the first and only type to ask. I don't want to stir up the water.”

Wu nodded, “Shall I keep in touch then?”

“Go ahead.”

“I'll contact you in the next week. Election itself happens this coming fall. Remember that.”

“I will.”

Addis Ababa, Ethiopia

Spain's giant of an ambassador to the Pan-African empire, paced anxiously about his office, watching for his associate to return from the outside world.

Rogelio Martin was almost freakishly tall. Just a few inches shy of seven feet tall, Ambassador Martin was tall enough that he often found himself stooping through doorways. It was no coincidence that Spain's ambassador to Ethiopia was a giant. As early as 1971, during Miguel Tejero's first administration, the Spanish anticipated trouble with Ethiopia due their new and extensive border with the Empire after acquiring French Algeria. An impressive specimen was sought to serve as the new envoy to the sprawling African empire - one that would lend the impression that the Spanish were a powerful race that was not to be trifled with. Towering Rogelio Martin, a junior member of the Partido Conservador, fit the bill for that intimidating figure. He was whisked off to Addis Ababa where he had spent most of the last eight years.

Over the better part of a decade, he had been caught in several of the African nation's most trying moments. The assassination of Yohannes Iyasu, the Civil War and the associated unrest, the Rouge General's uprising, the attempt on Emperor Yaqob's life and the riots that followed. For a diplomat posted in the Ethiopian capital, each crisis had been more unsettling than the one before. About once a year or so, Ambassador Martin would fear for his life due to a crisis that had befallen his host nation.

But none approached the nightmare that had become the Spanish Invasion.

Spain had threatened Ethiopia once before. There had been a naval standoff in the Red Sea and brinksmanship on the part of the Spanish military. But nothing had come of that. Now, almost without warning, the Spanish Armada had come to Ethiopia and brushed aside her defenses. A Spanish army had already landed on Africa's shores - bloodied but intact. They would be coming for capital next, and barring divine intervention they would arrive soon.

Spain's embassy in Addis Ababa was an unremarkable affair, one of a hundred other narrow townhouses on a street in one of Addis' more affluent neighborhoods known as Embassy Row. Some nations, like the New People's China Embassy three blocks down, were like walled compounds. The Spanish embassy was quite small in contrast; an attractive, narrow building sandwiched between similar townhouses with area of just 1,500 square feet. From his window, from which a wicker flowerbox of red and yellow marigolds hung, Ambassador Martin watched familiar figure approach the door from the sidewalk - his arms wrapped around overflowing brown bags of groceries and his face blushing red from the African heat.

A pair of guards stood on either side of the door in the shade of an acacia tree. Recognizing him immediately as one of the three diplomats permanently assigned to the Spanish embassy, they allowed him through to the front door without a word. The Ethiopians had stepped up the police presence on Embassy Row as of late, but even so, the Spanish was one of the few embassies that had dedicated guards. Even when he had begun his tenure as the Ambassador to Ethiopia under the reign of Emperor Yohannes Iyasu, Spain had never been a particularly popular country as far as the Ethiopian people were concerned. With the events of the past two months, Ambassador Martin was in the running for the most hated man in Ethiopia after Alfonso Sotelo. Without the embassy's Republican Guard attache, Rogelio was convinced he would have already been hanged from a limb of the acacia tree outside - the Ethiopian police presence notwithstanding.

Even during the crisis in 1977, when Sotelo had threatened war with Ethiopia for the first time, Ambassador Martin didn't remember being afraid of going outside. But with open warfare between the Pan-African Empire and Spain, he didn't dare to show his face in public; Rogelio hadn't left the Embassy in two weeks. He had been sending Arturo, who knew enough French to pass for someone at the French Embassy, out to fetch groceries or run errands. Even for Arturo, even the most mundane of tasks had become dangerous work and Rogelio hardly enjoy being couped up inside indefinitely. But when black-suited effigies of Sotelo were being burned throughout the city, it was too dangerous for anyone connected to Sotelo's regime to be seen about in Addis.

No sooner than Arturo had set the crinkling bags full of groceries upon the lobby's desk, Rogelio had descended the claustrophobic staircase, wide-eyed and thirsty for news from the outside world. "Have you heard anything?" the Ambassador demanded.

"I saw a bunch of cars outside the chink embassy," Arturo reported, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead. "Can't remember the last time I saw anyone parked there. Something's up."

"Do you think they're leaving the embassy?" Martin asked. Ever since news of the Battle at the Suez broke, countries had been recalling their diplomatic missions in Ethiopia back home. As news of each battle reached the press, a few more countries left Embassy Row. But most had remained, possibly because the Spanish Embassy seemed to be operating as if everything were normal. The other ambassadors and diplomats seemed to believe that if Addis Ababa were to be threatened, the Spanish Embassy would be among the first to know. When the Spanish started packing up - that would be the moment to panic. Unfortunately for everyone still on Embassy Row, the Ambassador Martin knew just as much - or perhaps less - about the progression of the Spanish invasion as everyone else.

"I would have loved to ask them, but I can imagine how that would have turned out."

"The Chinese know something we don't. That, or they're getting nervous."

"As if we're not nervous? Goddamn Ministry won't tell us to evacuate until our own Ejercito is shelling us."

"Maybe they will," the Ambassador suggested. "We're due for a call as it is. Let's just see what Madrid has to say."
_____________________________________

With Arturo at his post downstairs, Ambassador Martin punched in the ten-digit number that would put him through to Madrid with practiced speed. He put the phone to his ear and listened for a quarter of a minute as a staticky dial tone was heard. At last, the muted emptiness was cut out by a Castillian voice.

//Governmental directory. State your name and business,// the operator requested.

"Rogelio Martin," he responded, "with the Embassy in Addis Ababa. Put me through to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs."

//One moment, allow me to transfer your call.//

The dial tone once again droned softly in the Ambassador's ear as the operator "transferred" his call. Rogelio Martin knew that to be a lie. The Ministry had been put on the line immediately - Madrid was already all ears. Amidst the soft, staticky clicking heard over the dial tone, the real conversation had begun. This was the reason the Spanish Embassy in Addis would remain open until the absolute last minute.

The Walinzi had likely been tapping the embassy's phone line for the past five years - and now with hostilities between Ethiopia and Spain, the empire's intelligence-gathering body had to be listening in on every call coming to and from Madrid. In order for sensitive information to be relayed, some guile had to be employed. With the Walinzi listening in on every word, secret messages between the embassy and Madrid had to be both audible to those who knew what to listen for, and silent to eavesdroppers.

The solution was Morse code. Ambassador Martin listened hard into the crackling dial tone and heard it. They were almost indistinguishable from the random clicks and chirps that could be heard over the phone. But for those who knew what to listen for, it was plain to hear. Alternating short and long clicks were being transmitted with a modified Morse key by Arturo in another room. Messages in morse code were transmitted under the Walinzi's nose directly to Spain's own intelligence apparatus - the Oficina de Inteligencia Militar. For not only was Arturo picking up food and supplies on his errand runs into the city; he carried at the bottom of his grocery bags coded messages from field agents collected from field agents across the African continent.

Three minutes elapsed before someone at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs picked up - conveniently when Arturo's static-disguised message terminated. //Ambassador Martin, a pleasure to hear from you, as always.//

"Equally so, Minister. I'm calling to determine if it is safe for us to remain in Addis Ababa for the time being, or if we should make preparations to evacuate." Rogelio cut to the reason for the call at once. This exchange was all just a show for the Walinzi. The Minister would tell them everything was fine for the time being in order to prevent the Ethiopians from anticipating a Spanish attack and summarily reinforcing the city. An actual call to evacuate would have come as a command in Morse during the "dead air" just before.

//No worries, Ambassador! I understand your concern, given the... difficult situation facing the embassy in Ethiopia. But I can assure you, it is my understanding that you and your personnel are quite safe for now. We will let you know if your safety is ever imperiled, but for now, I ask you to carry out your duties until relieved.// Rogelio and his counterpart gave their goodbyes before hanging up. Immediately, the Ambassador rushed downstairs to see what Arturo had transcribed from the Morse code.

"What did they actually say?" Ambassador Martin demanded, hovering high above Arturo as he transcribed Morse into letters on a notepad.

"We're not going anywhere," Arturo sighed, throwing a ballpoint down against the paper. There, Arturo had scrawled the Morse code orders he had heard among the background noise of the call: 'Remain until further notice'.

----------Milan, Italy----------
Milan... the economic heart of Italy and bustling city that it is, is wet. People move silently through the streets as the rain and wind rush them indoors as quickly as they could. Despite the howling wind and the thunks of large raindrops landing on the pavement and cars - the city was silent.

In a small locale coffee shop, locals sat silently as the TV in the corner continued to play the broadcast that had gripped the entire nation.

"- It seems that King Florenstano has fallen into a coma as of three-o-clock yesterday afternoon, he is currently in The San Giovanni Addolorata Hospital under going treatment. Medical officials believe a stroke that happened earlier in the morning to be the cause. It is currently unknown why our King was not sent to the Hospital at a sooner time. His planned speech on the issue of the Spanish-Ethiopian war and Italy's stance will be postponed until further notice."

With that, the news program switched to the local weather reports and people slowly began to sit down back at their tables, where their coffees and snacks had long gone cold. The silence remained as the clouds and rain washed away the color.

------Several kilometers of the coast of Djibouti, several hours after the Spanish invasion.(AKA the past because im slow as fuck)-----

"They're god damn monsters. They turned the entire city into molten stone." Illardi cursed, he didn't even need the binoculars to see the extent of the damage he believed the Spanish to have caused to the Ethiopian city. "I pray the Ethiopians were able to evacuate, not even communist supporters deserve such a dishonorable fate such as what the Spanish brought with them."

Captain Aleramo Laurenzi let out a sigh as he paced back and forth, many of the crew members stationed on his cruiser were topside, watching out over the water at the massive smoke column that could probably be seen from Cairo. "We still have conflicting reports on who exactly turned that city into the state it is now. The Ethiopians could have done it after evacuating in a delay action to buy their army time to regroup. The Spanish could have done it to show that there is no hope in winning against such a superior opponent. Either way, Djibouti is gone and Rome will want to hear of this. Get on the radio."

"Aye sir... but if I may ask, who do you think destroyed the city." Illardi questioned as he started to walk away, and yet he never did get his answer from the Captain.

Laurenzi leaned against the railing as the cruiser lightly cruised across the silk waters of the Red Sea, keeping plenty of distance and making sure the Italian flag was high and proud to make sure no remaining Ethiopian shore batteries, or even Spanish guns, would fire at them.

"The more important question, is will Italy be dragged into this? Get this vessel turned around and back to Syracuse."

----------Palazzo del Quirinale, Rome.-----------
Prime Minster Everardo paced back and forth in his office. His mind was too active, to unfocused from him to be sitting still. While the outside world might not know it, Italy's government was precariously balanced so that any disruption of the satus quo could have drastic consequences. The power was split between the Royal Family, himself as the Prime Minster, and the senate. Take any one out of the picture, and things can get ugly.

Florenstano was in a coma, and he knew that it was unlikely for him to wake up. A stroke, battling cancer, and who knows what other health conditions had worn the stubborn man down over time. Seems the stroke finally broke down that final barricade. This was bad with his only heir, a female at that, too young to take the throne - a regency under Queen Isabella would have to be instituted. The Senate loathed her.

All because she was a Eagle, in a Dove dominated Senate. The coalition of several radical parties, spearheaded by the 'Fascist' party made up the term 'Eagle.' They wanted nothing more then to plunge Italy into war in Croatia, Africa, and god knows where else all the regain Territory promised nearly seventy years ago and then lost.

The Doves made up the many conservative and democratic parties not under the Eagles, and they have managed to hold sway as both the Royal Family and the Senate were under their control. Now... Italy would be split. The regency could give the Eagles the support they need to get their laws through the senate, and gather a much larger supporting base.

Everado was neither Eagle nor Dove. Like many Italians, he longed to have the honor and prestige that once benefited his country... but not in a way that would plunge his people into a senseless war against Ethiopia or Croatia.

"You have been pacing there for a solid seven minutes, Prime Minister. You didn't even notice me come in and make a drink." Isabella said coolly, suddenly appearing to the unaware Everado as he noticed her sitting in one of the open chairs.

"You are not with your husband in the hospital?" Everado asked, already knowing the answer.

"Neither are you, we both were sent away around the same time. Your memory seems to be failing you."

"Listen, I know why you're here."

"I can't say I'm surprised, you always had a knack for noticing the obvious."

"It is not for me to decide, your highness. It falls to Florenstano, not me or the Senate. He is the head of Royal Family."

"Yet, he is unable to give an answer for an unknown period of time. However, luckily for both of us... he knew something like this would happen eventually. He already decided."

"You are to become Queen-Regent, I presume?" Everado sighed, finally taking a seat and leaning back, his chair making an audabile creak.

"You'd be shocked if I said no?"

"No, I wou-... No? He said no?" Everado's entire fear over the fate of his nation seemed to wash away around him. No longer did a divded government threaten to tear away at the seems.

"Ah, so you would be. I am to be designated Queen-Regent while Princess Evelina continues her schooling and comes of age to take the throne."

Like that, Everado sighed.

Tolisa Outpost, Serbian-Bosnian Border
A Bosnian officer in full dress looked out over the landscape from a towering watchtower, carefully observing it through his binoculars. While nothing was in sight, it was deafeningly calm, the Bosnians had been on the watch for any signs of a Serbian invasion ever since they joined the Iberian League. The officer sighed, setting the binoculars on a small table that had been put in the watchtower.

“Anything sir?” said a soldier, stepping up into the rifle. He carried a small sack, which was slung off to the side, and a rifle strapped to his back.

“No, you ready to reassume your watch duty?” said the officer, turning to the soldier standing behind him.

“Yes sir.” he nodded, taking the Officer’s position.

Much of the day passed as the soldier just watched and observed, the occasional bird flying overhead. The soldier shortly left the tower, leaving the binoculars in the tower. The officer and a few other soldiers stood in various positions around the outpost.

“Nothing to report sir.” said the soldier, saluting the officer and assuming an upright and straight posture.

“Excellent then. Were about to begin lunch. You have a few minutes…” the Officer cut himself off, as he and the rest of the outpost turned to a sound coming from the distance.

“Sounds like a plane.” spoke another one of the soldiers, rushing to the officer’s position.

As the soldier spoke, within the sight of the Bosnians appeared a small metal plane in the sky. Underneath it it carried several bombs, and the crest of Serbia rested upon its side.

“Get a message out, now!” shouted the Officer, launching the soldiers as they all began running. The bomber approached to fast, and its first bomb landed right next to the observation tower. Due to the close proximity of many the buildings in the outpost, the shockwave sent many of the soldiers tumbling to the ground. The observation tower came crashing down in a wave of fire, killing many soldiers.

The officer attempted to stand up as another bomb fell down near him, sending a wave of dust in shrapnel into the air. He barely managed to regain his balance as he felt ringing in his airs, and pieces of shrapnel that had embedded their jagged edges into his leg. He began limping towards the main building, but quickly collapsed as the pain began consuming. The last thing he saw before collapsing, was a single bomb hitting the ground.

Belgrade, Serbia
Neven watched as his Generals overlooked a map of the Balkans, planning the offensives of the Bosnian War. Unofficially it had already begun, with a few precision strikes with bombers planned to begin paving the way for the Serbian Forces to reach Sarajevo. Neven smiled, his plans were beginning to fall into place. It would not be long before he brought in a United South Slav state.

“All of our forces should focus on pushing towards Sarajevo, it shall help bring about a swift end to the war.” commented General Adam.

“I would advise against that.” said Commandante Azorin, one of the Spanish advisers. He was a lean man, slinking out of the shadows and up to the map. His bald head shone in the light coming from the elegant chandelier above. A thick brown beard helped muffled his voice.

“Doing that could cause a longer war in Bosnia. If Serbia wants this war to be effective as possible, it needs to be as fast as possible. Move in and secure it before anyone can notice, that way the bulk of your forces can return to the outer borders to prevent Hungary or Croatia from getting any ideas.” spoke, as he began pushing the various little pieces representing the armies around.

“Move a few divisions and bombers along the border and make sure it is secured, keeping the Bosnian Army distracted and divided into pockets. The bulk of your forces can then move to Sarajevo, less resistance.” he finished, looking towards the group of Generals.

Adam began attempting to speak as if to try to stop Azorin’s plan, but Nevan silenced him.

“I have complete faith in your abilities, Adam, but the Spanish have mastered the Art of War in a way we have not. As the Commander and Chief of the Serbian Military I order you to begin implementing Azorin’s plan.” said Nevan, looking towards Azorin.

“Thank you Nevan, I shall begin helping them plan the more fine details.” said Azorin.

“If so then I must leave. I have a few things that I must begin planning of my own. I leave you know, do ensure that everything about this war goes well for Serbia. It would be a shame if we were to fall after we have come so far.” finished Nevan, leaving the room as Azorin turned backed to the table and assisted the Generals.

Atlas Mountains, Spanish Morocco

One hundred meters beneath him, the jagged teeth of the Atlas Mountains rose up toward Julio Zuraban. The mountain range's breath blew into him from all angles within the open Barracuda gunship; though the desert air was warm indeed, the wind's speed stole the warmth off Julio's skin with ease and tugged at the spare pilot's fatigues he had thrown on before takeoff. Julio and the other Spaniards aboard the commandeered helicopter would have to look the part if this plan had any hope of success.

And as far as he was concerned, it didn't.

Julio was surprised that the plan concocted by Graciela, Dejene, and his Tuaregs had made it this far. Capturing a helicopter from the Spanish Army was no small feat in its own. But it was one thing to bait and surround a patrol gunship out in the desert, and another thing entirely to capture a military base. Liberating a place as well defended as La Cabeza seemed like it would be a daunting task for seasoned soldiers or mercenaries. And of all the twelve people crammed aboard this helicopter, only Dejene - the Ethiopian commando - seemed to have any military expertise. Graciela had proven herself a capable markswoman, and Joaquin had used his issued handgun perhaps twice during his service in the Madrid police district. As for the rest of them, Sotelo might have found them ideologically dangerous, but in combat they could not be expected to inflict any casualties.

"We're getting close," Julio could scarcely make out over the pulsating whine of the rotors. In the copilot's seat, Graciela traced her fingers over a landmark on a checkerboard-folded topo map, then pointed out a distant ridge to the Ethiopian piloting the chopper, his knappy mane billowing in the wind flowing through the bullethole in the windshield to his left. "La Cabeza should be just beyond that ridge."

"We will have to be cautious in landing," Dejene noted. "If they see the bullet hole in the windshield, it will arouse suspicion."

"Climb up a bit higher," Graciela suggested. "If we are at higher altitudes, no one on the ground will be able to see it."

As Dejene throttled up, Julio heard the whirring din increase in pitch while the Earth shrank beneath the gunship. Julio did not consider himself an acrophobe, but with no walls between himself and the churning air beyond the Barracuda's riveted hull, he was rather grateful for the seatbelt strapping him to the chopper's bench seating. Outside the hull, the sawtooth ranges of the Atlas Mountains gave the horizon a jagged edge. This was the northwest fringe of the Sahara desert; beneath their helicopter, the endless sand ergs that dominated North Africa became a patchwork of desert valleys where the desert worked its way between the outward-running fingers of the Atlas foothills. Dunes of undulating sand glowed in the late afternoon sun between ridges of dark granite. The land below was a majestic and desolate place; a place that was deeply inhospitable to man. The government had gone to incredible lengths to ensure their facility at La Cabeza was not found.

"Julio," Joaquin nudged him in the side, "do you feel that?"

"Do I feel what?"

Julio held still for a moment, and then he felt the sensation. A constant vibration coursing through the helicopter, in the air itself. The other Spaniards looked about now with concern written on their faces. They too felt the vibration, and feared something was wrong. Some fearful seconds passed before an olive-colored mass then drew into their field of view outside and the roar of four great propellers droned into their ears over the pulsing whine of the propellers. Out of nowhere, an airplane had appeared in the sky next to their gunship - close enough that Julio would be able to throw something at the plane's near wingtip and drifting closer at a dizzying speed.

"Plane!" Julio bellowed fearfully. Dejene and the pilot of the airplane seemed to have noticed one another at the last available moment. He got a brief glimpse of the other plane making a hasty, jerky bank out of the way before Dejene yanked hard on the throttle and peeled the helicopter down and away in the opposite direction. Julio's fingers gripped the bench with white-knuckle force as the chopper descended.

"Where the Hell did he come from?" Joaquin remarked over the propellers.

"That was a Gargola, as was the one we shot down," Dejene noted once he had stabilized the Barracuda. "We drifted into their landing approach."

"Let's be sure we don't-..." Graciela began, but stopped herself midsentence. "There it is." That prompted everyone in the chopper to look forward through the windshield. A far ridge had just passed underneath the helicopter and at last, the Spaniards saw what La Cabeza truly was.

A colossal mesa of red sandstone rose up into the sky above a backdrop of distant ranges, commanding a rocky wasteland that extended for miles and miles in every direction. The stone mass had the appearance of a half-buried face looking skyward from the desert floor; ridges on the top of the mesa would slope upward and downward in such a way that a person's forehead, nose, and chin were vaguely represented. There was no doubt that this mountain was La Cabeza - the Head.

Paved roadways crisscrossed the desert around the mountain itself, often running parallel with a railroad that ran from North to South. Julio could see a freight train chugging away from the mountain along the track below him. Diffuse diesel smoke rose from the engine car as it towed perhaps a kilometer's worth of cars laden with unmarked shipping containers.

"Look how they've got sentries escorting the train," Joaquin noted. Julio squinted at the nondescript containers and saw men stationed atop every fifth or sixth car. He could make out rifles slung over their shoulders, a few of them made visors with their hands and watched their Barracuda swoop past.

"I've never seen guards posted on a train like that before. Even when I was in eastern Turkey, where the Armenians ambushed railroads all the time, I'd never seen anything like that," Julio recalled. "Whatever they're moving, they're taking no chances with it."

As they approached the mountain itself, a perimeter of of chainlink fencing passed underneath them. Flanked on either side by sentry towers were road and rail checkpoint. As the helicopter passed beyond the fenceline's barbwire wreathes, they had infiltrated La Cabeza in earnest. But looking down upon the facility, it was difficult for Julio to imagine how they would get any farther.

The Spanish facility was a nexus of activity. Below them on the ground, guards and vehicles were everywhere. On dead-end sections of railroads off of junctions near the base of the mesa, two other trains had been parked and were being inspected by what appeared to be yet more armed guards. These ones were composed of cars carrying large, cylindrical tanks, several of which were tethered to tanker semis by thick hoses.

Like a trail of ants making its way back to their hill, a convoy of tankers trundled down the beltway along the talus slopes at the foot of the mesa. Dejene followed them, flying close to the furrowed walls of the mesa. Julio watched the Barracuda's shadow ripple and undulate as it passed along the jagged rock wall. Suddenly, he found himself staring down the barrels of a massive artillery piece ensconced within a hewn alcove in the rock.

"Dios mio," a fellow Spaniard exclaimed as the rest of the party laid eyes upon it. It was a triple-barreled gun that dwarfed the Barracuda. The yawning opening of the barrels, oriented in a triangular fashion, were every bit as wide as those of the mammoth guns placed upon modern warships.

"What the hell is that supposed be - a minigun howitzer?!" Joaquin exclaimed.

"We have grossly underestimated La Cabeza," Dejene admitted. "The Tuareg are not prepared to engage fortifications of this strength."

"You're not suggesting that we abandon the attack?" Asked Graciela. "Querido, we have come to far to turn away now..."

It was then that the helicopter came upon the airstrip. The Gargola bomber that they had nearly collided with on their approach had landed and taxied near an air traffic control tower near the foot of the mesa. Marching out of the fuselage were ranks of shackled people, all being escorted onto the tarmac by armed gunmen. A line a thousand-people in length cast long shadows against the tarmac as they were marched away from several idling airplanes to a number of flatbed trucks. Julio recognized that he and his fellow prisoners would have been among that teeming mass if Dejene and his Tuaregs had not inadvertently rescued them.

"No," Dejene answered, guiding the helicopter over the airstrip to turn about. "We won't get an opportunity like this again. I intend to destroy this monstrous place from the inside out."

"Spaniards!" The Ethiopian spoke loud enough that he could be heard by all over the propellers. "Those are your countrymen they have down there. I fear the worst for them! That grim fate was not yours, and neither will it be theirs. We are going to liberate them, and bring the evil men responsible for this place to justice."

Julio had been roused.

"Dejene has the right of it." The exiled Senator unbuckled himself from his bench and gathered himself up onto his feet. The attention of the Spaniards, Graciela included, had been captured. "If things continue at this rate, history will remember the people of the Second Spanish Republic as the complacent race that allowed Alfonso Sotelo to destroy them." He felt the helicopter descending, the hum of the propellers lowering in pitch as Dejene found a landing spot.

"For three years, I've allowed myself to be Sotelo's victim. I've been chased across this Earth, only trying to avoid his grasp and it accomplished nothing. I would be another prisoner if I had not been granted this opportunity. We are not prisoners - the Spanish are not a race of victims. Spaniards cast the Moors out of Iberia, Spain conquered the New World. We expelled Napoleon's legions, and we freed ourselves from monarchy. To cower and submit to a tyrant is uncharacteristic of our race."

"I am not a fighting man - none of us are. That does not excuse us to quail now; not when fate has granted us a unique opportunity to bloody the regime that has so humiliated us. We have made it this far, gentlemen."

Joaquin grinned ear to ear as he slapped his commandeered assault rifle into Julio's arms. The Senator gave a determined nod, and deftly yanked the FE-74's lever back with a satisfying clack.

"Let's see how much farther fate will have us go."

Sevan, Armenia

Sahle had sobered up enough by the afternoon to make a decision. He did not visit Aaliyah. Instead, with only enough wine to make him confident, he strolled through the hallway of a plush hotel on the downtown strip and gave two firm knocks to the door of an upper-floor room. It was all in motion now, he could not stop it. He was going to do this.

He had staked out this hotel over the course of weeks. He had learned her room, and memorized when she came and when she went. He knew the habits of the doorman - a short, elderly man with spectacle glasses and a crisp red blazer who always ate a small supper on the job at six and was on the toilet by seven. He knew that the maids were Russian immigrants who couldn't speak Armenian. He knew this hotel so well that the spongy carpeted floor felt like stepping into a friend's home. And, the suspicious comings and goings of most foreign residents of Sevan being what they were, nobody ever seemed to notice him beyond a cursory glance. And so here he was, after all this time, knocking on the door he had so long dreamed about.

It was Vladmira who answered, Oziryan's beautiful blonde-haired Finnish associate and Sahle's obsession. She wore an ankle-length red dress and house slippers. There was a blue glimmer in her eyes - a spark of intimidating intelligence, as if she was easily prepared to outsmart any man who came her way.

"You... you are the drummer." she said in a Russian accent that was uncomfortably sensual, as if she was trying to attract him and not the other way around. "The one who had the strange name. Soul-mill?"

"Samel." Sahle told the lie that came so natural to him now. "Like the animal."

"Samel." when she breathed, her chest bobbed in a way Sahle couldn't help but notice. "And why are you visiting me here now?"

It was time to be confident, and a part of the old Sahle leaked through. He leaned against the doorway and looked into her eyes.

"Vladmira, I want to make love to you." Sahle blurted. And there it was. All out on the floor.

For a moment, time stood still, and Sahle felt his thoughts coming at him all at once. Part of him wanted it to happen of course, so that he could itch this itch and move on with his life. Another part wanted her to be offended and shut the door. That was what he expected. If that happened, she would be closing the door on his chances and he could learn to accept that this would never happen. Then when he went back to Aaliyah, all would be fine.

"Oh, is that what you want then." she replied. She stared at him for a second with a look that drilled right through his skin. "Well then, come in."

action tiem

Sahle's heart leapt into his throat, beating as quick as it had when he was a young boy and new to women. It was as if all of the pressure that had been building up since they arrived in Sevan was released at once. He eagerly followed.

When he was inside, Sahle did not notice the bed except for that it was big and fluffy. The floor was carpeted, and there was a window with some outdoors outside of it. He didn't care, none of that was important. He didn't know what to expect. Was this some sort of trick? A ruse to catch him as a cheater and ruin what he had with Aaliyah? But when she started undressing, it no longer mattered. The here and now was everything.

"You know, in Russia, life has changed in the last several years." she said, bending down to pull her slippers off and toss them on the floor. "There are some, they turn to the church and become stubborn people, but the rest of us? We have seen death so many times that little things like this don't seem to matter anymore."

Sahle did not care for reasons. He was transfixed on her, anticipating every time she revealed more skin. He tried to undress himself clumsily, but he did not know where his hands were half of the time. His entire being was in three places - his imagination, his heart, and the other thing.

She unbuttoned the back of her dress slowly, revealing the strap of her bra and a freckled pale back. Sahle had his shirt of, and he was struggling with his belt.

"I wonder, did you not have a wife?"

"No" Sahle choked. His mouth was dry.

"That one girl with the mask, is she not your wife?" she said as she let her dress slide to the floor. Her underwear was all the same sheer egg-white. Sahle inspected her form obsessively. The curve of her hips, the slim form of her naked belly, and the freckled skin of her cleavage competed for his attention.

"We are good friends, but I am not married." he said. He wanted to rush at her now, but she was playing coy with him. Any time he tried to move toward her, she stepped back - not quickly and off putting, but slowly in a teasing way.

"Then I do not feel guilty." she smirked. She was unhooking her bra now, and Sahle's pants were starting to become unbuttoned from the inside. He watched, mouth hanging open, and she revealed herself, and she was everything he had wanted her to be. There was a slight sag to her breasts which made them all the more pleasing. Her freckles ended where her bra had began, so that her bosom was as white as the snows in Russia. He wiggled free of his pants.

"I think it is your turn." she said, making no attempt to cover herself. He complied and took the last of his clothes off. The feel of the cold air-conditioned room on his naked pelvis made him feel eager to do what he had came her to do.

Her panties came off next, revealing a patch of dirty-blonde hair between her legs. He was ready to go. Before she had tossed her underwear to the corner of the room, he was already moving.

"Not quite yet." she stopped him. "We don't know each other yet."

Sahle was confused. "I am Samel."

"Samel." she looked down. "Just like a camel. I know, but that is not knowing each other. Be patient, let us play a game. I want to know who my new friend is." she said. He watched her perfect butt sway perfectly when she turned around, but was confused when she pulled out a chess board.

--

It was torture. They were laying in her bed, both completely naked, but they were playing chess. Sahle didn't even like chess under normal circumstances - it was the type of game his brother loved, more about proving how smart you were than about having fun. He felt ridiculous, and horny, and that was not a pleasant combination of feelings.

But she seemed to be enjoying herself, as if this was normal for her. Was this how she got off? Did she like beating her partners in games by using their distraction to win before finally taking them to bed? How was this going to effect things when they finally did get down to it?

"Your moves are very strange." she teased. "I do not know if there is a strategy. Is that your strategy, to be chaotic?" Sahle looked at her - that was his favorite thing to do, though it caused an agony in him now. She was laying on her side, with one leg bent out in front of her in a way that covered her bush and brought attention to her butt, while her chess-playing arm hung over her breasts and obscured them. That did not help - actually, this pose made her even more attractive somehow.

"I am bad at this game." Sahle replied. "But I am good at the game I came here for."

"Tsk tsk tsk." she tsked. "Be patient." She moved a piece. He did not pay attention to which.

"Chess is the game of Tsars." she said, watching as he fumbled a move. He tried to move his knight in the direction he vaguely remembered them to go, but his arousal made him so clumsy that he knocked over another piece. When he moved to fix it, he bumped a second piece.

"That isn't the game." she giggled, helping him straighten it out. He chuckled, and for a fleeting second he forgot that they were naked. When he caught a quick glimpse of her nipple, he remembered again.

"I am not a Tsar." Sahle smiled.

Vladmira looked into his eyes thoughtfully. "I can see that."

"This is enough chess, don't you think?" Sahle pleaded. "I mean, I can't even play properly."

"No no, I like this." Vladmira grinned impishly. "We just need conversation to distract you from your... needs. We are here to learn about each other, aren't we?"

"In a different way." Sahle sighed.

"I like my way." she persisted. "Tell me, where are you from?"

"Africa." he said.

"An entire continent? That is a big house to have?"

"You wouldn't know my house."

"Maybe not, but be more specific than 'Africa'." she made a move. When she looked away from him, he followed the soft curve of her body with his eyes. He wanted to reach out and start something, but she seemed too serious. It was then that Sahle realized something about himself. When he had been a prince, or even Emperor, he wouldn't have thought twice about tossing the chess board off the bed and starting things right there, but time had changed him. He was afraid of losing this, but what was this exactly?

"I am from Ethiopia, the same as my partners." Sahle told her. He made an awkward move, but he did not know what piece he had picked up, or where he had moved it.

"Oh. Their war must be effecting you then. Do you still have family down there?"

"Yes." he answered. He figured it was best to tell the truth up until a point. It would make it easier to form answers.

"I feel for you, Samel. I lost my family to war." she moved a piece. "Did Vasily ever tell you how I came into this business?"

"Business?" he asked.

"I am here to negotiate support for my comrades in Volgograd. We are rebels, you see." she giggled, and the way she squirmed caused Sahle to go hard again. "Everyone is Volgograd is a rebel, but that is not the matter."

"I feel like I know you already." Sahle said, faking confidence this time. It did not work.

"I and my family were comrades of the great Viktor Laine and Juhani Mikael. Great, grand Finnish patriots." when she said this, she motioned with he hands for emphasis, and Sahle got the full view again. "Their families and mine all died in the war, but I went with them and we assassinated the Tsar's daughter. And then we assassinated the Tsar?"

"Wait, you assassinated the Tsar?" he was surprised.

"No no, that was Viktor. I was his spotter." she said. "But that is me, now about you. Who is Samel?"

"I am a musician." he said slowly, still stunned that the woman he lusted for was an assassin. "That is all I have to say."

"One word and that is all?" she pouted. "Come now, you want me more than that. What about that scar below your belly button, right there." she poked.

"That was a surgery, just... I had an appendix out."

"Oh." she said. Her mood seemed to shift suddenly, though he could not detect why, or even how exactly. "Do you want to do a few lines before you go?"

"Go? But..."

"We will know each other soon enough, Samel. But today I have work to do. It is nearly showtime too, now I think of it. Don't you have drums to bang?"

"I have..."

"Don't say it." she smiled. "I was setting you up. I know you were going to say 'me'." When she climbed out of bed, Sahle stared at her ass. That was all he could focus on as she pulled a small snuff-box and poured a tiny line of fine white powder. Every move she made caused Sahle to ache. "You said that we were going to..."

"Do not fret." she cut him off, sniffing a line of white powder. "We will, just not today. Perhaps we can make this into a daily thing?"

"Playing chess?" Sahle stood up. He wanted to go for her now, to change her mind in other ways, but something was stopping him. He stood there naked and dejected as she slipped into a new dress.

"Oh, maybe for another day. But when we were done with that." she walked toward him and gave his balls a slight squeeze. "We will do more things. I like you men of Africa, and you are the first one to have the testicles to walk right up to my door and knock, so you can be my African until I leave."

With that, she finished dressing and left him alone in her apartment. He felt used. Used, and horny. Before he left, he went to the bathroom and finished himself in her toilet, but there was no joy in it. In fact, he was fucking angry. He did not flush, and when he was done, her stole her cocaine and left. If he couldn't have what he wanted then tonight, he was going to party.

--

It was July 17th; Independence Day in Armenia, celebrating the third year anniversary of the day when Hasmik Assanian officially declared Armenia an Independent country. In the morning, people had assembled near Sevan island to watch the on-going war games being practiced there. In the afternoon, the holiday had been children dancing in colorful ethnic dresses while families ate lavash with harissa and young veterans traded war stories. At night, however, the celebrations were different. Sahle knew that sweaty old men would be fucking their saggy old wives in cloistered bedrooms all across the city, while the young partied in the streets. There were fresh posters on the walls warning people to 'Save your Ammunition for the Turk.', but they would not listen. When the sun set, men drank and fired their weapons into the air while fireworks bloomed above the lake in explosions of gold, blue, and red. It was in this environment that Sahle found Marc and showed him the kidnapped cocaine.

Who was Marc? Sahle had been his friend for several years now, and he still didn't really know. He was the cornet player in their strange little band. It had been him and Yared who found Sahle in the desert when he was still Sahle; an identity they still were not aware of. To them, he was Samel. But still, who was Marc? Sahle did not know his last name. He was younger than Sahle, but not by much. He would have been of age to fight in the Civil War that brought Yaqob to power; so would Yared, but neither ever told war stories to suggest that they might have actually fought. As far as Sahle knew, Marc and Yared had drifted out of Ethiopia in a wandering stupor, unconnected to any real past. What ever they had been, it didn't seem to matter anymore than Sahle's identity.

There were a few things Sahle could say about Marc, or at least one overriding trait that seemed to dominate his personality. Marc was an addict in his very image. He had a drawn look about him anymore, and his nose was always runny, which caused the skin on his upper lip to be permanently red and raw. There was a constant sleepy look about him as well. And he always, no matter where he was, managed to get the drugs he wanted. It was the only coherent thing he could do besides play the cornet.

The two friends snorted their lines off the hood of a truck at the only car rental shop still open on the holiday, and when they were done they decided to go and rent a car. It seemed like a good idea. They could get some air and see the city much easier that way. It was true that they had little money, but one of the luxuries of Sevan was its cheap car rental. All the city had on offer were the cheap and ugly open-top Polish tub cars, but that was all they needed. So long as it moved, held them, and gave them a place to put their stolen cocaine, it was fine. They drove away in a screeching blur, and then they were on the streets.

"Armenia!" Sahle yelled, echoing the patriotic hollering of the people filling the streets. "Armana!" Marc slurred in reply. Marc was the better driver, and so it was him behind the wheel. He always seemed capable of driving even if he wasn't capable of forming words. "Fuckit... this is the wa... we spose'd to live!"

A young man - no older than thirty, in Sahle's estimation, fired an assault rifle haphazardly in the air. The bullets rained on the marquis of a nearby theater and put out its lights. A women screamed and fled from the rain of broken lightbulb that followed, but nobody else in the zombie-like crowd seemed to be paying attention. It was a moving party. Sahle smelled the pungent stench of reefer, and the scent of alcohol was everywhere. Not to mention the vile odor of the people themselves.

Two kids dodged out of an alley and ran across the street. Marc hit the brakes suddenly. The kids were chasing each other with firework sticks that shot colorful sparks, and they did not seem to mind the traffic at all.

"Brotha, we need those..." Marc struggled to express himself. He let both hands of the wheel and gestured manically. "Things!"

"No." Sahle was giggling for no reason. "No! They have to be saved for the Turk!"

Both Sahle and Marc giggled now. They weren't waiting for anybody now. They were just stopped in the middle of the road, laughing. It was only when a beer bottle burst against their car that they knew it was time to move.

"Pull into here!" Sahle pointed to a strip club. There was a peeling picture of an old Turkish celebrity painted on the it's front wall. Sahle suspected she had not given them permission to use her image. Just one more way to humiliate the dastardly Turk. "I want to go there! Pull over!"

"Ah..." Marc slurred. "Whad is there to see there?"

"What is there to see?" Sahle punched Marc in the shoulder. "What is there to see? What are you, man?"

"Awright." Marc parked on the sidewalk. "All right. We do th' thing then." They both did a line, and then they went inside to see what there was to see.

Sahle remembered how Barnham had been the only person powerful enough to circumvent Islamic law in Cairo, which meant his club had been the only one with nudity. Though there was an mystical orthodox morality in this country, the Armenians weren't as squeamish as the Muslims. And in Sevan, they did not fuck around. There were sixteen fully-nude girl clubs in this little resort city, each one operating to please a nation of revolution-hardened veterans. When Sahle and Marc entered this place, they were greeted by all the painted sluts in garish high heels they could ever want. One woman was holding a tray of bite sized honey-cakes right up to her perky chest, and Sahle couldn't help but take one just so he could cop a feel in the process.

The lighting in this place was dark enough that it was hard to make out the faces of anybody who wasn't a few feet in front of you. The exception were the few scattered dancing stages, where girls gyrated under spotlights.

"Brother." Marc said giddily. He wasn't so much giddy about the women as he was just... generally giddy. The cocaine had him. "Those smells!" he took a big, snotty whiff. All Sahle could smell was alcohol, vomit, and tit sweat. What Marc was talking about was something only Marc could possibly know.

Sahle was looking for any stripper that might look vaguely like Vladmira. He didn't know why, but he didn't care why. It was what he had decided to do, and he was doing it.

There were some Russians here - women that had fled the violence of that collapsed country for the new Armenian nation-state. When he saw a woman he liked the look of, he would stop. They were doing wiggling dances with colorful ribbons of cloth, and all to the same live-band jazz tune. The music was slow and seductive.

"What are you here for?" he heard a girlish voice rise over the cacophony. He looked down to see a short brown-haired dancer staring up at him with beautiful doe eyes. "I know a place we can be alone."

"Oh yes?" Sahle wrapped his arm around her. "And what do you do?"

"I'll tell you." she said, rubbing against him as they walked. "But you will have to give me something."

"I have top-notch snow!" Sahle shouted as low as he could shout, pulling a small bag of white powder and shaking it in front of her. "It's from South America!"

"Where? All of that stuff is from South America." she giggled.

"No!" he was struggling to shout over the music and the sound of the crowd. "You don't understand! It is from Sotelo's personal farm!" He didn't know if that was true, but Oziryan claimed to have access to Sotelo's supply, and Vladmira was Oziryan's guest.

"Who?"

"Sot... never mind! It is really good snow though!"

She shrugged and seemed to accept that. Sahle felt vindicated. Vladmira had sent him away with blue balls, so he bought himself a hooker with her supply. They pushed through the crowd; mostly veterans with minds fried by war and booze, and elderly wealthy post-war opportunists visiting from Yerevan for the holiday. It was a remarkably small room, Sahle realized. Perhaps no larger than a Chinese soup shop in the run-down part of town. There were mirrors on the walls that made everything looks slightly bigger...

...That was where he saw her. It wasn't Vladmira of course, but a dancer that looked exactly like her. "I am sorry!" he shouted hurriedly at the doe-eyed girl. "I have somewhere to be!" He left her before she could respond and slipped into the crowd.

The look-alike was always ahead of him, moving between the press like a shy animal sliding through the forest. She was perfect - exactly what he had came here for. When he saw a door open and shut, he went for it. The door opened, cool summer air washed over him, and...

And suddenly he was standing outside. A stubby man in uniform had a black-haired woman pinned behind the dumpster, and he looked like he was getting his money's worth. Neither of them seemed to notice Sahle. Besides those two, there was no sign of the look alike.

The door opened again and Marc poured out.

"Good thing." Marc slurred. "I did'n like the smell."

"Fuck it all." Sahle grumbled. "Let's go back to the car."

--

After the encounter in the strip club, the night seemed a little darker for Sahle. Perhaps that was because it had, in fact, became darker. The air was filled with a gunpowder smog now, concealing the stars and turning the moon a dull shade of red. There were fewer people in the streets now than there had been before, but it was by no means quiet.

Still, Sahle wanted another distraction. He had done his share of cocaine, and he didn't have the strength to do anymore for now. For Marc, that was not the case. The addict that he was, he snuffed a new line any time he felt his high slowing down.

There was a man asleep in the road, using an old rifle as a pillow. They drove around him cautiously as Sahle watched him snore. Nobody else in the street seemed to care. What was that man's story, Sahle wondered? Why was he so stupid to sleep in the road with a gun?

"It is a mad house!" Sahle exclaimed. "No control!"

"It's like..." Marc struggled to form an idea. He moved his arms like a sloth conducting an orchestra. "Like the children are loose!"

"Go the fuck to bed!" Sahle yelled out toward the crowd, and then he began to laugh hysterically. "Bed." he managed to squeak again between giggles.

"Fuck you!" an Armenian yelled from the sidewalk. "I fuck... I do the fuck ever I do!"

"It is a mad house!" Sahle repeated himself. "We need women. Man, I need... I need a woman."

Marc did not have time to respond, because something else entirely drew their attention.

"Want to buy a cow!" an old man was shouting from the sidewalk. Surely enough, there he was; a hill person climbed down from his hills with a skinny brown cow tied on a rope. The man was scruffy and middle aged, and he was dressed like some sort of medieval peasant. Still, he didn't seem put off by the city at all. Was this his gig? Did he sell cattle in the streets any time the entire city was drunk?

"Why are you selling a cow!" Sahle shouted. "Why now? It is a mad house!"

"I've been trying to sell this cow for six months!" the man shouted back. Marc pulled the car over to the curb.

"Is it broken?" Marc inquired hazily.

"It is just old." the man replied. "Nobody wants it, but I don't want it either."

"We don't have much money."

"Give me ten and I will be fine."

"For a cow?" Sahle exclaimed. "That seems cheap. But fuck it." he dug through his pockets and found enough change to add up to the amount.

"Where are you going to put it?" the man asked.

"Let's put it in the back."

And so they did. With a little help from the seller, they packed the full-grown milk cow into the back seat and began to drive.

"We should take this cow to see..." Sahle began. For a hazy moment, he forgot what he was going to say. "The sights, you know? Let the cow see the lake. You know the lake road?"

Marc ignored him. "Give snow for the cow!" Marc was shouting into the streets, and at nobody in particular. "Give... give Feelgood for the Cow!" Everybody in the street ignored him, but Marc continued. "Give me something for the cow!"

A drunk on the sidewalk dropped his pants around his knees and waved his discolored junk in their direction. "Reefer!" Marc yelled for no discernible reason.

"That is where we will go." Sahle pointed to a small place with Asian lettering. "I know that place."

"The cow?" Marc asked.

"It too." Sahle jumped out of the car before it stopped.

--

The place Sahle had chosen was a little Chinese massage parlor not far from where Vasily's friend taught Wushu. There was a small community of Chinese immigrants in Sevan. When the Communists came to power in China, many people fled to Russia. And when Russia collapsed, they were forced to flee again. They, along with the Russians and the few remaining Turks, made up the poorest of the poor in Armenia. They ran soup shops in the cheap-rent storefronts in the Turkish Quarter, where the meat was never identifiable and the horrible smells drove most respectable customers away. And in their apartments, they had massage parlors that few people visited for massages. That was because the girls here knew that there was safety in numbers, and that there were other services that netted them more business than a back rub.

They went through a hallway that was only wide enough to fit one person at a time. Marc, devoid of reason, brought the cow. Sahle was met at the beaded doorway of what had once been an apartment by an older Asian woman in a red ankle length dress. The building had a strange smell, like boiled chicken marinated in cheap perfume. The women had invested in a colored lamp, and an almost sinister red light poured out of the room. Sahle put a crumpled wad of money in her hand. Before she could lead him in, she saw the cow.

"What is that?" she shouted in a shrill, Asian voice.

"Don't mind my friend." Sahle said. "He is in love with that cow."

"Go love the cow somewhere else!" she shouted. "We do not love cows in here! Do you hear me!"

Sahle turned to Marc. "Leave the cow out here, brother." But Marc would not cow so easily.

"Well good then! If you are too good for the cow, you are too good for me!" the coked up fiend yelled at the little old Chinese lady. "I will keep her compan... companionship out here!"

"You are a strange man!" the Chinese lady shouted. "You are a strange man!" Sahle went inside.

The parlor consisted of two Apartments that had been combined by knocking out a wall. The carpet and the walls were both red, and the scent he had smelled clearly had its origin point here. There were two younger women in knee-length dresses. The older woman barked something in their language, and one of the girls stood up.

"She will take care of you." the old woman said coldly. And that was it. All three women left the room, leaving Sahle to undress and lay face-down on the massage table. He made sure his pocket was within reach; he would need it later. His head was through a hole in the table, allowing him to view the blood-red shag carpet in all its detail, but it lacked any interesting detail to view. He heard the door open, and it started.

She began by rubbing oil on his back. Sahle heard the cow moo in the hall, and he wondered how long the madame would allow it to go on. But this girl, she did not react at all. She did not speak - she most likely wasn't good with the language, he knew. He sighed when her hands reached his buttocks. It was time. He hadn't come here just to have an oily ass, after all.

He reached down and pulled out another wad of money. He tried to count it as discreetly as he could, but he knew her type, and he knew that she would be too clever to not notice. All he could do was hope that the rest didn't get stolen. He handed her the amount and turned around.

She smiled and stuffed the money in the drawer. And then, as graceful as an antelope, she climbed on top of him.

As she guided him into her, he was surprised that she didn't wear anything under her skirt, but suddenly it did not matter. Right then, all of his worries melted away at once. This is all he had needed, the simplicity of this thing. It was what the Finnish woman had promised him, and then cruelly took away. His head swam. Fuck cocaine, this was all he needed tonight.

In the thrill of the moment, he reached up her shirt and cupped a tit that was too small to grasp. He realized for a short moment that his second hand had been on his pants crumpled up on the floor beneath him. He let go of his pocket and reached for another tit. The girl gasped a squeal of - surprise, delight, professional courtesy? Fuck it. He didn't care. He heard himself grunting from the strain.

It went on - longer than he expected, which he didn't mind - and when he finished, the girl dismounted him and struck a small gong on the table. Sahle smiled, got up, and got dressed. He was satisfied. He heard the cow moo in the hallway.

When they left the Parlor, they found that the streets were mostly dead now. It was late into the night.

"Did you have fun, brother?" Marc crooned. They loaded the cow into the back of the Polish rental car.

"That was what I needed. Though I am almost broke." He reached into his pocket and was delighted to find that they hadn't stolen from him.

"How about this." he said, waving a wad of cash. "I thought the other girl would crawl in and take it or something."

"They were watchin' me." Marc grinned. "And'th cow." They climbed into the car and drove,

With the streets mostly clear of people, they drove through the quiet city with relative ease. The city was littered with broken bottles and random debris. In some places, it looked almost as if Sevan had been looted by a marauding band of beer-swilling barbarians. Sahle watched the city go by in silence.

Soon, they were in the countryside. Marc was driving with one hand and snuffing fingernails of snow with the other. His pupils were dilated now, and he was beginning to go quiet. Without Marc's babble to distract him, Sahle watched the countryside go by. He was too aware of the cow awkwardly balanced in the back seat, and he kept one hand perched behind him on the side of the car, as if he could influence the momentum of a one ton beast of living beef with a single arm.

The fireworks and wasting of ammunition was done now, but the haze remained. It masked the moon in a grey-red fog, and left a moody glow on Lake Sevan. All around them were the shadows of naked hills, rising into the mountainous highlands of Armenia. It was a beautiful place. This looked like the landscape that vampires might prowl; windswept, ruinous, and veiled in all the colors of dying fire. But despite all of that, it did not look sinister. This was a primeval road they were speeding down, and as the cool midnight wind rushed over Sahle, he had time to reflect. He thought about his fading past, and the future he planned to live with Aaliyah. He thought about his mother, and how her death had sent his past-self spiraling like a Spanish missile into his new life. He wondered how much of that had ignited his simmering attraction to the Russian woman. Perhaps he had just fallen off the wagon.

They passed Sevan island. The cow stamped a hoof into the metal in an awkward attempt to keep its balance. Sahle reached back and patted it on the shoulder. "Be calm, friend." he said softly, but by the sound of the wind rushing past his ears he knew that nobody could hear him. He watched the tree-covered rock that was Sevan Island pass by. From here, the road paralleled a lake, which was separated from them by nothing but a steep decline.

"You should slow down, brother." Sahle patted Marc on the back. Marc looked wide awake - so conscious that he paradoxically looked like a statue. His eyes looked unhealthy, and he was sweating so bad that large droplets streamed down his face. Sahle was beginning to worry.

"Brother." he patted him on the shoulder. "The cow."

Marc looked at him with wide, cold, dead eyes, and blood trickled out of his nose. "The road." he said in a ghastly voice. That was all he managed to say.

Sahle jumped for the steering wheel and grabbed it. Marc did not seem to react, and Sahle only barely had time to notice that his friend had passed out. It was like he had suddenly been possessed by a ghost, and the moody atmosphere of the highlands transformed to evil in a heartbeat.

Sahle brought the car flying into a ditch on the left side of the road. The last thing he felt before going unconscious was joy that he prevented the car from careening to the right, and into the lake.

The water lapped against the bow of the small boat as it rocked through the water. Gray-brown water trickled slowly down the winding and snaking course of the mighty Volga. In the early morning light it glistened with a subdued orange and red glow as the sun narrowly peaked out over the hilly banks. The silent guardian pines stood a cold vigil in the rising morning light as it began to wake the birds and animals along the shores.

The engine of the boat died with a sputter and Jun turned back from leaning on the flaking, tarnished rails that formed the barrier between a dry deck and the cold waters underneath. The boat wasn't large, nor was it small. As he was affirmed it was a small ferry boat for the river. The wood of its deck was – despite conditions in the Russian state – given great care and a fresh coat of varnish glowed in the morning sun-light. And although patchy fresh patches of white paint decorated the hull of the boat and enclosed gondola.

Walking up from below deck an elderly, overweight Russian man came into the light. Tired bags hung under his blue eyes. His head had long mostly gone bald, and all that remained were long silvery wisps of hair that had long lost any color. He looked up at Jun with a long overdrawn look and remarked, “I had to kill the engine, save some fuel.” he pointed out. He wrapped a rag around and rubbed it between greasy fingers as he fidgeted, “The current will keep us on its course.

He turned from him and went to walk deeper into the cabin, but hesitated for a moment and turned back around, “I'll be preparing tea in the cabin. I'd invite you to join me, but I don't know.” he was clearly nervous. He looked up and down Jun with a smile that was as tense as it was polite. It didn't help that the return Jun offered was as cold as it was distant. The ferryman must have felt the cold Siberian wind in Jun's silent response and he nodded defeated.

“I'll hold you to it.” Jun called back as the ferryman turned, “I'll be in in a minute.”

“Oh, ah, yes...” the ferryman stuttered, “I'll be there.” he said anxiously.

The man's footfalls died with the shuttering clasp of the rickety screen door that was the cabin door. Folding his arms on the railing, Jun leaned out over the water and watched the river-front slowly crawl passed.

In truth, they were moving at a pace slower than a crawl. The trickling licks of the water at the bow had died to a whispering sigh, and then to silence as the craft coasted down to the river's own speed.

As the boat coasted along Jun watched as along the shores the creatures of the wood awoke and came to the water's edge. Where herons with steel-blue feathers stalked the shallows for fish so did red deer come to drink at the water's edge. But there was a tensity as the silently drifting boat drew close to the water's edge, the wild residents gave a tense pause to look up at the slowly drifting interlopers as they were pushed along by the bubbling water.

Jun beat his hands on the railing and stepped back. Then was about a good time for tea. Taking his leave for the cabin, he left the wilderness behind him.

They had been on the water for several days. Though in reality the time spent traveling was more equal to a day. For fuel Jun's ferryman was forced to stop over at Cristopol for fuel supplies. As Jun had left Perm, Shu had flipped another late-moment gift; a bundle of saved ruble and an advice on which ferryman to take, the one that wanted an excuse to leave.

He was Basil Subyan. A man who lost his family, and had only his boat left. The door to the cabin groaned on its old hinges as the Chinese agent stepped into the hazy hall.

Along the wall next to hazy, faded windows rows of small dining booths sat in orderly rows. Basil sat at the bar on the far side, holding to his brow a metal cup. In the yellow morning sun that cut through the dust tongues of whipping steam curled up into the air as the tin cup was clasped to his head.

Basil looked to the side at the sound of the opening door. “I was beginning to wonder.” he said in a low voice, “Tea's nice and hot. I got a little bit of jelly left. Otherwise you will need to make due with honey. I don't know how you Chinamen like it out east.”

Jun sat in the stool alongside Basil, reaching out for a nearby tin cup he humored Basil with no answer or response, and stead lowered the cup to the bubbling pot that stood between them on the bar.

The pot itself was something that had seen better days. Tall like a hookah but metal, its nickle surface tarnished, the gleam of its metal had subsided to a subdued matte finish. From its top puffs of condensed steam jumped out from ill-sealed cracks as inside water boiled. There was a faint smell of smoldering leaves or bark from it.

Pulling the pot that crowned the top Jun poured out the yellow-green liquid inside out into his tin cup. The water rushed out with a relieved sigh and splashed against the bottom of the tin. As it came close to the brim, Jun raised the pot and put it back on its burner.

He rose it to his lips and took a sip of the fresh hot tea, cringing at the bitterness. Basil laughed at Jun's shocked expression. “It's different, isn't it?” he smirked, “Tea's harder to come by in Russia now the czar's gone and the business types left the nation. But the tea fields in Sochi are back to production again I hear, and I can finally have a warm drink to have jam with.”

“Tea in Russia?” Jun croaked between sips of the hot, bitter drink.

Basil nodded, “It was a thing that was happening when my father was a boy!” he exclaimed nostalgically, “Some grower type bringing it to Sochi. We had been getting our tea from Britain through Ukraine before, and China over rail. But that way I've heard it put, it was a big deal when the tea was growing in Sochi. Georgian tea was always shit to begin with.”

“I wouldn't have thought.”

“Aye. And pray you don't ever drink tea from Georgia, they always fuck it up somehow. Russian tea isn't perfect, but it does it fine.”

“How do you get it?” Jun asked.

“Another ferryman comes up north along the river with crates full of it!” Basil beamed, “What was his name, I knew him for a time. Ah- Gregor I think.

“You see, some Cossacks out of Ukraine came in and took over Sochi from the Turks and Muslims that ran the city after the fucking Ottomans pulled out. I don't know how they're working the fields or what's going on, but they got the tea flowing again and that's what that counts. But prices can vary, depending on where you are on the river.

“Where we're going I hear the tea is cheaper.”

Jun nodded. He didn't hardly understand the economic concepts being proposed. But played along. “When was the last time you were in Volgograd?” he asked.

“Volgograd?” Basil chuckled, “Volgograd for me was... forever ago. I only ever used to take people as far as Chaykovsky along the Kama. I can't remember when I was ever in Volgograd, maybe when I was a kid.

“That was an eon ago...” he trailed wistfully, “Forever. I can't believe it.” his tone dropped and turned sadder, “And I outlasted a wife and family. What the hell happened, Chinaman? What happened?

“I can't keep going in Perm, that much is true. So thanks for the opportunity to get me to leave.”

Jun sipped his cup of tea. “It's nothing.” he remarked plainly.

The Russian groaned and put his drink on the counter. Holding his face in his hands he starred down at the lethargically bobbing liquid at the bottom of his cup as his boat meandered slowly with the current of the river. “Why are you even here?” he asked in a low tone of voice.

Jun didn't beguile him with an answer. Instead he looked at the man through narrowed eyes as he took a sip. The Russian rose his heavy stare to him, “I used to hear of many who came from your land, but the czar was alive then. Now he's dead and no one comes trying to break out of your country. What brings a man such as you here?” he looked down at his black coat. Jun's instinct told him he was eyeing the patches that choked the muffed, old leather, “You're not a normal man on the run.”

Jun held his silence, sliding the cup onto the counter and wrapping his arms on the scratched unpolished wood.

“I'll respect your silence.” sighed the ferryman in defeat, “And your buisiness.”

Jun maintained his secrets. But to that the man figured he was grateful for such and the two continued to drink their tea in silence.



The halls of the former imperial palace hung in a dim light filtering through the tall windows that marched solemnly along the walls of the former residence of the czar. In the gray light filtered by the ominous, ever-hanging clouds of Sankt Petersburg the light fell in long casting bars against the bare walls of former imperial decadence. Many of the artifacts and trinkets the imperial family had kept once upon a time had been chucked, decried as material vulgarity. In their places red banners hung in the interior. And in the place of former royal guards, olive-drab militia patrolled a silent vigil through the palatial halls, now the seat of communist reign.

It did not strike the Chinese admiral, as he stood waiting outside a pair of tall mahogany doors as ironic. It was repurposement. And he had seen a lot of need for that in the communes. Standing of shaky grounds the regime was not ready or willing to allocate resources to constructing great monuments to power and pride as China back home. And so what stood in the Russia and Estonia of Radek was without doubt the same structures that stood always, and will always stand.

He gazed out the windows to Sankt Petersburg proper. He stood overlooking the grand square outside the palace. There, men drilled with rifles in the gray afternoon sun. And men on horses conducted training maneuvers in view of the public life. Shao had come to recognize such activity here on his visits so much that he forgot if this was to help show a force of order in the communes for not being able to push Radek's unity, or was for the bemusement of young women who saw lovers among the ranks or young husbands. Or to the joys of children who lusted for a warrior's life.

He smiled at the thought, and pulled out from under his arm his blue-gray cap, fitting it atop his head by his reflection in the window. From his shoulders dropped the steel-blue and heavy coat of his rank, wrapped with the golden rope of a higher officer and all the metals and insignias. Shen Shao, commander of the NPS Bohai and the spear that plunged deep into the heart of the Spanish armada. He had been praised after the fact as the man to end the Spanish intervention in Finland, and for that he found himself trapped into the cold north.

Shao was an officer with a notable, pronounced chin and toned jaw-line. Though under neath the stubble that had grown on his chin over his time of deployment it was hardly noticeable, if even something that could be noted by any other man. He scowled annoyed as he brushed white-gloved fingers through the scrub-brush hairs growing curled from his face. He was owed a trim with scissors, but hardly had much of the time nor the appropriate pair. Someone was always using them to cut a man bald among the detachment or the village of their station in the north to fight headlice.

And it was perhaps most needed now before he met with the godly priest who had defected from so much and now had come to rule a quasi-nation on the far-side of Russia.

He put the thought of cleanliness aside and instead dashed his hand across his scalp to push in the oily black hair atop his head deeper under his hat before pulling the cap down tight to his ears. Clicking his heels together as he assumed an attentive pose he gave himself a dignified salute and turned from the cloudy day outside.

The sounds of the palace were muted and distant. Without the sound of proper automotive traffic or the hum of naval engines to fill his ears he was almost surprised and horrified with how silent Sankt Petersburg was. Replacing the low song of engines came the distant and muffled whispers of conversation down the hall, behind the door, and even someone walking across the floor overhead. Even the slow ticking of an antique clock ticked away somewhere in a nearby room. There was ghostly silence to it all, none like that of a library.

Listening to it and trying to fixate on one sounded like listening for ghosts. The sounds and suggestions of movements fleeting and hard to pinpoint. Shao felt the shivers hold his spine as he thought about this palace, and what had happened. According to his sources Radek's men had taken the building without firing a shot or spilling blood, many of the staff and inhabitants having fled before hand. But there was other things that happened here. The old palace was much too big for just a politburo and the office of their executive leader. There was the military headquarters too for the Sankt Petersburg defense force, and their operations and interrogations. He had heard rumors of suspected dissidents being hauled out in bags, but nothing his own intelligence could verify for sure. But for the tales that reached him it wasn't plain deaths, as expected in war; but other means.

He wondered if Radek knew about it, as he stood waiting for his audience.

“Comrade.” a deep Russian voice said from down the hall. Shao turned, standing in the half-opened doorway a simply dressed officer held open the door to the audience he was summoned to, “Comrade Radek is ready to speak with you now.”

“Thank you,” Shao bowed, “lead the way.” he politely requested as he followed the officer through the door.

Stepping through he entered into a large room. The curtains drawn across the windows filtered much of the gray afternoon light. But the lazk of its hazy glow was supplemented by the warm orange light of candles that burned across every surface. Including the long table at its center, several small plates were laid out on it, with breads, meats, and vegetables. At its head sat Radek, reclined to the side in the furthest seat.

“Good afternoon, brother.” greeted Radek, his low voice boomed in the open chamber. He rose from his seat to hail the officer, “I hope you haven't ate much before arriving.” he shouted playfully.

“I haven't, and I was beginning to think I might have to find food before heading back to base.” Shao grinned as he made his way to the table.

Radek was by no means a small man. He in fact held an imposing posture that came ever the more clear as Shao drew close. “Please, right here comrade.” the old priest invited as he gestured to a seat at the corner, next to him. Shao took it.

As the men both sat down the light of the candles shone in the faded blue eyes of the communist ruler in the west. A heavy beard and thick mustache grew from his face and shrouded his mouth behind a thick layer of ghastly white hair, but Shao had no doubt the man was smiling wide and polite under all that hair. And with his broad face the Russian leader commanded a rather Rasputin aura to him.

“I heard the news.” Radek began in his low gravely voice. He delicately reached out in front of him for a roll of bread for the pile on a pewter plate in front of either man, “And I was wondering if you knew?”

“Was I invited to lunch to discuss the news from Shanghai?” Shao joked. The strange juxtipositions on display in the man's dress caught his attention as he received his almost courtly attention. Although simple and stripped barren of the rich decorations of the proper Orthodox persuasion, Radek still wore his priestly robes. Although in place of the overt and opulently loud displays of faith he had replaced much of it with communist iconography and images hearkening back to Lenin's own failed revolution. Even on his head in absence of a priestly cap he wore a mottled green ushanka emblazoned with a red star that glowed in fiery colors from the candle light.

“If it were only so simple,” Radek laughed, “but I don't believe in breaking bread with starving allies. So have something, and we shall discuss commitments.”

“Commitments?” asked Shao as he obligated the old man's wish, and served himself a roll of bread, “Don't you have agent Tang to discuss those with?”

“Agent Tang is currently occupied coordinating training with the defense forces for the communes.” Radek rebuked, “He can't strongly receive what I have to say. Nor does he have the assets himself.”

“Assets, what assets are we talking about?” a curiously bitten Shao asked, as he pushed his thumb into the warm role, breaking it apart.

“You command a fleet, comrade.” Radek reminded.

“I command a couple ships and a half dozen submarines.” Shao corrected him, “They're more than enough to control any unwarranted fishing and lock the northern sea down in summer. But it's hardly a fleet.”

“My point still stands.” Radek grunted, his tone of voice cold as he bit into the bread. Drinking from a glass of water he continued: “You command these things, and I can likely double it.

“I can't immediately make my obligations to the war effort on Spain as Shanghai has now decided. I simply don't have the resources. And for what we do have I must give it unto the people and feed and warm them. You, the Chinese, have been gracious in keeping the support of much of want my people want and need so I can concentrate on other domestic problems to keep the flock full and happy. But none of that has gone into fueling any whimsical dreams of military expansion, as much as the commanders demand we ration so we can embark on our war for reunification, much like Nikolov.

“But it is not fighting the Republic directly that frees my people; as much as they would like it to be. Do you understand.”

“I do,” Shao said, biting into his half a roll, “But I have to admit I don't see where it's going.”

“You're the most westerly Chinese station.” Radek told him, “And now the International expects China to act. Whether or not their deceleration has reached Spain. But it has come to us first, we both know.

“Your strategic position clearly in mind, it's only reasonable to guess that you will get the orders to move on Spain. I don't know to what capacity, but I got a request for you when you do.”

“We're going right to the point and I hardly started on the main course.”

“Please start that when you can by the way, it's stroganoff. Our cook here would be happy for a foreign tongue to try his food and say nice things, although it's up to you what you think.”

“I'll have to.” Shao mumbled, looking at the plate of cubed, golden brown saucy pieces of beef. “But, you were saying.”

“Well yes, when you inevitably get sent to Spain.” continued Radek between bites at the remaining roll in his hand, “We could use you to bring back extra resources.”

“You want us to commit piracy?” Shao catechized, shocked.

“It is war.” Radek reminded, “But the Spanish possess a great deal of fuel resources. If any of that goes by sea then I – and the commanders – want it. We can use it to reignite the navy here.

“Comrade, I sit on the bulk of the former Imperial Navy, it's been stationed in the docks of Sankt Petersburg here for nearly a decade, unable to move because the engines have never been fired. Not since the czar died and the Navy found itself lost and disbanded among the chaos.

“Now, some ships have gone missing during that initial event. But as a whole we still hold the regional navy of the Imperialist regime. Without the oil to reactivate them they sit idle in the water, taking on rust and growing dusty without use. My men may toil across the decks, clean the guns, and pretend their a Navy. But their little more than bored boys without those ships moving.

“Shao, build the communes a navy and I may give my obligations to the International and give you my support in Europe.”

“That's fine, comrade. But without orders I don't know if I'll even be operating in European waters. So I can hardly confirm I'll be of use to you.”

“Never the less, I'm putting it on the table. And when you do I will be willing to work with you in seeing out this goal.”

“I must admit it's a goal, but it's one I'm not unwilling to consider.” Shao agreed, “So let's finish lunch, and I shall bring it to my command in the north to prepare. Then we'll see what Beijing commands when the time comes.”

“Agreed, brother!”



The treads rattled across the cracked asphalt as through the murky windows the battle-scarred landscape of Tyumen cut by. To his left the brick and stone walls of apartments stood pocked with bullet holes and burn scars around shattered gouges where glass windows had been. In front the road marched along in a lethargic curve as along the right shoulder wispy trees clung to the edge of a steep embankment.

The sounds of this engagement thundered within the shell of the tank. But in time, that had become mute. Tsung sat in his driver's seat, watching the course of a battle rage just beyond the limited scope of damnable protective glass that could never be clean. His numbness held him in a cold grasp, and within the fear of his own numbness only chilled him deeper. An innocence loosing ground watched at a further distance as he felt himself move almost as an automation.

Above and behind him Sun Song sat above his men, shouting firing commands between bursts from the gun and commands to the tanks alongside them. Tsung represented the furthest left-hand corner of a half echelon of three tanks cutting down the narrow river-side street. Cramped against their left: the apartments and former businesses of Tyumen. Opposite: the Tura River at the bottom of this steep muddy embankment.

Behind them the regular infantry kept a brisk pace after the armor, shielding themselves from fire as from in front the Russians returned the tank fire with a response drawn from small-arms fire. Rifle and machine gun bullets struck the metal hide of the Tei Gui, only to flake and flatten, bouncing off or molding into the very steel itself. Never penetrating, never much. And when it hit the glass of Tsung's portholes it cracked and chipped at the heavy, thick plastic guards. What had once been something coated in unwashable grime and unbrushable dust was now being cratered by rifle-rounds that gouged into it, and splintering to form short twisted nests of valleys and crevices. But none that dug deep.

It was this that formed the sanctuary of the tank. The egg of safety that was the Tei Qui, dividing him from the insane reality of the outside. It had become a movie, a play. Separated from the tangible reality, he was just watching another news reels. The bodies were real: that much was always certain. But they were removed from the implication of Tsung's involvement.

And he felt the numbing blankness of it all. Was he becoming a soldier?

From in the turret, just under Sun Song Wi Hui sang a chorus of numbers, counting shells as he loaded for Tse Lin to fire. And she herself returned her own verses, calling hits. Counting them. It became a low rhythmic song with the main cannon as the drum. The ricochet gun-song was only an accessory.

There was a smashing crunch as the tank drove over something. In the relative stability of Tsung's new-found numbness he had not seen feeble stack of brick, metal, and sandbags as they crunched over top and moved along. The bank of apartments gave way to a corner in the road and in his side-window the new landscape opened up down the long Russian streets, flanked on one side by robust and eloquent apartments, build in Imperial pride. And on the other a line of summery trees which bloomed green in defiance of the combat at their feet.

“TURN LEFT!” Sun Song roared from the turret's chamber, “POSITION ON THE CORNER HERE, MAKE ROOM FOR THE MEN!” he continued with rapt, battle-excited urgency. He called it out over the radios, and to him. Tsung carried out the order with the fine brutality of a robot.

The tank came to sweep into its turn and crawl forward before stopping. Tsung called out target orders Hui and Lin carried out. Choking smoke rose from craters formed in the ruddy dirt where shells blew the tree-lined avenue into craters, driving from behind stone walls panicked Russian men who ran shouting like scurrying mice to the river side, dodging the biting wasps of bullets and the hawks of the tank shells.

Guns roared from all angles. Tsung could not tell from where or by whom each ringing shot came from. He could only sit and watch from his seat, as his old self lay curled in the far back, screaming as his own battle-ego – who had grown fat and strong over the battle of Tyumen – took command of the front, laying confidence like mines in dangerous corners.

And through the mirth of battle and fog of the glass, beyond the trees chewed in the crossfire and above their boughs Tsung looked into the battle towards a white-church. Standing defiant, despite the chaos. Its plaster snow-white walls singed. But rising ever higher its towers pierced the sky, so that they came to green fists against the sooty-gray and blue haze of a mid-summer's battle.

Of the details to be enamored with, Tsung looked at that the most intense, blocking out the fighting. Its tiny windows stared dark and black from all faces like dark eyes. Atop its steeples golden crosses glowed in the sunlight, as if denying the darkness and the grayness below. Much like the trees that became felled in the fire-fighting. Though its alcove of baroque Russia was torn asunder it treated itself to stand a bit taller.

There was a high-pitched pang and the explosive twisting of thick metal punched through, and the hiss of gas and the seizing rattle of shuttering gears. In an instant the smell of sweat that permeated the cabin was overcome by something more caustic.

“WE'RE HIT!” Tsung heard Tse Lin scream as he turned back behind him, to see why his controls were now unresponsive.

Rattling and spinning in the back the massive motor block seized and thumped as gas and black tar-smoke sprayed out of a hole smashed clear through its shell and gears. An ominous orange glow bellowed from inside as the smell of harsh diesel fumes and gasoline washed inside the cabin.

“HULL COMRPOMISED, OUT! OUT!” Sun Song wailed, to the cabin and the radios. He exploded up through the turret, dashing for safety as he vaulted from his seat with Lin and Hui hot on his heels.

As explosively as it had dawned Tsung realized that his ego was smashed and his sanctuary pierced as the first tongues of flame began to lick from the bust engine. In his eyes he watched in horror that one Russian tank that had burst in front of him like a morbid fireworks display, spewing a fountain of fire with the crackling pops of exploding machine gun magazines.

He threw open the driver's hatch and jumped outside.

The heat of battle hit him in the face as he bound like a leopard from the hull of the tank as it smoked and fumed from the inside. Crackling echoed from within as he made his escape, jumping from the edge to the side-walk as a hail of small weapon's fire chased him. He could feel the cut of ricochet brushing his fore-arms, the sparks of wayward rounds slapping the metal just behind his legs. He felt terrified again, and re-realized the terrors of war.

With a smack he hit the ground without grace, scrambling across pebbles wet with bloom and across rocks smeared with gore. His heart raced and his head went light. His breaths clenched tight in his chest as all the sensations came to him at once. He felt as if he could not stand to run as he pushed himself along the ground. And with a sudden jolt, he was pulled up.

Lin wrapped her arms under his shoulders and pulled him up, throwing him to his feet as she forced him to run ahead through an open door. Their feet crunched on broken glass as they stepped onto the front stoop of the apartments. As they stepped inside, that terrifying sound from when they entered Tyumen rang in his ears.

With a mental rending scream the Tei Gui behind them unfolded, blowing open the turret and the vents. The concussive blast from the exploding machine threw the two forward through the door. The entire building shook with a giant force and they fell smacking their faces against the dirty blue carpet of the inside.

Tsung had to see, witness with horror. He quickly turned as his stomach threw knots and saw within his eyes the fountain of fluorescent white and yellow spray clear into the sky. Escaping fumes fountained in a cosmically terrible display. Ringing with every second the unloaded shells within went off as the heat caught them, sounding like bells echoing through a mountain hall. The machine gun magazines went off, spraying the insides of the walls as pattering against them as the explosive fumes died only to bellow volcanic diesel smoke.

“Get out of the open!” a man shouted. Tsung was too eager to stay, crawling over top the still crumpled Lin to the safety of cover. Lin crawled after.

The sound of gunfire was hotter, harder, louder out here. The echo of tanks firing was nauseatingly loud. All the sensations raced over Tsung as he pressed himself against the wall as a rifleman fired out the window next to him. Tsung looked up at awe into the man's face, beleaguered with the intense concentration he wore despite the heavy stress.

“What the situation?” he heard Sun Song call out. Outside the window tanks rumbled by as the rest of Song's unit crawled elsewhere to find the source of the shot, or to occupy new cover.

“We got them pinned, we think.” a sergeant answered. Tsung looked over to see his CO kneeling beside a collected man in a nearby doorway, “I hear Khan's leading his motorized infantry around the west more to cut off Russian reinforcements. They're still trying to stream to the river and Anlei is putting the armor up opposite. We're not letting those boats of theirs leave. That's the order still.”

“Well it's all just as clear as when we left.” commented Song, annoyed as he peered outside, “What else?”

And that was when Tsung heard the music. It started low, a mere suggestion of something in the wind just below the sound of gunfire. But it picked up volume as it sped along. It was not simply a trick of battle, or his own mind playing tricks. He dared to peak above the window when the grand chorus came into full pitch for all.

“Fucking Chun Kyeung!” Song exclaimed in absolute shock as he too heard the accordion and the chorus over the battle. Across the square, beyond the trees Tsung watched glimmers of bright red pierce the tree. A red as bright as sun-set. As audacious and loud as the music.

“He actually beat Khan?” the sergeant asked, in due surprise. He rose to his feet, like Tsung to get a view.

It came drifting, mounted with speakers where it should have had guns. And between the batteries of speakers flowed banners of orange. It's only gun was a machine gun that fired wide and wild in the general direction of the Republican forces as they fled to the river. But the music seemed to freeze them; whether in horror or astonishment of the surreal it left to be told.

But the vehicle red as blood tore through the unclaimed street, screaming its song as it made a naked streak around the Russians. Its treads tore at the street, tearing up streamers of gravel and rubble as it went. Its machine gun tearing at the speed of the bombastic Russian choir. Tsung did not know what it was they sung about, or if it was even good for them. But the surrealism marked the end of it. He felt light-headed and he collapsed. Exhausted before high-noon.

Boston

"Thank you, thank you."

The small crowd in the bar clapped for the lone singer on the stage as he finished his latest song. He was a skinny white guy in his late 20's or early 30's. A thick beard covered his chin and his curly hair was hidden underneath herringbone flat cap. He wore blue jeans and a leather jacket and had an acoustic guitar in his lap.

"This next song... I like to read, you know?" He said with a chuckle. "Always liked poetry. This next song, it's a new one I just wrote a few weeks ago. It was inspired by a Lord Tennyson poem."

The singer ran his fingers over the strings and began to strum a steady tune. He leaned forward and sung into the mic in a raspy voice.

"Got a wife and kids in Baltimore, Jack, I went out for a ride and I never went back. Like a river that don't know where it's flowing, I took a wrong turn and I just kept going..."

Elliot Shaw watched the performance from the back of the room. Finnegan's was his regular bar and had been for years now. After he left the force he hung around the cop bars, but he could always feel that disconnect that came from being out of the loop when the rest of the boys talked about the comings and goings of the BPD. He was a successful PI and well connected in the system, but he was still on the outside looking in. That got to him after a while so he found Finnegan's and stayed here ever since.

He lit up a fresh cigarette and nursed a highball as he read over the information city councilman Liam Kane's office gave him earlier that day. Jane Wilson, the missing girl Elliot had been hired to find, worked as a secretary for Kane for six months before disappearing with whatever it was Kane really wanted. A copy of an application listed Ms. Wilson's date of birth as 7/7/61.

"Happy belated birthday, Jane," Elliot said to himself, tipping his highball in mock toast.

The application listed a Beacon Hill address as Ms. Wilson's residence. No phone number listed. The lack of a phone wasn't so surprising since lots of homes in the neighborhood were without phones. The neighborhood was heavily immigrant and many of those old tenement houses barely had electricity.

"Elliot," the stocky man said as he slid into the booth.

"Sean, how's tricks?"

"Tricky," Sean said in a thick Irish accent. "The PI business?"

"Trickier still," Elliot said with a grin.

Sean McKenna, the beefy Irishman with the ruddy face, started in the BPD at the same time as Elliot. While Elliot topped out as a detective sergeant, Sean turned out to be quite the rank getter. Even now as Sean approached his mid-40's he had three gold stars that came with the rank of deputy superintendent. By 1990, Sean would be police commissioner.

"What are you drinking, Sean?" Elliot asked as he tried to get the bartender's attention.

"Just here for a quick chat, Elliot, that's all. I need to get home soon. So I got your message, what's up?"

"You were always the political one, Sean. I need your reading on a client of mine. Liam Kane."

Sean whistled and licked his lips slowly.

"That bad?" Elliot asked.

"It's not good, boyo."

"Well, I know he's an ambitious one. That's all I know."

"It's more than that, my friend. Liam Kane is the heir apparent to Jim Dwyer."

Elliot cursed and took a long drag off his cigarette. For the past thirty-five years, Big Jim Dwyer ruled Massachusettes politics. As boss of the Combination, a political machine that dominated Boston since the 20's, Dwyer owned and used people the way everyone else owned and used shoes. Getting on Big Jim's bad side was something nobody did and lived to tell about.

"What are you doing for Kane?" Sean asked with raised eyebrows.

Elliot slid the papers across the table to his friend. Elliot sipped his highball and watched Sean squint through the dim light at the information. Sean looked up with a crooked grin.

"Was Kane fucking her?"

"Seems likely. He says she absconded with some sensitive information. I'm betting it's pictures of her and Kane doing the horizontal bop. I'm heading out to Beacon Hill tonight to see what I can find at her place."

"Good luck to you, lad," Sean said with a nod. "You'll need it. Tread very carefully, Elliot. I know your habit for speaking your mind got you in trouble on the force, but crossing these people could be very dangerous. First they ruin your life then they take it."

Elliot polished off the rest of his highball and flashed Sean a smile that was all bravado.

"They can sure as hell try."

--

Chicago

Johnny Leggario smoked his cigar and tried to figure out why exactly he hated himself. It wasn't for the usual reasons one engaged in self-loathing. It wasn't because he was broke. On the contrary, he had more money than he could ever hope to spend. It wasn't because of his looks. He was fat, but not too fat, and the extra weight helped give him a bit of boyish charm that the ladies liked. He never heard any complaints from the women he brought home when it came to what was between his legs. It wasn't because of his station in life. He was part of the inner circle of the Chicago's biggest crime boss, a place many men would give their left nut for. Johnny hated himself because he was becoming his old man.

Like Jimmy Leggario, Johnny was seen as one of the baddest motherfuckers in the Outfit, someone you avoided at all costs if you liked breathing. Like Jimmy, Johnny's power was simply an illusion. It was a gift granted to him by Bobby C. seemingly on a whim. Jimmy knew he was feared and respected as long as Bobby allowed it. That thought made him sicker than anything. He wanted to avoid becoming Jimmy, wanted to avoid this city altogether. He was living in New York six years ago when Jimmy's murder led him right back to Chicago and right under Bobby's thumb.

The Cheetah Room was part of the Bobby's benevolent streak. The strip club was a gift to Johnny that was a pretty shitty gift. He got a ten percent cut of the profits for managing it. Running the club meant having to deal with all the headaches nobody wanted to handle. Most guys out of the loop thought running a strip club entailed lapdances and blowjobs gratis. Instead Johnny had to listen to the strippers' drama and get sucked into the day to day tragedies that were their lives. Think of dealing with hormonal teenage girls, crying all over the place and hating each other and themselves... only all the girls have big tits. Added to getting caught up into their personal bullshit, Johnny also had to make sure none of the girls or other staff dealt drugs or peddled gash on the side. Bobby approved of the girls hooking and pushing blow, but only as long as he got his cut.

Johnny was taking his boss's cut of the action that night, sitting in the backroom with Gingy, the closest thing this diseased hellhole had to an assistant manager. Gingy was over fifty with bright red hair that came out of a bottle. She wore cowboys boots and tight jeans with black t-shirts. She looked every bit of the butch lesbian that she was. While Johnny didn't take advantage of the girls, Gingy was known on occasion to shack up with a few of the sapphically inclined strippers. Gingy counted out Bobby and Johnny's cuts in twenties, a menthol hanging out of her mouth with half a cigarette's worth of ash dangling off the tip.

"That's 1,000," she said after counting out fifty twenties that went into Johnny's pile.

She dumped the ashes and started on another set of twenties when the phone on the desk rang. Johnny picked it up while Gingy kept counting.

"The property at Humboldt Park, Johnny. Be there in an hour."

The line went dead. Johnny put the phone back in the cradle and looked at the clock on the wall before standing.

"I have to go," he said to Gingy as he got his sports jacket. "Count it all out and put it in the safe below the desk, put my share in one bag and the big man's share in the other."

"You got it, sweetheart. I'll keep the ship running in your stead."

--

Johnny parked his car down the block from the four-story walk-up and made his way down the street on foot. Waiting for him on the building roof was Stein. Stein was one among the army of lawyers Bobby constantly kept on retainer. A few of them acted as messengers when the man himself was preoccupied with something. Everything said between Bobby, Stein, and whoever he relayed a message to would be covered by attorney-client privilege. A rumpled button-up shirt and khakis replaced the downtown lawyer's usual three-piece power suit.

"Johnny Legs, how are you, boychik?" Stein asked with a wink.

"It's four in the morning and I'm here with you, how do you think I am?"

"Right, so no small talk. Down to business, yes? Works for me. Now listen up, because none of this is on paper. You know the Greek, right? Well, his bookie shops have been getting hit over the past three weeks. Three robberies from a four man crew. They've been taking anywhere between ten and forty large each heist. Bobby wants the feygeles found and killed in a very public way. Ten grand per dead heister, got it?"

Johnny kept his hands in his pockets and silently mulled over what Stein had just told him. There was plenty of wiggle room inside of Bobby's vague orders, and he planned to use what he could to his advantage.

"Got it. Tell Bobby they're as good as dead."

--

Boston

The lock opened with a gentle click. Elliot eased open the door and stepped inside the apartment. The cramped little studio apartment was the last known address of Jane Wilson. He pulled a flashlight out of his coat and clicked it on. Kane said that afternoon she'd been missing for two days. The apartment was messy. Clothing and makeup were scattered across the living room and into the bedroom. Jane Wilson was a bit of a pig, Elliot surmised. He made his way into the bedroom and found a notebook with telephone numbers on a nightstand. The numbers were labeled innocuously enough with things like Mom or Jennifer or Italian food. One number stood out to Elliot because it was unlabelled and towards the back of the notebook. A hunch told him it was newer than the rest. He pocketed the notebook and left the apartment, heading for the closest payphone down the street.

"Boston Phone, how may I help you?"

"Yeah, this is Sergeant Stanley Mertz with the BPD Homicide Unit, I'm trying to get a reverse listing for a phone number."

"I'd be happy to, Sergeant. I just need your badge number."

"Sure," Elliot said nonchalantly, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a crumpled piece of paper with a dozen names written down. He scanned to the bottom of the paper with Mertz's information. "It's 1257."

"Thank you, sergeant," the clerk said after Elliot gave her the phone number he wanted to find out about. "I'll be just a moment."

Elliot smoked a cigarette while he waited. The smoke was down to almost the butt when the clerk returned.

"I have a location for you, sergeant. The address for that number is 6576 Sunnydale Lane in Brookline, it's listed as Ten Pin Win Bowling Alley."

"6576 Sunnydale Lane?" Elliot asked as he scribbled it down. "Got it. Alright, thank you."

Elliot hung up and headed to his car. It seemed strange for her to have a bowling alley's number written down. Maybe a friend worked there? Twenty minutes later he found the address. The place in question appeared to be old and rundown. Elliot felt intuition tingling the back of his neck. He turned into the parking lot and got out. The front door was sealed shut and boarded up, so he decided to go around. The back door was also boarded up, but planks were ripped away in strategic spots. To someone not paying attention, it looked like it was still sealed, but Elliot saw the door could be easily opened. He placed his hand on the door handle and prepared to swing it open when something hard crashed against his head.

He fell to the ground hard and dazed. Before Elliot could even attempt to fight back, somebody shoved the barrel of a gun into his face. "Don't move," a voice said calmly. He looked up and saw a woman, girl really, standing over him with a very gun in her hands and a very hard look on her face. "You move one inch, and I will fucking kill you."

"Jane Wilson, I presume?"

"Did Kane send you?"

"Maybe, maybe not-"

She thumbed back the hammer of her gun and a round went into the chamber with a solid click.

"Alright, alright! I'm working for him. He paid me to find you and some kind of documents you have. I don't want to hurt you, believe me."

"Why should I believe you? You're working for him."

"He's paying me, but I'm not working for him. If I were here to hurt you, don't you think I would have pulled a gun before I tried to go inside your little hiding spot?"

She looked at him for a long moment before asking, "Are you packing?"

"Oh, boy am I. Oh...you meant like a gun? I got one in my car, but that's it."

"Alright, stand up and hold your hands up," Jane said as she kept her gun on Elliot. He complied and kept his hands up while she did a quick frisk. "C'mon, get inside," she said once she was content that Elliot was weapons free. She opened the door and pointed him inside the abandoned bowling alley. He walked into the building with Jane Wilson right behind him and her gun trained on his back.

(This is a collaborative post by @Dinh AaronMk and @Vilageidiotx)

Beijing, China

They arrived in Tehran at sunset. After the rough landing, Azima wanted to see Persia, but her and the childern were not allowed to leave the plane. It was a refueling stop, so Azima could only see the ancient Iranian city from a porthole window. She could not see much - just the dusty tarmac, and the snow-capped mountains beyond Tehran. They left just as fast as they arrived, and soon they were heading into the heart of the Communist realm. For a girl who had spent all of her life in Africa, she felt absolutely out of her element. Suddenly she was a child again, made small by a world that was completely new to her. And she had a mission of great importance; a burden that meant everything to her family and her people. She had to bring China into the war.

The plane was an converted bomber, and the inside looked much too large for a passenger craft. The seats were dwarfed by the size of it all, leaving most of the cabin empty space. And it was poorly insulated. The plane got very cold when they were high in the air. The Chinese compensated for this by giving their guests borrowed flight-jackets, and fuzzy wool blankets that left specks of white residue on their clothes.

She went over talking points and considerations in her head. The safety of of Africa was the safety of China, and of the world. This war was a war of extermination, and when the ferengi... the Europeans... when they were done with Africa, they would come for Asia. There was no hiding from the Empire of Spain. To avoid war, that was to try and avoid sunset. This could only end in blood.

Sometimes, her mind drifted back to that night in the schoolhouse on Socotra, and the old village elder comforting her. 'There are not enough faranj in this world for you to worry'. A war-like promise, but she was a warriors daughter, so it comforted her.

And then there was the other image. It was night when they flew over the Taklamakan Desert, and an unusual thunder-storm was raging just outside the window. Turbulence tossed the heavy plane around and made it impossible to get a decent sleep, and so Azima found herself drifting in and out of consciousness so much that she seemed to be stuck in the twilight between both states. Glimpses of holy divers filled her mind's eye. They were deep in a murky midnight sea, swimming toward something on the sea floor. She caught a glimpse of the thing only once before she was snapped out of her dream by temporary wakefulness. It was blurry blob of pale gold, sparkling like a diamond in the murk. The object seemed to give off its own light. That was the last she saw of it. The rest of her dreams were submerged in the choking black water.

When she awoke, she was surprised to see a Chinese officer pointing out things on the ground for Tewodros. Their breath fogged on the window, and Tewodros enthusiastically wiped it away with the corner of his woolen blanket whenever he decided that he could not see.

"Hello." she said, to show that she was awake. It irked her that this unknown officer would be so arrogant as to approach a prince, but she had to remind herself of the way these Communists thought. To them, all of the Princes became obsolete the day that Marx first put a pen to paper. The Africans were guests of this strange regime, and they were not owed their titles here.

The officer stood up and bowed. He was short by Azima's estimation, though she had observed that shortness was common among the Asian peoples. His forest-green uniform was neatly pressed under a fur-lined flight jacket, and he wore a thick fur hat with an orange star in the front. He looked very young to her - perhaps twenty? She couldn't really tell. "I did not mean to disturb your sleep, Queen." he said.

"I couldn't really get sleep." she said. "How close are we to Beijing?"

"We are above Ningxia right now." he replied softly. "It will not be long."

"Oh." she looked out the window at nothing in particular.

"Emaye!" Tewodros exclaimed, pointing wildly at the window as his breath came out in quick foggy puffs. "There is the China Wall."

"Oh?" she looked for herself. All she could see was miles and miles of brown ridge-lines.

"It is hard to see from here." the Chinese officer spoke up. "But if you look, along the mountain that looks like a snake..."

"Oh yes." Azima saw what he meant. There was a thin line of white winding over the landscape. From up here, it was almost impossible to see. "I thought it would be bigger."

"There is not much that is big from so high in the air." the officer chuckled politely. "Except what nature has made for us. Cities stick out, but not much else."

She nodded. "I don't think I heard your name. You are the officer in charge, I guess?"

"Why that guess?"

"Your insignia."

"Oh yes." he laughed. "Of course. No, I am not an officer, just a sergeant. I am here to oversee our flight. But there is not much to oversee now that we are in China, so I can relax."

She looked back out and tried to find the wall again. It had disappeared into the brown, and try as she might she could not catch even a fleeting glimpse.

"Do you feel safe in China? I mean, from enemies?"

"From Spain?" the sergeant looked almost surprised by that question. "Well, yes. The Comintern is one united front, and it spans across one tenth of the globe. I cannot imagine this country being in danger. This is the safest place to be if you still fear your enemies."

"That is good to know." Azima smiled. "The most important thing is that Tewodros is safe." she reached out and mussed her child's hair. "And Olivier." Taytu's child was still asleep and buckled into his sleep. He hadn't talked for the entire journey.

"I think that young gentleman has the right idea." the sergeant said, motioning at Olivier. "We should be preparing for Beijing. Landings in this plane can be bumpy."

"Yes." she fumbled with her seatbelt. "I remember Tehran."

--

The sergeant had been right - the landing was rough.

When they finally came to a stop, they found the greeting party to be lack-luster. Mostly it was a small number of Ethiopians - the staff of the Embassy, Azima had no doubt - and a handful of Chinese diplomats waiting along with their guards. The Ethiopians were waving small three-pronged banners in their national colors, and they cheered when Azima stepped off the plane. There were so few of them, however, that the noise was hardly impressive.

From the air, Beijing was a stunning city. It stretched on forever, pouring from the western mountains like a flood and spreading for miles across the surrounding plain. From the plane, the only landmark Azima had been able to discern was the ancient red-roofed palatial complex at its heart, surrounded by miles of metropolis on a grid of criss-crossing streets. Before Beijing, she had never seen anything bigger than Kinshasa, and that city was spread thin across the bogs at the widest part of the Congo river. Beijing was something else. Beijing was an entire nation of its own; an empire on display.

But when they had reached the ground, all of that disappeared behind imposing cypresses and the wispy leaves of eastern Jujubes and Chinese Scholar Trees. Beijing became distant towers poking above greenery, and neighborhoods clinging to mountainsides.

"Your Imperial Majesty." Ambassador Fulumirani said softly, bowing down to kiss her on the hand. He was a thin, middle aged man with a head of salt-and-pepper hair and a calm look about his face. His skin was the coffee tone of Sub-Saharan Africa - he was from Swahililand, she assumed. The mix of diplomats and embassy employees in his entourage bowed when he did.

"It has been a tiring journey." The Queen said curtly. "The children and I will need to rest before we move to our permanent residence."

"We have temporary accommodations in the Embassy, of course."

Azima nodded. "Good. Good." she turned to the Chinese delegation and waited with dignity for their greeting.

The Chinese bowed - it was not the deep, reverent bow the Africans gave to their Queen, but the stiff bow of respect she had saw men from China give even to their own kind.

"I am pleased to meet you, Empress Azima. And I deeply regret your loss. The people of China give their sympathy to you. I am Wen Daohang." said the old man at the front of the Chinese contingent. He bowed slowly, his movement hampered by his advanced age. He was wearing an all-black suit in the Chinese style, buttoned completely up the front in a way that made the collar look stiff and tight. "If there is anything you need during your stay, my office is the one to contact."

Azima smiled. "That is kind. My husband and I have nothing but appreciation for your country."

Wen Daohang bowed his head politely. "Your quarters are ready in Tianjin. Chairman Hou has invited you to be his personal guest on his estate. When you are ready, we will send a car."

There was a twitch of uncertainty in the depth of the Queen's mind just then. It was strangely presumptuous for an old bachelor like Hou to invite her to live with him. How open was Chinese culture to things like this, or was this a breach of custom afforded to the most powerful man in the nation? Yaqob trusted Hou sincerely, and Azima had complete faith in her husband's judgement. She considered that, had Yaqob never met Hou, she would have been offended by Hou's offer.

"Thank you, gentlemen. The last few days have been taxing. I am exhausted, to be blunt about it." Azima said.

"This afternoon then." Daoheng smiled.

She had been hoping to stay the night in Beijing, but Daoheng spoke before she could say so. "Alright." she replied, wondering why he had suggested a time at all. "The embassy will call your office when I am prepared. In the mean time, we will go with the Ambassador. The children will need a nap before we leave."

"I will drive." Fulumirani approached Daoheng. "Some of my people will need a lift to the Embassy though. Can your office work that out?"

"Of course. That will be no trouble at all." Daoheng turned to Azima and bowed again. "It was an honor to meet you, Queen Azima. When we meet again, I hope there will be pleasant news to discuss."

"So do I." Azima answered. Everyone dispersed, and Azima climbed in the back of Fulumirani's car.

--

Tewodros stared out the car window, completely awe stricken by the Chinese capital. Azima could not help but be impressed herself. They drove along neatly-placed highways that rose above the surrounding area, giving them a view across the rooftops to the forested hills that interspersed the city. Beijing was tightly packed. It was a mixture of ancient homes with slanted roofs and brutalist monstrosities that stuck out like sleeping turtles in the urban sea. This place was, from hill to hill, completely urban; something that she couldn't imagine Addis Ababa achieving in her lifetime.

"Why did Daoheng seem to insist we leave the Embassy this afternoon?" Azima inquired. Fulumirani was driving the car - a compact but comfortable Chinese model with a dull, boxy frame and a plush crimson interior. An Embassy guard sat silent in the passenger's seat, leaving the Queen and the two children in the back.

"He wants to get you out before you get tangled up in the election." Fulumirani explained calmly. "Africa is a big topic right now."

"I might want to get involved in their politics." Azima replied. "If I am going to be stuck here while my husband fights this war at home, I am going to be active. I want to get China involved in the war..."

"You do not have to worry about that, your imperial highness." Fulumirani said coolly. "The Third International has officially declared war on Spain. China is in the fight."

Azima's heart fluttered. It felt like, after months of rain, the sun had finally came out. The Third International was not just China - it was the entire Communist behemoth in the east, and it was marching to war. Spain, the lonely aggressor, could not fight the entire world alone.

"That is it then." she said. "Spain will sue for peace. Surely."

"I don't know." Fulumirani shrugged. "Have you read the Walinzi briefings on the Sotelo regime?"

"No"

"I have to read them, and they are very interesting. Sotelo has been consolidating power. He cuts the opposition away... well, he's surgical about it. It is pretty impressive. The only power that can truly oppose him now is the military, but so long as he is a crusader, they stay with him."

"So he can't end the crusade." she realized.

"Or his power would evaporate over night. I don't know if even he realized it, but when Sotelo decided to bet on this war, he went all in. If he fails he loses his job."

"If he fails, he is dead." Azima corrected.

"Well, maybe not dead..."

"There is no way down." Azima explained. "To have held so much power... the government couldn't just fire him and go on, he would be a liability. He can't retire. If he falls from grace, they will have to kill him."

"No disrespect, your imperial majesty." Fulumirani started. "But that is the way monarchies work. That isn't the way republics work."

"I know the difference." Azima replied. "But I don't think the Spanish do."

They left the highway and entered into the city itself. The roads cut through condensed rows of shops and workshops, and equally condensed homes. From there, the road climbed into forested hills, where the buildings were infrequent and ancient.

"Is the embassy in the country?" Azima asked.

"It is in a quiet part of the city." Fulumirani explained. "The area is lovely, I think you will like it."

"They keep you far enough away that you can't see what is happening here." Azima pointed out.

"We are allowed to come and go as we please, at least as far as Beijing is concerned." Fulumirani calmly explained. "But you are right, essentially. When Yaqob and I lived here, they kept us further away. But China is thawing now. They are more open to foreigners than they used to be."

When they did finally arrive at the embassy, Azima was surprised to find it unguarded. It was a serene example of traditional Chinese architecture. The roof was slanted and tiled, and most of the building was made of wood and brown-grey brick. There was an extensive yard, and a wrap-around porch overlooking a thick green forest on one side and an old neighborhood on the other. Fulumirani pulled the car to a stop in front.

"How long will it be before Daoheng gets impatient?" Azima asked.

"I wouldn't wait past six." Fulumirani replied.

Azima nodded. "Wake us up at six then. The kids are going to need some time. And so do I."

--

By the time Azima and the children were ready, there was already a Chinese limo waiting in front of the building.

They passed through Tianjin on the way. It was a port city - the port for Beijing, and it was just as busy as the city it served. Beyond the bustle of the modern port was the azure waters of the Sea of China. Here, ships from Manila and Saigon waited alongside those from Mombasa and Acapulco. This was the mouth of the Communist machine, swallowing goods from its vassals and allies who, in turn, purchased Chinese goods and weapons. Tianjin and Beijing was at the heart of half-the worlds economy.

The Chinese driver made it a point to brag to the Queen about the African shops and businesses that had sprouted up in the foreign district.

"My cousin owns a bike shop down there." the driver explained. "When I am in Tianjin, he always wants to take me to lunch at an African place near the docks. They call it 'Bosaso Market'. It is a great place to eat."

"I would like to go down there some time." she replied. The driver seemed pleased by that.

After Tianjin, the road followed the coast. The land here was flat - mostly trees, or miles of identical wheat fields stretching north toward the mountains. From there, the road went downhill toward the sea, and to Hou's estate.

Chairman Hou did not live in a palace. In fact, his home was significantly less grand than the Imperial Residence in Addis Ababa. It was a quaint single story stone-and-shingle Chinese country home built along the beach, surrounded by modest gardens and the simplicity of nature.

They came to a stop in front of the estate and the driver got out and opened the Queen's door. She realized, as she stepped out of the car, that there was only one house on the property, and her uncertainty over the Chairman's invitation grew.

--

Hou sat in the comfort of an armchair. In his hands he held a wrinkled newspaper, the fine print running tightly-packed bands around simple black-and-white photos. The front page was proudly emblazoned with the image of him holding the cat that had gone to space, and the very root of that article ran at its sides, before continuing somewhere inside.

In truth, it had not been the first time the elderly chairman had read that article, and he was on his second slow reading. Even in a process to retirement, a part of him wanted to know what was happening. And maybe for once and a while, to do so from the perspective of someone not involved. He looked up from his paper, off to the side a young guard fidgeted in the corner of the room.

"Why don't you fetch some tea?" Hou asked in a low soft voice. He was getting bored, and his mouth was dry and parched.

The guard looked over and bowed, and began his march towards the kitchen.

Hou's living room was sparse, openly decorated. A rich, red armchair took the throne space of the room at the head of a low coffee table. And in modesty at the side stood the equally red couches. Underfoot the lightly colored hardwood floors of the room groaned as the guard made his way to the side-door to the kitchen.

The entire room was lit from the outside. An entire wall was devoted to windows that overlooked the nearby ocean and the patio just outside. Reclining on the handrails a pair of guardsmen leaned and smoke cigarettes as they chatted, staring out into the rolling waves where fishing boats bobbed.

"Comrade!" a man shouted, entering the room. Hou looked up from the paper and the young soldier stopped in his tracks to look up at the commotion. Standing at the far-side of the room an older sergeant went to attention, "The empress Azima is on her way." he declared.

"She is?" asked Hou, he lowered the paper, gently tossing it onto the coffee table. Reaching for his cane he stood up on feeble legs. Ever since the stroke, his left leg refused to work as proper as the right and he hobbled half-way across the room.

"The car from the ministry has just came into the drive, comrade." the sergeant added.

Hou nodded, turning back to the younger soldier he rose a feeble finger, "Don't make that one, bring the whole pot." he demanded. The young man obliged, bowing before he scurried off through a door. A palpitating excitement beat in his chest. The last he had seen Azima was when Yaqob had been shot, and the memory carried an unnerving weight on the old man. But still, it had been many years. "Who's with her?" he asked.

"The royal children." the sergeant added.

"That's the better." Hou nodded. So they hadn't been caught up in a campaign game.

--

There was a surprising lack of pomp in their arrival. Azima saw very few guards, and no horde of attendants. This seemed like the estate of a private citizen - a place of retirement for a man who had once pulled the strings for the largest Empire in the world. She envied him for his retirement. Her thoughts drifted to home, and for a dreamy moment she imagined this as her own future. Yaqob and his Queen, living the final days of their lives by carelessly making up for the youth they were never allowed to have together.

They were politely motioned up the stairs by the few guards that were there, who were as professional and collected as they would have been if this place was completed crowded by onlookers. The door opened, and she felt the first hint of the cool air that filled the house's atmosphere. Azima made sure Tewodros was at her side, standing on his small legs as proudly as a Ras. They went inside.

And there he was. Hou Sai Tang. The second Genghis Khan - a man who had taken control of one of the oldest nation's on earth and expanded its power to the edge of Europe. But that was not what he seemed to be here. What Azima saw was a kindly, brittle elder leaning into a simple cane. She could see that he had aged a lot since he had visited Ethiopia four years before. His face was softer now, and his skin drooped, but that only made him seem more approachable.

"Azima." Hou bowed, "I'm happy to see you. I just ordered tea. But please, sit down." the old chairman invited. He lifted a hand off his cane and gestured out to the couches.

"Who are these two with you?" Hou asked as he sat down, looking at the pair of nervous children at Azima's side. Hou noted with some uncomfortable horror that one was missing an arm.

Azima performed her politic smile; a custom that had became second nature to her as Queen. She squeezed Tewodros' hand and looked down at him. "I think the young Abeto-hoy can introduce himself."

Tewodros took the cue and stepped forward. There was in him the seed of Yaqob's natural charisma, and he waddled onto the floor with as much dignity as his two year old body could command.

"I am Tewodros." he said in childish Amharic. "I am Le'ul."

"He said he is Prince Tewodros." Azima repeated in Chinese, playing both the part of Walinzi translator and proud mother. "He will be turning two at the end of this week."

Hou looked over at Olivier and Azima continued. "I believe you have met Princess Taytu. This is her adopted son, Olivier."

"They look like they are great kids." Hou complimented. In truth though he had no experience. And suddenly a tinge of doubt came waddling much like Tewodros had on sharing a home with two boys as young as they.

"Though, you must have had an adventure." he smiled, hiding that doubt for now as he sat, "And I imagine between us, business. I have to say unfortunately that we do not have a home prepared for you at this moment." Hou said from his chair. He thumbed his fingers against his cane as he looked across to Azima and the children finding a place to sit at the couches, "The home we gifted Yaqob during his tenure in China is again occupied by the local universities for wild-life research. And between us learning of your coming and your arrival we haven't found suitable accommodations.

"In lue of this I'm offering you my hospitality. I have the room to spare, and you and the children can live here with me until your long-term residency is sorted out."

With a stiff grunt he shifted in his seat, leaning on his side against the arm-rest. "I also suppose you'll want to inspire China to help. I'm not opposed to it, that much is known. But for now I'm incapable of spurring Congress itself to issue the formal declarations. On my behalf, if you so desire, you can speak with them. But with the Third International's recent deceleration of war on Spain over their invasion of your home we owe obligations. That'll make it easy, I figure. It's only a matter of time."

Azima sat on the couch. She felt strange, after so many years in her station, being offered a seat by this elderly man, but she sat all the same.

"I hope you can find another place for us. This is a foreign land to me and the children, and I am not used to sleeping in the house of another man. But I understand, and I know that my husband trusts you."

"I'm sure you won't be bothered." comforted Hou, "And you'll have all the security here as you would have had at home. As will happen when we procure fitting accommodations."

"May we see these accommodations, if you would be so kind?" Azima replied. She felt tired again - overwhelmed by so much foreign and new. He obliged and led them down the hall.

Hou's home was serene - an atmosphere given to it by the skill of the architects and the sea that was visible through so many wide windows on its furthest walls. But their was another subtle air here that lingered in the shadowy corners and patterned wood beams. His house had a flavor of neglect. It wasn't that Hou himself was neglected; it was his life. His furniture was simple, and it followed a pleasing pattern like one might see in a Spanish advertisement, but there was no hint of who he was or what he had accomplished. There were no obvious personal effects, no evidence of family or friends. The Chinese Chairman knew how to surround himself with the appearance of happiness and contentment, but the truth stared out from the empty walls and the musty scent of aged wood. With the state slipping from his hands, Hou's world was empty.

The room he led them two was equally lonely. There was one bed large enough for two adults, and a handful of dressers and shelves. One large window looked out across the sea, and under it was a bench that doubled as a chest. The floor was wood, save for an oriental rug that covered the floor. She realized that this would be her home for longer than she wanted, and in that moment she began to feel Hou's loneliness.

Azima hadn't realized how quiet it had become until Hou spoke up.

"Ah! the tea is ready."

Toledo, Spain

Everyone has a different way of preparing to make a public address. Some prepare notes and outlines of their speech, some practice reciting the address until they master it. Others still like to meditate and relax prior to taking the stage.

Alfonso Sotelo prepared for his speeches by doing a hit of cocaine.

But that was not easy to do when being driven around by a chauffeur. The driver, as one would usually hope, was alert and attentive. He checked the rear view mirror frequently and drove cautiously, as one would expect the Prime Minister's driver to do. But as dependent as Sotelo had become to the coca, he was a master of getting his fix stealthily. Behind the driver's seat, he sprinkled out some of the fine white powder from a plastic baggy onto his cupped left palm. Now, for the distraction.

"Driver, would you happen to have the time?"

Sotelo had a fine Swiss timepiece of his own tucked under his right cuff. But nobody in their right mind ever questioned the Prime Minister's requests. To question Sotelo was to invite disaster upon oneself, even if it seemed a silly request.

"Certainly, Excellency." The driver took his eyes off the road for a moment to tuck back his sleeve and check his watch. With a swift, unassuming inhalation, Sotelo snorted the cocaine on his palm, and then brushed above his upper lip to dislodge any errant motes of white powder. "It's about ten 'til three."

The coca gave Sotelo seemingly boundless energy, and the courage to be assertive and audacious. It coursed through his veins, infused his muscles, and drew open his lungs like a sail filled with air. Most dignitaries preferred coffee and tea to give them the extra boost of energy to keep them functioning. Sotelo, in his younger - more honest years, had been an avid coffee drinker as well. But if caffeine was the gasoline, cocaine was nitrous oxide. No finer pre-speech routine existed, and Sotelo had to be convincing now. Officially he was up for re-election next month. Of course, no candidates would be presenting him with a challenge to keep his position; he had seen to it that no one could ever usurp his rule. But he still had to pretend as if there was an actual election coming up. The charade that was the Spanish Republic had to seem authentic... for now.

To that end, he would be speaking to the military men fighting the war in Ethiopia. Specifically, the pilots who would carrying out the first bombing runs in Africa. With suitable press coverage watching, recording, and photographing the Prime Minister before all those pilots and airmen, it would seem a convincing effort to attempt to stay in the public's good graces.

The motorcade rolled on through the checkpoint into the chain link perimeter of the airbase. Uniformed soldiers stood at attention as the Prime Minister's car drove through the raised turnstile. Not long after he had arrived on the base, the fusilade of camera flashes had begun. Photographers for numerous publications snapped photos of the Prime Minister's motorcade as it wound past the the designated parking for the press and continued on to the runway. Sotelo forced himself to roll his window down and wave politely for the cameras.

Through the windshield, Sotelo could see the planes that would be flying in these first sorties. Eight of the four-propellered Gargolas had been parked in a single file line, waiting to taxi out and take off. Standing before the planes in a loose crescent were some 60 airmen and pilots donning leather pilot's jackets over khaki coveralls. They had been arranged in front of the airplanes in an artificial repose similar to that of still life fruit, positioned such that the artwork on the nearest bomber was prominent in each shot. Glowing against the black fuselage of the fore Gargola, an equally black feline was outlined in white moonlight - lunging frontward with bared fangs and ghostly green eyes. Sotelo's motorcade parked a respectable distance from the gathered airmen and the reporters hounding them. But just as soon as the Prime Minister's car was in view, the bomber crews snapped to attention which prompted the reporters to back away.

Loose pebbles crunched between Sotelo's soles and the tarmac as he made his way to the middle of those gathered around the airplanes. His bodyguards followed him loosely enough to allow the reporters to isolate the Prime Minister in their photographs, but strayed no farther. The cameras snapped hungrily as the Prime Minister swaggered across the runway to the Fuerza Aerea crews, the airmen did what they could to avoid squinting in the bright sunlight of the afternoon. Once in their midst, Sotelo surveyed his airmen, noting the patches and decorations on their flight jackets, wondering for a brief moment how hot they must all be standing at attention in their jackets in the hot sun. "At ease, gentlemen," he commanded, relieving them at last.

"Pilots, my countrymen. My intention today was to visit you before this greatest of missions. To you, airmen of this Second Spanish Republic, I had prepared an address to offer my thanks for undertaking this endeavor: to pilot these machines deep beyond the borders of fastidious Ethiopia, to destroy vital enemy objectives and infrastructure, to reach into the beating heart of the communist war machine and wrench out its very cogs." Sotelo reached out into the air outstretched palm as if to seize some invisible object between himself and the airmen, and drew back a clenched fist to his chest.

"I am a man that values honesty above all other things. Therefore, I will not lie to you gentlemen; you have been tasked with a dangerous role. Our enemy makes up for craft and guile in their material deficiency. The Ethiopian air forces will harry you at every turn, flak fire will rattle against your planes. But you are brave men, and you are not deterred.

"How then can I express gratitude for this service? What words exist to express my appreciation for your dedication to duty? Heads of state have long been expected to personally see off their fighting men as the go to war - for thousands of years such men have sought to inspire their warriors through orations. Over the course of such lengths of time, however, the practice has become trite. It is a meaningless thing to attempt to rouse men through spoken word; it is impossible to convey appreciation through such a means. Compared to such resolve, how can mere words hold any sway?

"In my estimation, they cannot. But I know of another way..." Sotelo turned to one of the airmen situated in the center of the crescent, one he identified as the squadron commander on the account of the lion coat-of-arms and arrow quivers emblazoned upon his jumpsuit fatigues. "Tell me, what is your name?"

"I am Captain Dorin Estevez of the 35th Bomber Wing, your excellency," The pilot reported. He was clean shaven and handsome in general, with short black hair cropped at precisely the 3.5 centimeter length as regulated by the Ministry of War. His features were blocky and masculine, yet refined and unmarred - free of any cuts or scrapes. Battle scars were a rarity in the Spanish military forces after all. Sotelo understood that some of the more seasoned militaries in Europe, namely the Prussians - some of whose officer corps had served in the Great War - regarded this fact as a sign of softness. Alfonso would show Europe how 'soft' the fighting men of Spain soon enough.

But today, he would make a veteran of himself.

"Captain Estevez," Sotelo repeated, "I would like to join you on your flight."

At this, the captain's eyes bulged. He could not be serious... could he?

Whatever the case, the camera flashes surged in frequency. The reporters could not help but to murmur as they pressed in closer, so close that Sotelo bodyguards had to step in and keep them from getting within one hundred paces of the prime minister

"Why, excellency..." Captian Estevez stalled, giving himself time to think up a polite way to refuse the gesture. "I am humbled by your offer. But you said it yourself, our mission is dangerous. It is no place for someone of your importance."

"Am I any more important than you?" Sotelo with a seemingly rehearsed delivery. He shot a glance to the press, and smiled as a barrage of camera flashes washed over him. The reporters were jittery with excitement. "What manner of Prime Minister would I be if I was not prepared to subject myself to the same danger that you face? So, Captain, with your permission, I will see this war firsthand."

Sotelo watched the captain's eyes shoot momentarily to the ecstatic reporters. The pilot would not deny the Prime Minister, and certainly not before the collective eye of the Spanish press. Sotelo could already see himself on the front cover of El Pais, waving from the cockpit of a bomber taking off to drop the first bombs on Ethiopia. With some luck, such a story would break just before news of the Djibouti disaster made its way home.

Captain Estevez nodded at last and drew the pilot's jacket off of his shoulders before presenting it to the Prime Minister. Sotelo graciously slid the leather jacket, lined with downy wool and embroidered with a roaring black cat, over his pressed black suit. He made sure to present the cameras with a good view.

"Excellency, it is my pleasure to welcome you to the Black Panthers," he said at last amidst a pulse of furious camera flashing. "Let's get airborne."

Socotra

With a final gasping gulp of air, the priest dove back into the waves, kicking his way down into the sea.

A gurgling rush of foam and bubbles immersed his head as he dove, the curls of hair made knappy and unruly by exposure to the sun and salt water trailed behind his scalp like black streamers. The warm waters of the Gulf of Aden were comfortably cool against his skin. Only the improvised loincloth around his waist and the knife strapped against his thigh resisted the water as he descended from the shimmering surface into the blue depths.

They had been at this for days now, and they had all become skillful divers in that time. Before their ill-fated arrival at Socotra, the priest could not remember the last time he had been swimming. His duty was to guard the Holy Tabot to his final breath, not to frolic in the water. But now the Tabot, by a great calamity, had fallen beneath the sea. Now, after so much practice diving to reach the Tabot, the priest could put the swimming ability and lung capacity of an Olympic swimmer to the test. Only a week ago, the priest could scarcely swim out to the crash site, but with such frequent and determined practice he had made great progress in going deeper and diving longer. It would not be long before he could reach the airplane and the prize within.

The sun's scintillating glow was far above him when the water pressure squeezed against his eardrums. The first time he had experienced this painful sensation, it seemed as if the pressure would kill him. But with practice, the priest had learned to cope with the weight of the sea itself pressing against his ears and sinuses. It was still quite uncomfortable to be sure, but not enough enough to deter him from his sacred mission.

The reef soon came into view. Brightly colored corals formed an underwater garden of spectacular beauty. Among the branching limbs and crusty nodules that spread across the seafloor, anemone flowers billowed in the current. Striking yellow tangs darted about the corals in teeming schools, giving the black and white triggerfish a wide berth as they went. The priest wished he could remain here and admire the Lord's marine handiwork. But his duty to protect the Tabot was ironclad. He paid the reef no regard and continued down into the blue abyss where the reef ended at an abrupt dropoff, pacing his kicks to conserve oxygen.

He had no choice but to pay careful attention to the predators in the water. Sand sharks with long, lobed tailfins and wicked teeth paddled lazily beyond the precipice of the dropoff. They looked sinister enough, but always gave the Christians a wide berth. It was the big fishes that concerned the priest. Barracudas behaved much more aggressively than any shark he had seen, but it was the giant grouper that made the priest bring his knife on every dive. Just three days ago, a monstrous grouper attacked another priest with lightning ferocity. The fish meant to drag the intruding diver down to its lair, and it would have succeeded had that priest not brought his own knife with him. By the grace of God, the prick of the blade drove the beast away and he had not been seriously hurt, but the incident served to remind the Christians that the ferengi were not the only servants of the evil one in these waters.

A nebulous, white form glowed beneath him; a mass of aluminum which reflected what sunlight reached these azure depths with long wings that reached out and embraced the sand it rested upon. It was the airplane, he had never seen it anywhere near as clearly as this. Only five more meters separated him with the sunken aircraft. His lungs did not burn so badly yet, and he could tolerate just a bit more pressure on his ears. He was going to make it this time; he would be able to get inside the fuselage and ensure the Tabot was intact. Once his companions back on shore had found something sufficiently buoyant, they could return and float the Tabot's container up to the surface. He made determined kicks now, closing the distance between himself and the impact-warped fuselage.

BWONG

The entire ocean reverberated with a piercing metallic sound the likes of which he had never heard. It was so loud and so crisp that he could feel the pulse pass through his body. He knew of nothing that could produce a such a sound.

BWONG

As the second pulse shot through the water, he heard and felt the airplane beneath him ring out as it echoed off of the riveted aluminum. As quiet returned to the water, he could hear another sound to accompany the nigh-defeaning pulses. This one was a constant, low drone. A motor.

Far above him, a great shadow crept across the surface. The hull of a great metal ship glided into position, casting rays of shadow where it blotted out the sunlight. The Spanish had come for the airplane at last.

BWONG

This pulse was the loudest of them all. The priest reasoned that these sounds allowed the ferengi to see underwater, because the vessel was now positioned directly above the wrecked airplane. The Spanish had come for the Ark of the Covenant.

But they would not leave with it.

With the ark just beyond his grasp, the priest reluctantly turned about and kicked upward. He dug forward with his arms, there was no need to pace himself on the way up. His lungs screamed for air as he climbed toward the metal hull of the warship. It was such a long ascent, and he was so hungry for air that he feared he might go unconscious and drown at any moment. But he did no such thing; he reached the hull of the ferengi ship and then swam under the bow. His head cleared the surface at last and he drank in delicious oxygen.

In the shadow of the ship, he could hear the deckhands going on in the ferengi language. He could hear chains clattering and metal equipment being moved about. The priest knew they were going to take hoist the ark up out of the wreckage. Over his dead body, that is. But he would need a way up onto the vessel's deck. By the grace of God, the invaders were kind enough to provide that to the priest.

The Spaniards dropped the ship's anchor, which shot downward with a thunderous splash. The falling hunk of steel narrowly missed the priest, but provided a length of heavy chain links up to the topside of the ship.

With his path granted to him, the priest took the knife into his teeth and proceeded to climb up the anchor chain.