Los Angeles

US Third Army headquarters buzzed with activity. Junior officers ran here and there on different tasks while a group of senior officers poured over a large map of the Pacific Northwest. In the middle of the men, watching and listening as the rest of the group made notes and comments, was General Michal Norman. The general cut an impressive figure in his olive drab uniform. Tall and with a square jaw, his grey hair contrasted nicely with the five silver stars pinned to his collar.

"General Norman, sir."

Norman and the rest of his staff looked at a young messenger with a sheet of paper. The young soldier's hands shook. Tears streaked down his face. He walked forward and handed Norman the slip of paper.

"It's... Seattle, sir... it's... all gone."

Norman read the sheet of paper and stared at it for a long second before raising his head. When he did look up, his eyes were fiery and his jaw was set in something resembling a snarl. He crumbled up the paper and let it fall to the floor. His staff officers looked on with concern as he stepped forward and looked down at the map on the table.

"Vancouver," he said. He looked up at his men. When he did, he had tears in his eyes. "We're going to Vancouver, gentlemen. American lives have been lost, and those bastards have to pay. We're going to make them pay for the... the... shit." Suddenly, Michael Norman was speaking in an upper-crust English accent. "Bloody hell, line!"

"Cut!"

From his place on the sound studio, Elliot Shaw saw the illusion break and real life set in. Grips and cameramen sighed as director Josh Donahue walked on set to talk to Dexter Parkerberry, two-time academy award winner and the picture's Michael Norman. The Battle of Vancouver had just entered its second week of shooting and it was already a week behind schedule. Part of it was Parkerberry. The scandal rags would have a field day if they knew old, regal Dexter Parkerberry with his pronounced English accent and Shakespearean training was a raging heroin addict. Shaw was on set to watch Parkerberry and give him a fix in case he got the need for a shot. Today was his last day shooting. After it wrapped, Shaw had orders to drive Parkerberry to Malibu and the dry out clinic Dr. Friels ran.

"Okay," Donahue announced to the crew. "We're running it again. Positions!"

The scene began back again, but Shaw half paid attention to it. He wondered why Mr. Kennedy and Summit Pictures wanted Parkerberry so bad as Norman? The man could act, but he wasn't worth the hassle in Shaw's opinion. But then again, it was a pretty small part. The Battle of Vancouver was an ensemble picture that followed a half-dozen storylines over the course of the fighting. It was Summit's third straight war film. Sink the Andalusia! had been a surprise hit two years ago, and right now Thirty Seconds Over Detroit was proving to be a smash hit both in America and overseas.

This time, Parkerberry remembered his lines and the scene progressed. Shaw worked a sore spot on his left thumb. A splinter was embedded under the skin. Said splinter came from his baseball bat. He'd wielded it two nights ago when he bashed up Roland Tomasi's car. Tomasi was a cut-rate hop pusher who was too chummy with a Summit contract girl, Dorothy Mills, and was threatening to turn the young girl into Parkerberry redux. After Shaw busted Tomasi's windows, he threatened to do the same to his skull if he ever approached, talked to, or even looked at Dorothy Mills again.

"Cut," Donahue announced. "Fuck it, that's good enough. That's a wrap on Dexter Parkerberry and lunch."

A scattering of light applause from the crew caused Parkerberry to laugh and bow. It wasn't an applause of appreciation for Parkerberry and his skill, more of an applause was relief that he was soon to be off-set and they could eat. Shaw walked towards the set and caught Parkerberry by the arm as the older man tried to quickly walk past him.

"C'mon, Dex, let's take a drive."

---

Shaw kept the radio off on the drive back from Malibu. Dex had put up a bit of a fight, about as much fight as a junkie twelve hours removed from his last fix could be. It was easy enough to get him in the car and to Dr. Friels' clinic. After that, the good doctor's orderlies took care of the rest. Shaw cut odds on Parkerberry actually kicking the habit. Call it a 30-1 longshot he could get clean. Anytime a junkie went from snorting to arm popping it meant that the hooks were in deep, so deep that they could do serious damage if they were jerked out.

Shaw cracked a window and lit up a smoke. The road back to LA ran along the Pacific Coast. The sun was sinking over the horizon and it bathed the sky in a golden amber hue. It would have been a beautiful sight to behold, but Shaw kept his eyes on the road and thought about home. He missed Boston, he missed Helena, he missed his old clients. He missed his old life. Boston could be a hellhole at times, but at least it was honest. LA was nothing but false image and the perpetuation of that false image. The place where stars were born and dreams were made didn't exist. It was as fictional as the pictures and television programs the studios produced. A bright and shining lie that lured rubes from Pigshit, Nebraska out west in droves.

The sun had set for nearly a half hour by the time Shaw arrived at the Kennedy Mansion just outside downtown Los Angeles. It was a big Spanish manse on a hill overlooking the city. It was a quaint little home... if your idea of quaint was Buckingham Palace. Shaw pulled up into the driveway and flashed his ID for the guard at the gate. He was waved in and up the long driveway towards the front of the house. A man was waiting for him to show him inside. Shaw laughed to himself. The house was so big they needed their own tour guides for guests.

Shaw passed through room after room of fine furniture and tasteful decorations until he was led to a dining room with a long oak table. Ted Kennedy sat the head of the table with two negro men flanking him on either side. Kennedy waved Shaw over when he saw him and the servant enter the room.

"Elliot, come in. I have some guys I want you to meet."

One of the black men was young with thick eyeglasses, the other was middle aged and thin with weathered hands. They both stood as Kennedy introduced them to Shaw.

"This is Isiah Wolde," he said with a nod towards the one with glasses. "And this is James Calhoun."

Shaw shook hands with both men and had to fight the impulse to wipe his hand. It wasn't that he was racist exactly, at least not like the people in the South were supposed to be. It was just... there weren't that many black people in Boston and as a member of the Boston PD, those he did interact with were almost always the worst humanity had to offer. He knew it was unfair to judge these men based on the niggers in Boston, but he did and he felt only a little bad about it.

"Guys, this is Elliot Shaw. He's an old friend of mine from Boston and he is a guy I rely on to get things done. Take a seat, Elliot."

Shaw sat down beside Calhoun while Wolde resumed whatever train of thought he was on before Shaw arrived.

"As I was saying, this march will be an ambitious one, Mr. Kennedy. We want as many as one hundred thousand people there, black and white, to show the government that we mean business. They need to see us, all of us, and know that we are not going away."

"How much?" Kennedy asked. "How much cash is it going to take to get all your people to DC?"

"A lot," said Calhoun. "Renting buses and gas for cars everyone, and then meals and maybe some motel rooms for a few."

Shaw noticed Calhoun voice sounded off. He saw a glint of metal around his teeth and realized his lower jaw had been wired.

"Whatever you need," said Kennedy. "I'll give you a blank check if need be, just ask."

"This is mighty kind of you," Wolde said, placing a hand on the top of Kennedy's.

"It's my duty," Kennedy replied, placing his other hand on Wolde's. "My brother, god rest his soul, always tried to fight for people who couldn't fight for themselves. I want to carry on with his work and do whatever I can to help you and your cause. That's why Elliot's here. Tell him about what you told me."

"Mr. Shaw," Wolde said as he squared his glasses and looked at Shaw. "We think we're being spied on."

"By whom?" Shaw asked.

"The FCB," said Calhoun. "Men in dark suits follow us everywhere. We hear strange clicks on the phone lines."

"Elliot," Kennedy said with a finger pointed at Shaw. "I'd like you to check out their hotel rooms while they're in LA and shadow them to see what's going on. Do you know how to deal with tapped phone lines?"

"I got a guy who does. I can check it out and see what's going on."

"We appreciate your help,Brother Shaw," Wolde said with a smile.

Brother Shaw.

He almost laughed out loud at that one. Doped up movie stars by day, crusading civil rights champions by night. One hell of a clientele... Wherever the hell he was, he was sure as shit a long way from Boston.

---

Blythe, California

"There's a great scene in the movie where they have this big fucking air battle over Detroit. It's amazing."

Jake Tallchief grunted as his cousin Web kept talking about some war movie he'd saw that afternoon. He'd invited Jake to go but, he passed it up. Web had been declared 4F during the war thanks to his asthma. Jake had no such luxury. He'd fought in the Midwest as a machine gunner in the infantry and helped push Canada back to the border near the tail end of the war. After that his division went to the Pacific Northwest and served as the Third Army Group's right flank in the Battle of Vancouver. He got a bunch of shit from his squadmates when they were in the midwest as an Indian fighting in the Dakotas. Redman coming to take back his homeland they said. The ignorant fucks didn't realize Jake's tribe here in California was thousands of miles away from Sioux lands.

Jake and Web sat parked in Jake's car across the road from the Tomahawk Casino. The giant neon tomahawk mounted on the casino roof blinked on and off, illuminating the area in a garish light. Although it was two in the morning, the casino was hopping thanks to some tour circuit in town for a few days. The racket came courtesy of the mob guys in LA. They drove a bunch of bumfuck Shriners to casino after casino while Bopppin' Barry Chambers belted out the same tunes he'd been singing for thirty years while Shecky Lemon called them all homos.

A pair of motorcycles roared down the street past the Tomahawk.

"There they are," said Web. "They're fucking late."

Jake ignored his cousin and started the car. He sped through town to catch up with the bikers as they left city limits. They formed a mini convoy on the highway leading out of town.

"I got a bad feeling," Web said as he cracked the passenger window and lit a cigarette. "This stash house out in the middle of nowhere. These biker assholes could be walking us into an ambush."

"They're dead if they do that," Jake replied. "Killing us fucks with our agreement with the Horde and the Sun City guys. Standing Bear and the mob would slaughter their whole biker gang if that happens."

"But we'd still be dead. So who cares what happens to them?"

"Touche."

Thirty miles out into the California desert the two bikers pulled down a dirt road where they slowed to a crawling speed. Jake followed them down the winding dirt road for thirty minutes before they came to a clearing. The headlights of the car illuminated the area in harsh detail. A dozen motorcycles were parked around a white moving truck with its running lights on.

Jake and Web got out of the car and walked towards the waiting bikers. Jake made sure to keep a hand on the gun tucked into his waistband. Little Walter, the Horde MC's president, came up to them and nodded slowly. The nickname was one of those ironic ones as Walter was nearly as tall as Jake and a good fify pounds heavier than him.

"You got your Braves waiting to form a convoy?" He asked with a grin.

"Our guys are back in Blythe," said Jake. "They'll hook up with us there and follow us through Arizona and New Mexico."

"C'mon, then."

Little Walter walked them to the back of the truck. A tall, thin man with a shaved head stood smoking a black cigarette. He wore a black turtleneck that would have burned him alive in the day, but was appropriate in the cool desert night.

"This is Yuri, he's the man in charge of handling the product on this run."

"Why?" Web asked. "The fuck is it this time?"

Jake traded looks with his cousin. This made Jake and Web's fourth courier run since the Tribe started their deal with the mob and the Horde. Last time it had been a truck filled with cocaine and heroin. The time before that it had been Chinese guns. The previous times hadn't needed their own special handler.

"What's in the back?" Jake asked.

Yuri said something Jake couldn't understand, but Walter seemed to. The two men walked to the closed back of the truck and opened it up. Yuri shined a flashlight into the dark. Jake and Web looked inside and stepped back once they realized what they were looking at. They were women. A dozen or so, mostly Eurasian but a few were Asian. They looked at Jake and Web in half-closed eyes and blinked rapidly at the sudden light that filled the space.

"Whores," said Yuri. He spat out his cigarette and closed the door to the truck. "Pussy. Flesh. I feed. I take care of. I keep under control. You drive."

"You guys know the deal," said Walter. "Get the truck through what's left of Cali, then Arizona and New Mexico. Mob guys will be waiting at the Colorado line."

"I ride in front," said Yuri. "You do not go in back. You do not talk to whores."

"Okay," Web said. "Got it."

Jake looked towards the back of the truck and then to Yuri and Little Walter. He knew they would be smuggling bad stuff for the mob, but he wasn't prepared for this. Blow was one thing, guns were another, but this... this was people. Women who were probably not here in this country of their own free will.

Right on time, something thumped on the back of the truck followed by shouting. Yuri yelled in some language and beat on the door. He shouted over the shouts from inside the truck and kept shouting until the women stopped. He looked at Jake with a hard look on his face.

"Problem?"

"No," Jake finally said. "No..."

"Then get on the road," said Little Walter. "You're wasting time."

---

Natchez, Mississippi

"Fuck them motherfuckers!"

Wendy Tillman was in her eighty-first year on the planet, every single one of those years spent in Adams County, Mississippi. But yet the old lady could swear a world-weary sailor under the table. Boyd Rafferty had learned this fact over the past few days.

Boyd sat in the living from of Mrs. Tillman's home and listened to the old negro lady as she ranted and raved about the injustices she'd seen over the years. Boyd calmly let her talk herself out while he waited with a notepad and pen to write down what she had to say about the night Will Johnson and his family were killed. With the Adams County Sheriff's Department reporting no leads and the state Bureau of Investigations declining to get involved, Boyd and his small staff of investigators seemed to be the only authority figures who cared about the crime.

"They killed my great uncle Norbit in '25, and then they beat my cousin Rollo half to death in '36. My youngest, Thomas, spent ten years on a chain gang because he dared to fight back against a racist ass police officer. Fuck all of 'em, I say!"

"I'm glad you say it," Boyd said diplomatically. "Now about the night the Johnson family were killed, Mrs. Tillman?"

"I remember a big truck," she said matter-of-factly. "I heard it coming down the road. It ain't normal for there be much traffic on the road at that time of night so I got up and looked out the window and saw it roaring down the road with about three white men hanging on in the back."

Boyd nodded and wrote down details on his notepad. Mrs. Tillman was the closest house to the now burned husk that the Johnson family called home. The Calhouns were a mile further down the road; but James and Whitney and their three adult children hadn't seen anything that night.

"Did you catch the make and model?" Boyd asked. "What about the color?"

"It was blue, light blue. And I'm afraid that's all I know. I don't know the first damn thing about cars and trucks, Mr. Boyd."

"And that was all you saw?"

"I'm afraid so." Mrs. Tillman pointed to her eyes. "But I can sure as shit identify that truck if I need to. I'm old as dirt, but my eyes are as sharp as they've ever been."

---

Boyd left Mrs. Tillman's house and headed back to town in his big black car. Cotton fields ran parallel to the road and swarms of black sharecroppers were out in the field. They worked the fields with huge sacks brimming with cotton on their backs, so much weight that almost all of them were stooped and bent over as they picked.

Once upon a time those fields had been Rafferty fields. The Rafferty Family had owned nearly all of Adams County at one time, including its people. It was no coincidence that half the negroes in Adams County had the last name of Rafferty. The Rafferty Family had been part of a great gentry class that led the South in the days before the Civil War. That aristocracy had built their wealth on the backs of slaves, it was true, but there was a sense of order and civility in the South. After the war, the gentry had lost their slaves and their holdings. That stability and order had been ripped apart by Union troops and Union guns. The power vacuum in the South had been filled by dumb crackers and rednecks who ruled with hate and used fear like a weapon. Things like what happened to Will Johnson and his family would not have happened to them back when the Rafferty Family ruled Adams County. And if it did happen, men like John Rafferty would see that absolute justice visited the white men who committed such a heinous act.

Boyd found a message waiting for him when he got back to the courthouse in Natchez. Harvey Welborn, the Sixth District Attorney and Boyd's boss, wanted him to call him as soon as possible. He went into his office on the third floor and closed the door before calling the number.

"Boyd," Welborn's phlegmy voice came on the line, followed shortly by a loud cough that made Boyd pull his head away from the receiver. "Boyd, why are you wasting DA money and manpower on a dead end case?"

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"This lynching thing. It's going nowhere, I've read the sheriff's department reports myself and--"

"And six people are dead," he interjected. "Four of them are children, sir."

"And it ain't going anywhere, son. If anything comes up, the sheriff's department will take it from there and investigate. You have active cases to prosecute so I suggest you get to it. Am I being clear?"

"Yes, sir--"

The connection cut out before Boyd could say anything else. He slammed the phone down and stood up. He stalked towards the office window and resisted the urge to punch out the glass, to punch something. A family had been murdered and nobody who could do something about it gave a good goddamn. Maybe it was the fact that he witnessed the aftermath of the murder, or maybe it was Mrs. Tillman speaking of all the horrible things she had seen over the years... but he was tired of how things happened down here and how everybody just accepted them as a way of life.

He looked out the window as he heard a loud noise coming from somewhere down the street. A big pickup truck roared down main street past the courthouse and didn't stop as it sped out of town. Boyd made the connection as soon as he laid eyes on the truck. It was powder blue. Windy Tillman and her sharp eyes would have almost certainly called that color light blue. Boyd spun on his heels and raced out his office in an effort to catch up to the truck.

Brixton, London

The door to the pub slammed shut behind Ray Newman. He was dripping wet, covered in rain, and on his face was a scowl. The pub’s landlord rubbed at a pint glass with a rag, as if unaware of Newman’s presence, until his heavy, wet footsteps drew the landlord’s gaze towards him. It had only taken Newman five minutes to find out which pub Clarke had been murdered in and another two to find out that the landlord, a man by the name of Jonathan “Jim” Thompson, had been present during it. Thompson was in his fifties, with sunken cheeks and a sickly disposition, and there was a defeated look to his eye as he gestured Newman towards the exit.

“We’re closed, mate.”

“You’re closed when I say you’re closed,” Ray said cooly as he reached into his pocket and plucked his badge from it. “Newman, Metropolitan Police.”

Newman continued towards Thompson with a look that brooked no argument and perched against the bar opposite the landlord.

“Oh, for god’s sake. What do you people want? I already spoke to your man, the one with the beard, Detective Winters? I have absolutely nothing more to say about what happened.”

Newman’s scowl deepened and he reached across the bar and grabbed Thompson by the collar of his Oxford shirt. He slammed the landlord’s head against the bar beneath one of its many pumps and reached for one of the handles. As his hand tightened around it, he pictured Oldfield bleeding out on that pavement and let his rage run through him. He couldn’t bring James back, nor could he find whoever had killed him, but he could help Keenan and Simone. Even if that meant getting his hands a little dirty in the process.

“Is that so?”

Newman yanked down on the pump and a murky, brown ale came flowing out and washed over Thompson’s face. The landlord tried to struggle out from beneath Ray’s fat, hairy hands but was no match for the policeman’s strength. Thompson gargled away in vain, trying to catch his breath where he could, until Newman let the pump loose some and Thomson coughed and spluttered for breath. He looked up at the policeman, his eyes widened with shock, and attempted to tug out from beneath him once again.

“What the hell are you doing? You can’t do this.”

A sadistic smile appeared on Ray’s face.

“What are you going to do about it?”

Ray pinned the man down again and tugged on the pump with even more authority than he’d done the first time. The brown liquid covered Thompson’s face and this time his lame attempts to breathe seemed tinged with real danger and threat. His clawing at Newman grew more and more desperate but Ray ignored the scratches, despite their drawing blood, and forced the landlord to endure more of the ordeal. He would make him speak where Winters had failed to. Now Newman proved that he was being serious, he’d give Thompson the opportunity to earn his next breath. He let the pump go and pulled Thompson out from beneath it.

“A man was murdered in your pub and you swear blind that you saw nothing,” Newman said as the landlord gasped for air pathetically. “Forgive me if I don’t believe the tale you spun to my colleague but I find that a little hard to believe.”

Thompson shook his head earnestly.

“I told your man everything, I swear.”

Newman slapped the gaunt, sickly landlord with the back of his hand and flecks of ale went flying across the floor of the pub. Thompson’s white cheek was a blushed red from the blow as Newman prodded one of his fat fingers into his face.

“I’m not fond of the coloureds, not one bit, but coloured or not the fuck that did that old man in is still walking the streets. Next time it could be someone I know and love. I’m not going to let that happen, John. In fact, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make sure that it doesn’t hap-”

The policeman stopped midsentence as he noticed something in the mirrored surface that lined the shelves behind Thompson. It was a figure. Tall, slender, with a youthful face that Newman would recognise anywhere. A puzzled look appeared on Thompson’s face as Ray eyed the figure, the colour draining from Ray’s face as his brain began to process what he was seeing. It was Oldfield. It wasn’t Oldfield, Ray knew that much, it couldn’t have been him. He’d held him as he’d bled out in the middle of the street. He’d been there when they’d lowered him into the ground. Ray felt the hand that had been clamped around Thompson’s neck begin to shake and the landlord slipped out from it and went crashing to the ground.

Newman mumbled, almost incomprehensibly, as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

“James?”

Between blinks, the figure disappeared and Newman’s shaking, damp hands stilled some. He shook his head, attempting to consign the vision to the back of his mind, as Thompson scuttled on his hands and knees away from the policeman. Once Newman had finally regained his senses, he stared down at Jim Thompson, soaked through in ale, cheeks reddened from where Ray had struck him, and a deep sense of guilt began to flow through Newman.

“You’re insane, man.”

Newman could offer no rebuttal. He glimpsed back up at the surface, hoping to see the visage again, but found only his reflection staring back at him.

“It’s nothing, I thought… I thought I saw… someone that I…”

Gazing into his own eyes he realized the folly in what he’d done. He’d volunteered to help Keenan and Simone out of some sense of impotence regarding Oldfield’s murder, hoping to atone for not being able to save him, for not seeing it coming, and hoping, as Alice Oldfield had suggested to him, to better himself to some degree. He’d hoped to be more like Oldfield, not less like him, and only now did he realise that James would never have sullied himself by torturing information out of someone, least of all someone that had done nothing wrong except having been scared. Jim Thompson might know more than he was letting on but he wasn’t keeping quiet to hurt anyone. It was because he feared violence reprisal. And all Newman had done was proved him right.

“I’m sorry.”

Ray muttered as he staggered his way towards the exit. As he reached it and felt the cold wind gushing against him, he heard Thompson’s feeble, strained voice mutter a damning phrase. It carried along the bitter, Brixton wind as the door slammed shut behind Newman.

“Fucking nutcase.”


Cape Town, South Africa

Woolgar Donovan stared down at the gathered bodies of the murdered British ex-pats he and Corporal Nick Marsh had stumbled upon. They were a ghastly sight and even worse on the nose. No doubt the story would have broken back home by now but Donovan didn’t have time to think about that. He ran a dirt-covered hand through his sandy blonde hair and let a smoker’s cough crawl its way up through his blackened lungs as he peered at the bodies. Marsh stood by his side, eyeing them forensically, as the makeshift coroner examined them. The coroner was a fat man, hair tied back into a messy blonde ponytail, and he spoke with an accent posher than any Donovan had ever heard before. It seemed ill-suited to the man, who seemed incompetent to the point of criminal negligence, but rumour had it the coroner came from good stock. The disappointing third son of some distant cousin of a distant cousin of a baronet. It was far from Donovan’s humble beginnings.

“What can you tell me?”

The coroner looked up to Woolgar with a vapid smile.

“There’s no need to over-think this one, Donovan. This is the work of natives. It’s as open and shut as they come. All we need to do is find the black bastards responsible and make them pay for it. If you ask me, we ought to string them up and do them the way they did these poor sods. Flay them alive and send a message to the rest of them that they will be broken, one way or a-bloody-nother.”

Donovan’s teeth had gritted as the fat coroner spoke. He was certain the man had seen action on the front line and doubted he ever would. Yet here he was extolling the virtues of an act of barbarity he himself would never have the stomach to see through. It was commonplace in the Armed Forces, sadly, and more often than not it was working class men like Donovan that were made to do it. He had no words for him on that, at least no sensible ones, and instead kept to the matter at hand.

“You’re sure about that?”

Another empty, smug smile flashed in Donovan’s direction.

“As sure as the day is long, old chap.”

Marsh, who had up to that point been silent, cleared his throat to catch the coroner’s attention and gestured towards the door in the corner of the room.

“Could we have the room?”

The coroner nodded and began to pluck his gloves free from his hands.

“Of course, I’m going to trust the pair of you to refrain from interfering with the cadavers whilst I’m out of the room.”

Marsh watched as the fat man waddled towards the door and waited until it had shut behind him before breaking into action. He reached for the lock on the door and turned it. Donovan watched on, bemused, as Marsh gazed down at the bodies, his eyes mere inches away from them, studying them closer than the coroner had. After a minute had passed, he cleared his throat and looked up to Donovan with a uncertain look.

“Permission to speak frankly, LT?”

Donovan smiled.

“It smells like shit in here, Nick, I think we can dispense with the formalities.”

Marsh let free a relieved sigh.

“It’s bullshit.”

Woolgar’s wrinkled, scarred face remained unchanged as the words slipped out. Marsh looked as if he’d expected his commanding officer to be taken aback but Donovan had seen more than his fair share of impossible things in South Africa. There wasn’t much left that could shock him. Instead, he rubbed at the stubble that resided on his chin and nodded blankly to Marsh.

“Explain.”

Marsh moved towards the bodies. With great care, he hovered his hands over portions of their bodies that he wanted to draw Donovan’s attention to, making certain not to make contact with them. He had a theory, though he daren’t speak life into it, and the last thing he needed to be accused of tampering with the bodies. If Marsh’s theory were true, there would be huge ramifications for everyone involved, and the evidence would need to stack up. First though, he’d have to convince Donovan, which was by no means an easy task given that the Lieutenant was disposed towards disbelieving in all things at even the best of times. Little did he know, Donovan had already begun to have suspicions of his own. Though they weren’t as thought out as the Corporal’s doubts.

“The natives use machetes. Whoever flayed these men used something else, something sharper than the rusty tat the coloureds get their hands on. Plus the marks on their hands and feet… It’s not consistent with rope, boss. It’s something else. Plastic handcuffs or something like that.”

For the first time, Donovan seemed impressed.

“How do you know all of this, Marsh?”

Marsh’s cheeks turned red with embarrassment.

“I… before the war started I wanted to be a policeman but… I thought… I wanted to do my bit.”

Donovan nodded as he moved forwards to inspect the ex-pats wrists himself to verify Marsh’s observation. To Donovan’s untrained eye, the marks around their wrists might as well have been from rope, but Marsh seemed to know what he was talking about. There weren’t many men left in South Africa, or Donovan’s platoon for that matter, of which that was true.

“If we make it out of this place in one piece, promise me you’ll do that, Marsh. You’re wasted out here. We’re all wasted out here.”

Marsh and Donovan stood in silence, staring down at the bodies – their sliced clean from them, and both men pondered their next move, with each arriving at a different conclusion. Marsh spoke first, his eagerness for justice clear from his facial expressions, but given his rank he was compelled to defer to Donovan.

“What are we going to do?”

Woolgar clicked his tongue with exasperation.

“What are we meant to do? We’re not policemen, Marsh, we’re soldiers. We follow orders.”

Marsh’s disappointment was tangible.

“But… if the natives didn’t kill them, who did?”

Donovan looked to his corporal and placed a rough, calloused hand on his shoulder pad, with a heavy sigh. It wasn’t chiding by any means, nor mocking, but concerned, almost paternal.

“Ask yourself this, kid. If whoever did these poor bastards in were willing to do a thing like this, what do you think they’d do to the guy that started asking questions about it?”

The lieutenant watched as Marsh’s mind worked, playing through all the possible scenarios that could arise from him chasing what had happened here, and finding each ended as badly as the last. He wanted more than anything to find who had done this and bring them to justice, it was what he had joined the army to do ¬– to stop barbarism like this, but he had a feeling if he pursued it any further he’d as quickly end up next to them. Donovan was right, as much as he hated to admit it, and as much as Donovan himself hated the sordid, unending moral compromises war forced him into. He walked towards the door, unlocked it, pushed it open, and pointed Nick, whose vacant gaze betrayed his begrudging understanding of the situation, to step through it.

“Let’s go, Marsh.”


Whitehall, London

It had been a difficult morning for Samuel Hobbs. Most of his mornings had been difficult of late. This one was particularly uncomfortable. The bodies in South Africa were too big a story for the government to brush under the carpet, despite their efforts, and instead they had tried to take the bull by the horns. It had backfired in a sense. Now all anyone seemed to want to discuss were the murders in South Africa despite the government wanting to discuss anything but it. Luckily in the Downing Street briefing room, Samuel Hobbs was king. In his weekly meeting with Britain’s leading political editors, Hobbs controlled what was said and what wasn’t said, and it was him that okayed, if indirectly, what would hit Britain’s front pages the next morning. They might not be capable of stopping the British people from talking about it but they could certainly make sure it didn’t see the front page of a newspaper tomorrow morning. Instead, they would talk up the Voluntary Repatriation Bill until that became the national preoccupation. At least that was the plan.

“Before we begin I just want to say that I won’t be answering any questions about South Africa or what happened in Cape Town so I wouldn’t even waste my breath if I were you.”

Charlie Whitebread from the Guardian piped up, his fat, red face sticking out amidst the crowd of assembled editors, with a question that proved to completely wrong-foot the un-wrong-footable Hobbs.

“What about Hewitt?”

The rail thin, ghostly pale Hobbs did a double take.

“I beg your pardon?”

Whitebread smiled, sensing he’d caught Hobbs off guard somewhat, and pressed the issue.

“What about Dominic Hewitt? Rumour has it he was let go last week.”

Were Hobbs a normal man, his face might have reddened with anger but instead the only indication of his anger was a slight narrowing of the eyes. It passed and Hobbs let a sickly sweet smile flash across his face as he tried to disguise his being caught unprepared.

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t trust whatever source you’re hearing these rumours from if I were you. Hewitt left for personal reasons, some dead fucking granny or an aunt with a cancerous growth the size of Malta on her tit, something soppy like that. He was not, I repeat not, “let go” by Downing Street so any prick that prints anything remotely resembling that will have me to deal with.”

Whitebread smiled.

“I think the lady protests too much.”

The Downing Street press man’s smile disappeared and he glowered in the Guardian editor’s direction. Despite his small, skinny frame there was a real menace to Hobbs. It wasn’t a violent one, much the opposite in fact, but the menace one might feel upon seeing the grim reaper darken one’s door. Hobbs was a force of nature, he could ruin careers with a single phone call, and Whitebread’s barb had inched over the invisible line between fraternal jockeying and overfamiliarity.

“My fist will be protesting its way all the way up your fat arse if you don’t shut the fuck up, Charlie. And if you insist on quoting the bard the least you could fucking do is get it right.”

A cowed silence fell on the group as Whitebread shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. Beside him Fred Lambert from the New Jerusalem cleared his throat uncomfortably and Hobbs shot him a disapproving look. Mid throat-clear Lambert stopped, compelled into a silence of limbs by the look, and stared elsewhere as to avoid Sam’s gaze. Finally convinced he had exerted his authority over the group again, Hobbs let out a playful smile and flipped open the folder resting in front of him.

“Enough flirting,” Hobbs muttered as he reached for his pen. “Can we get down to business?”

Opposite the table the editors opened their own booklets, reached for their pens, and prepared to make notes of Hobbs’ dictation. Never had a Director of Communications spoke so clearly with his master’s voice but as far as the press lobby was concerned Hobbs was the closest thing Downing Street had to a prophet. His word was as good as the Prime Minister’s itself on policy issues.

“The Voluntary Repatriation Bill is to go before the House of Commons this afternoon. Yours truly has spent many hours making sure this thing reads like a fucking charm so I expect you fat bastards to be waxing positively lyrical about it tomorrow morning. This is the Prime Minister’s magnum opus, ladies and gentlemen, which means this is my magnum opus. Anything less than five star reviews and we’ll send the heavies round with the broom handles.”

The tension in the room cleared as the editors let out a bawdy laugh at the Director of Communication’s flowery imagery all but for one. Fred Lambert sat uncomfortably silent and still amidst the laughing editors, a guilty look on his face, finding himself incapable of laughing.


Brixton, London

It was late afternoon and Ray Newman ambled his way up the stairs of the Angell Town estate towards 12D, the apartment Keenan Gayle had specified during their chance meeting. He stopped outside of it, plunging his chubby hands into the pockets of his Harrington jacket with a heavy sigh as he considered knocking on the door to the apartment. One of his hands slid from his pocket, floating above the air in front of Keenan’s door with purpose, until all the will seemed to drain from Newman and he let his hand flop back to his side. His mind was still plagued with thoughts of last night. What he’d done and, more importantly, what he’d seen was playing on his mind. He had never been a superstitious man. At least, before last night he’d never been a superstitious man, but now he wasn’t sure what to think. All he knew was that he’d left Thompson’s pub feeling more sullied than when he’d entered it. He needed to unburden himself if he were to combat that feeling.

Finally Ray knocked and Keenan Gayle appeared at the door.

“Ray,” Keenan said with a smile. “What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

Newman gestured inside of the apartment.

“I need to talk to you, Keenan.”

“Sure, come on in.”

Gayle led Newman through the tiny flat, around the boxes of possessions containing Keenan and Simone’s possessions, to where they were staying in what once had been the dining room. Keenan’s friend had given him and Simone a roof over their heads but it wasn’t much more than that. In fairness, not many of the houses on the Angell Town estate had much more than that. Newman leant against a stack of boxes. As he did so, there came a squeak from beneath one of his feet and he noticed a toy beneath his foot. He grimaced awkwardly and stared around the apartment.

“Is… Is Simone here?”

Keenan shook his head.

“No, no, she’s still at school. I should be at work but… well, there wasn’t any this morning.”

Ray nodded vacantly as he stared at Keenan, weighing up whether to give voice to his actions last night. He barely knew Keenan, Simone even less so, and he’d not declared to either of them that he was determined to bring Errol Clarke’s murderer to justice. For all Ray knew, Keenan might take Newman’s vow badly and things could get ugly between them. Ray wouldn’t blame him if he did. Eventually, after staring silently over Keenan’s shoulder for several seconds, Ray swallowed his pride and spoke.

“I went to the pub where Errol was murdered, Keenan.”

Gayle frowned.

“What?”

“I wasn’t completely honest with you last time we met. My name is Ray Newman but… I’m a policeman, or at least I was a policeman, I’m on a bit of a break at the moment. The policeman that was murdered? He was my best friend, I guess. They’ve made me take some time off but… I’m not really coping as well as I thought I would. So I decided I’d try to make myself useful.”

It was a lot to take in all at once but, in credit to Keenan, he seemed to accept the information quicker than Newman had anticipated. Perhaps he had sensed police on Neman from a distance. The coloureds were able to just see police on certain people. Newman had been in the police for nearly two decades so it went without saying he’d picked up certain tics that gave away his occupation. Gayle must have picked up on them long before Ray confessed his real profession.

“By finding the people that killed Errol?”

Ray nodded.

“Something like that.”

The two unlikely friends stood in silence, neither making eye contact with one another as their minds moved in completely different directions, and each toiled away internally for the next sentence. Inspiration struck Newman before it struck Keenan. It was a pang of guilt that brought that inspiration on – guilt about what he’d done last night.

“I… I need to do this right,” Newman muttered. “I used to cut corners, Keenan, do things because they were easy, with no thought to whether they were right or wrong. My friend, his name was James, he did everything by the book. He was twice the policeman I am. I… I told myself I’d do this right but when I went down to the pub I just lost it.”

A concerned look flashed across Keenan’s face.

“You hurt him? The landlord?”

“Nothing too bad,” Ray said with a shake of the head. “But bad enough that if he was inclined to tell me anything before I paid him a visit, he won’t ever be again.”

Through Ray’s self-pity, Gayle had burst into life and began searching through the boxes for something. After each box, he let out a little sigh, and began searching through the next. As he reached the last one, he caught the end of Newman’s sentence and shrugged his shoulders dismissively at its premise.

“What makes you say that?”

Newman’s chubby cheeks turned red with embarrassment.

“I… I laid hands on the man, Keenan.”

Keenan popped one of the boxes open and a broad smile appeared on his face. He reached for a stack of photographs that rested above some of Keenan’s old records and began to sift through them.

“Errol used to say only those that were unwilling to ask for forgiveness were beyond forgiveness.”

An incredulous look appeared on Newman’s face.

“What are you saying? That I should go back there and tell the man I'm sorry?”

A little titter left Keenan’s lips as he found a picture amidst the stack of old photographs. It was Errol Clarke, in all of his glory, with his trademark hat atop his head. Something about him struck a bell with Newman but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what. Gayle smiled one last, solemn smile before turning to face Ray.

“Here’s a picture of Errol,” Keenan said as he outstretched his arm in Ray’s direction. “Maybe it will jog his memory a little.”

Newman reached out for it, staring down at the smiling, friendly coloured face of Errol Clarke, as his mind went to Jim Thompson, ale pouring over his mouth and nose as he plead for Ray to stop, and about how awkward it would be to go back there and ask for his forgiveness. Asking for someone’s forgiveness was never really something Ray had to perfect. If he was going to get any closer to solving Clarke’s murder, he was going to need to get good at it – and fast.


Whitehall, London

Fraser Campbell fretted over the dozens of papers strewn over his kitchen table in a way he never usually fretted. Joyce Campbell watched on, her husband’s prickliness evident all day and night, before finally swallowing her pride and approaching her husband. She placed a hand on the small of Fraser’s back and smoke in a tone that managed to be both reassuring and needy at the same time.

“Do you want to talk?”

Campbell shrugged off his wife’s hand in favour of continuing to read the papers in front of him.

“I have to take the Bill before Parliament tomorrow afternoon. I don’t have time to talk, Joyce.”

One of Joyce Campbell’s blonde eyebrows shot up and her picturesque face suddenly became disbelieving.

"Since when? You always have time to talk."

No response came from her husband. Though he was sometimes prone to bouts of self doubt or the occasional indecision, prickliness was never something that Joyce Campbell associated with her husband, which meant that something else had changed. As she tried to swallow her pride at having been ignored, it occurred to her that the elephant in the room loomed far larger than she could ever had imagined.

"This is about Tom."

For the first time, Campbell looked up from the stack of papers in front of him and shot his wife a defiant look.

"This is not about Tom."

"Then why are you being distant?"

Campbell let out an exasperated sigh, flinging the pen between his fingers along the kitchen side and away from him, as if to illustrate the extent of his frustration with the line of his wife’s inquiry into his mod.

"Because tomorrow is a very important day and I need to prepare. What don’t you understand about that?"

Fraser’s tone was particularly pointed at the end. It was a decidedly un-Fraser-like moment from Campbell. In all the years Joyce had known her husband he had never spoken to her in the way he had just done. Fraser was pointed, spiteful even, and though he would be aghast to learn it, had managed to unwittingly channel some of Tom. Joyce knew Fraser would hate to know that and she had no intentions of telling him. She wandered away from her husband’s side, towards the refrigerator in the corner of the kitchen, when her husband’s hands unexpectedly wrapped around her own.

"I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that."

Joyced let out a defeated sigh.

"It’s fine."

"No, it’s not fine. We both agreed to… to what you did and it’s unfair of me to hold it against you. It’s just… It’s the way he looks at me, Joyce. As if he has something over me, as if even after all of these years he’s better than I am, and I’m too stupid to realise what’s going on beneath my nose. It makes me so angry I can barely contain it."

Finally Fraser had spoken about it. His silenced had cut Joyce deeper than his words ever might have done. They had agreed to the other night, both of them seeing it as the only way to remove Tom from the picture, and yet all day and all night Fraser had treated his wife with contempt. It seemed one thing to discuss being cuckolded and another completely actually being cuckolded. Her husband seemed to be taking to it even worse than she anticipated. At least, he had done. There seemed a flicker of regret, an inkling of remose, to Fraser Campbell as his fingers ran along the length of his wife’s fingers.

Joyce nodded, knowingly, as wrapped her arms around Fraser.

"Soon there’ll be no more of Tom. They’ll ship him out somewhere, maybe to some far corner of Britain, or even out of the country should push come to shove – and then we’ll be free to make our move. There’ll be no one left to stop us, Fraser. You think of that and all the good we’ll do once he’s gone next time. You hear me?"

Campbell nodded.

"I hear you."

Their embrace lingered on for several minutes until finally Joyce Campbell let he husband slip from her grasp. He wandered slowly back over to the kitchen table where his speech awaited him and Joyce followed after him. She perched on the seat next to his, lifting the first of the many pages up from the side, and scanning it as she let out a contented sigh.

"Now, let me read this speech of yours."

Beijing



Azima dropped the letter and pressed her hand up over her mouth. Her body was numb with anger. She looked up at Fulumirani, who sat quite unaffected on the other side of a table heaped with correspondence. The ambassador supped at a steaming cup of coffee while Azima's went cold in the outdoor air. Birds chirped in trees whose leaf-heavy branches hung over a thick cobblestone wall, and wind-chimes rang softly in the breeze.

"How many has he sent?" Azima asked, glancing in disgust at letters. After her time in China, she had secured the opportunity to speak in the Chinese National Congress, and the news of this letter made her feel as if her speech had already failed.

The heat of his drink had made Fulumirani's nose run, and he sniffed sharply before he spoke. "Four, perhaps? At least in the time I have been been here. Lutalo has been sending letters to Hou since the reign of Yohannes. At least that is what I have been told, but I haven't been here that long. You would have to ask our Prime Minister about the rest." It was easy to forget that Akanni had been the Ambassador to China before he was Prime Minister. When Yaqob constructed the Constitutional Parliament in 1976, he appointed Akanni to be his Prime Minister and the man had held the office ever since, long becoming identified with it.

"And do you suppose Hou has his copy already?" she grabbed the letter as if to read it, but it was too disgusting to read, so she only waved it at Fulumirani and threw it back on the table.

"Yes. Most probably. Lutalo publishes these things after he sends them, so even if Hou's copy hasn't arrived, he will hear about it. If nothing else, the IB most likely intercepted this one before it was delivered"

Azima's mouth fell open. "The IB read embassy mail?"

"I suspect. I have no proof." Fulumirani sniffed. "But nobody has accused me of being a suspicious man."

"No they don't." she agreed. She had heard the ambassador called indifferent, lazy, and aloof, but never suspicious. "But how would they do this without you knowing?"

"Do they steam the envelope?" he smiled a slight smile. "I don't know. Espionage is not my forte I fear. But there are things that have made me suspicious. Sometimes the mail seems to come in... themes, as if a selection had been contrasted by agents before being sent along. And sometimes... I don't know, I suppose sometimes the mail I receive seems like it has been tampered with."

"Well, that's not evidence." Azima said. "But the entire idea unsettles me. Our countries are allies and they snoop through our mail? That seems hard to accept."

Fulumirani shrugged and put his coffee down. "If I may say, your majesty, I don't find it too out of character for the Chinese to do something like that. We are their only true ally, in the sense we are the only nation they deal with squarely without any sort of ideological or political control on their part. The way this relationship truly works is this; Hou trusts Yaqob, but China does not trust Ethiopia, and the IB trusts nobody."

She nodded glumly. China was such a big and unfriendly place, and it had swallowed her whole. It was not the people - they were distant, but not unkind. And it was not Hou. The Chairman had been especially welcoming, and she had to admit she liked the old man. She even felt comfortable leaving the children with him. When she left his home in the rural coastline north of Tianjin, he had been watching the children playing alongside the beach. But safety was not what she felt she lacked. It was control over her own destiny, and that of the children. She felt hopelessly without power, and it ate at her like there were insects nibbling at her heart.

"Look at this." Fulumirani picked up the Lutalo letter and read from it. "It is the expulsion of undue influences which we seek. Ethiopia is a foreigner to most of Africa, leaching from it's people and tarnishing the traditions and values of the non-Ethiopian peoples of this our continent." He looked up at her. She did not understand what he was getting at. "This is pure Houism if I can identify it." the Ambassador said, tapping the page with his index finger.

"He's wooing Hou." she stated, processing the strategy.

"More then that." he replied. "Listen to this. 'Africa can be a single confederation, equal but independent, of tribes and disparate people banded together for a mutual defense against outside forces while not turned against each other. Many communes, one proletariat.' That, your majesty, is Chifundist Communism on display. You might recognize it, Chifundo influenced the ideas of both the Rouge General and your own husband. And read this, 'The monocrats of Africa have fallen for capitalist traps, sold to them by the fevered binary fallacy which says if you find a way to succeed, then all other ways must lead to failure. Capitalists would have us believe that no economy can function without the bourgeois, and the puny evidence they present is that the capitalist nations of the world thrive, therefore the evils presented by that system must be swallowed because they can surely be the only way to thrive. They say there is only one road to success, and it must be paved in horrors. No other option is accepted.' That last bit... I don't even know where that comes from. That's more ideology than I know how to swallow."

"He's a Communist. I think we know that." Azima replied.

"Yes, but he was never a very good one before." Fulumirani said, talking slow as if the idea was still forming on his tongue. "In the first two letters Lutalo sent Hou while I was in Beijing, he referred to him as 'His Proletarian Majesty'. That's the type of thing Lutalo is about - dramatic flourishes. Communism for him is an excuse for vainglory. Perhaps he has changed or grown up, but..." he paused for emphasis.

"No." she said. "This is the same Lutalo who proposed in Parliament to rename Yaqob's birthday as 'Communism Day'. He is a blunt man. But what does this mean?"

"I think it means he has a real movement now." Fulumirani explained. "He has people around him that can temper the vainglory and direct him toward a real goal. I think, your majesty, that there is a real communist revolution going on in Uganda."

Azima sunk. "That is what we need. Revolutions."

"Well, if it helps, we can say for certain that this revolution isn't going to be friendly to Spain. I think it is fitting that, when the Spanish invaded to liberate us from imagined communists, they made real ones."

She stood up and went to the edge of the deck, looking out at the ancient stonework of the embassy's walls, and the wizened trees and slanted rooftops of suburban Beijing that showed above those walls. The tree-tops were a vivid and powerful green. Heavy grey clouds were rolling in from the northwest, and the leaves in the trees rattled in a cool wind, accented by the growing franticness of the wind-chimes. The scene was perfectly calm, but Azima could not absorb it.

"This is the news then; my husband is standing against an invasion. My sister-in-law is facing what looks like imprisonment in Tanganyika because of an accusation of alliance breaking, and in all of this a real Communist revolution is fomenting. Our ally in this country is Hou, isn't it? If so that cannot be good. He is not a healthy man. He can barely walk, and he is giving his power away because of it." she stopped when she realized she had started to pace. She looked Fulumirani straight in the eye. "What are our chances with his successors?"

"They haven't chose a successor yet." Fulumirani explained. "The Chinese have this way of playing at an election. The Party chooses some candidates they can accept, powerful party members trade deals and make alliances in the background to determine who has a chance and who does not, and then when all is said and done they let the people vote for one of their choices, even though there really isn't a choice per see and the entire thing is to make them feel progressive of democratic. At least in theory this is how it works. This is the first time their system has been put to the test. At this point, there are many candidates for the position, but the only ones with any significant inter-party support seems to be Zhang Auyi and Mang Xhu. Now Auyi, he's young, he was just a foot soldier during the revolution, and what little rhetoric I've heard from him suggests he'd follow in Hou's footsteps. But this Xhu, he's something else. A to-the-letter Marxist, hardliner, one of Hou's generation. I don't think he could, begging your pardon, choke down monarchy as easily as Hou or Auyi."

She bristled at the words 'Choke down monarchy', but she said nothing about. "Mang Xhu. If there were a way to neutralize him politically..."

Fulumirani cocked his eyebrows. "For Africans? No, we are just visitors in this country."

"Rhetorically even. Could I speak against him tomorrow?"

"No, your majesty." Fulumirani explained calmly. "This is not Africa. Here the word of a Queen means nothing. If a foreign visitor started complaining about Chinese politicians, all that would come of it is distrust of the foreigner. But there is a political tool." The ambassador pulled a piece of paper from the middle of the pile and gracefully handed it to her. She read it, and her eyes went wide as she scanned the page.

"Portugal has declared war on Ethiopia." the words fell out of her mouth.

"This is a good thing."

"No no." she waved him off. "I see it. Another European power goes to Africa. The third one this year. Portugal gave us the pattern." the word they both had in mind was on her lips, but she left it unspoken.

Fulumirani nodded slowly. "This will be to your advantage when you meet with the National Congress tomorrow. You can't speak directly about their political processes, but you can paint the picture of resurgent colonialism." he said the word, and she felt the weight of it take its place between them. "Remind them the Portuguese still refuse to recognize Chinese sovereignty in Macau."

"We should work on a speech." she said. In her mind, she was secretly thanking the Portuguese.

--

She rode in the back of a tasteful black four-door sedan, with tinted windows so nobody could see inside. Fulumirani drove, and the taciturn ambassador said little, leaving the Queen to lean her head against the window and stare out at the Chinese capital.

There were some things about Beijing that made the national matron in her jealous. It was a city of tightly compacted and neatly stacked neighborhoods. They were cut by a grid of wide avenues, along which were the offices and small shops where the people in the housing blocks were employed. It had surprised Azima to find active shops in a nation she had been told practiced communism, and it took a person no less than Hou to straighten out the embarrassed Queen on how commerce worked in the Red empire. "A worker selling his production, or a merchant who purchases the production of a worker wholesale and then resells it, are not against the philosophy of communism. It is the ownership of the means of production by the bosses that we forbid." She had to admit that, despite how anxious her exile in this place felt, she could see the charm which had made Yaqob the sinophile that he was. Life here was so clean and certain. It had none of the flash and brilliance of the European civilization she had seen glances of from her homeland, and the people lived humbler lives than even some of the capitalist middle class in Addis Ababa, but Hou had managed to secure them a peace and stability that was certainly missing in the rest of the world.

They reached the widest avenue in the city. It was lined with pruned trees and wide enough for six cars, three going east and three going west, to fit parallel on the street at once. The streetlights wore long orange banners with red stars at their center. The architecture along this route was the traditional slanted roofs with shining red or blue tiles, and the paint on the walls made many look like they were made from playfully glossed clay. There was a modernity to them as well, present in the proud cement columns and glass windows which had spread from the west and conquered all the world's style.

She watched the Chinese cars go by. These things she did not envy. People who have an interest in cars often pointed to the Polish automobiles, with their utilitarian designs and clunky potato-like styles, as the worst the world had to offer. China was not far behind them in this. They preferred the small and the sharp-edged over the more gaudy styles of the western capitalists. But the traffic in the Chinese capital was much greater than what she had seen at home, and soon even their ugly cars become a detail to envy due to their number.

Off of the main avenue was a complex of some political pomp. A series of buildings in a more exaggerated Chinese style dominated several blocks, and at its core was an especially large horseshoe structure wrapped around a stone-brick plaza. The car was greeted by a guard who had been expecting them, and he let them pass. They sunk into the dark bowels of the garage. A valet met them at the elevator and took their car to park it. She felt a twinge of nerves when the door to the elevator began its ascent into the congressional hall.

Fulumirani glanced at her. "You look nervous, your majesty."

"This is a new experience for me." she said.

Fulumirani looked forward and nodded. "These men might hold the greatest power on our earth, but most of them are toothless when you meet them face to face. Some are literally toothless."

"There is a lot at stake." she replied, keeping her calm.

The elevator opened to a bevy of Chinese politicians in a hallway with red cedar paneling and a red carpet. The ceiling and trim was ornate and reminded her of flowers. Of the politicians, there were men and women, young and old, all dressed conservatively and smiling. She guessed twenty or so were gathered here, but she did not stop to count. There was a man leading the rest. He was older, with a sparse hairline receded to the back of his head and skin textured like old leather. Azima caught herself peaking into his smiling mouth to see if he had any teeth.

"Comrade Azima, I have the pleasure to be Wen Xiaogang, Secretary of Congress." the old man said, following up with a stiff Asian bow. "Congress had anticipated your visit all week."

She put on a smile. "I am honored by the opportunity." she said. It would be politics from now on until she left the building.

"These are the friends of Africa." Xiaogang motioned to the politicians gathered around him. "They represent a bloc in congress that supports your country's war effort..." she felt instantly grateful for those friendly faces when she learned who they were, and it magnified the shame she felt when the Secretary began naming them. They had names that sounded like the sound bullets make when they ricochet off of water. She couldn't remember so many fed to her at once, and the bitter thought crossed her mind that her husband wouldn't have any trouble with it. If he were here, he would remember each one in turn and greet them each by name with a soft voice and a hand shake. All Azima could do is acknowledge as each politician bowed when the Secretary named them.

"And this man is Ma Jingsong. He is the leader of the Intervention faction." Xiaogang motioned to a happy man with charcoal-grey hair and a small pair of glasses hanging on his nose.

"A pleasure to meet all of you." she said, and when Jingsong bowed his bow, she responded with an accepting nod.

"We have been speaking about the Portuguese declaration of war." Jingsong said. He had a hoarse, airy voice that did not fit his friendly disposition. "They have not yet declared war on China, but things are moving quickly here despite this."

The group moved through the halls like a blood clot with Azima at its core. "Then a declaration of war against Portugal is already in the works?" she asked.

Xiaogang responded this time. "It looks like it will happen today. But you will have to excuse me now. I must make it to the chamber to prepare for your arrival." he gave another bow and power-walked down the corridor, leaving Azima with Fulumirani, Jingsong, and a bunch of names she couldn't remember.

"Ambassador Fulumirani and I think that Portugal will add weight to the argument that this is a war of colonialism." the Queen said.

"Yes. Yes." Jingsong repeated. "We have came to the same conclusion. That argument will have weight, but we have been using it since the war began. It is a tired line. We have found it only truly effects the nations of Indochina, and the places once occupied by Japan. To someone not from the coast, Colonialism is a matter of academic opinion." his eyes lit up and he blurted out. "Ah! Here we are."

They stopped in front of a double door guarded by two men in the outfit of Beijing's police. "This is the entrance to our section of the congressional floor. Before we go through, I want to know if you are ready."

She took a focused breath. Here it was, the moment of reckoning. "Lead, Mr. Ma" she said. He did as he was bid, and the sound of the room came tumbling from the door as soon as it was opened. It was the proud drone of orchestral music accompanied by the proud voices of a men's choir. As they proceeded, Azima noticed a few things all at once. They were flanked on all sides by seated politicians. She had been taken in the back-way, which partially offended her at first, but the circumstances were too overwhelming for that feeling to stick. She also noticed that there was no band, and the music being played came from speakers on walls all across the room. At the far end, Xiaogang was enthroned upon the Dais at a desk. Orange and red curtains hung nobly at the back wall. As they found seats, she noticed a second story gallery above them that was also filled with politicians. At first she assumed one of the congressmen had given her a seat, but as she looked over the room she realized there was more seating than there was people.

When the martial music died, the room began to stir. Every sound in the room was pronounced, echoing as if they were in a cave or a great marble tomb. Congressional Secretary Xiaogang pounded a gavel and its snaps quieted the human tumult. He only spoke once they were silent.

"Before we continue our business, Congress will hear the Embassy from the Pan-African Empire." he finally said in a blunt, stately manner. Everything focused on her in a moment, and she found herself crossing the red-carpeted floor to the polite applause of a room half-full of foreigners unknown to her. She kept her poise and tried not to let herself be visibly overawed. Out of the corner of her eye, she could tell that Fulumirani had no such qualms. He walked as relaxed as if this were a morning stroll in the forest. When she reached the podium, she could feel all of the eyes and cameras focused on her. The applause continued, and she used it as an opportunity to take all of her natural doubts and bury them within. On the outside, she looked comfortable playing her part. She waited for the polite applause to subside, and then she spoke.

"Today I stand before a body that brought revolution to the oppressed peoples of Asia, and I praise you for that contribution. Your historic struggle against foreign oppressors inspires the educated men and women of Africa to emulate you. This is true for Ethiopia, and for South Africa, and soon it will be true for Mozambique and Angola as Portugal joins in on the division of a free continent. New European powers approach Africa every month to steal its resources, and they embolden the colonizing spirit of the old masters of the globe. Belgium, in 1970, fought a desperate war against the native peoples of the Congo that left one million casualties on the Congolese side. In 1974 Germany took the torch of that colonizing spirit on behalf of Belgium and attempted to resteal this land. It was the government of my husband, Yaqob, who prevented this evil. The spirit of the colonizers are held back by brave men such as him, and much like those who sit here in congress and recall their service to the Revolution that saved China."

Public speaking wasn't in her blood like it was for her husband, and she began to read the words from the paper without committing them. She spoke of the history of Africa, and recounted reports from the war. Tunnel vision developed. When she finally reached the last paragraph, the light at the end of the tunnel became apparent, and her voice picked up.

"What I urge now, for the health of my people and for the entire world that has known the touch of the colonizing spirit, is intervention with no delay. Every moment the European armies have to establish themselves represents the blood of suffering Africans, and future blood and suffering for those nations that have decided to face this issue with arms. There is no time. You can ask the Tuaregs of the Sahara, or the people of Djibouti, what happens when you wait and debate while the colonizing spirit advances and entrenched. You can ask the victims of Unit 731. They will give you the same answer. Action, not caution, is needed in times of immediate danger. I leave you today with an omen; if this congress fails to act now, the revolution started by its distinguished members will be brought down by the colonizing spirit of Spain, Portugal, Britain, and all the nations that join them."

She stepped down from the dais to the sound of a scattered applause, but there was an accompanying stir that made her feel uncertain. When she reached her seat, a congressman scuttled over and handed Fulumirani a note. He read it and cocked an eyebrow before turning it over to her.

"Auyi." she said.

"Interesting." Fulumirani answered.

The sound of the cold ocean waves rolled onto shore. Washing rocks and stones in dark gray ocean water as the Bohai sea retreated, slowly peeling back the sand before pushing more out into its place. Gulls flew overhead cawing annoyed as below two African children chased each other across the soft brown sand in the summer sunlight. Not too far behind a guard – relieved of a weapon but all the same in his army greens – kept up with the royal children.

The eldest, a pitch-black African child from the heart of the Congo chased along the sand a scurrying crab that tried to keep a inch ahead of the child. Hou thought for a moment, trying to remember the child's name. It was something foreign, he knew. Oliver. That was his name. Oliver missing the one arm. As he had been told Yaqob's sister Taytu had adopted the child, who had been left parent-less and without an arm when Hassan had quashed an anarchist rebellion in the Congo.

And chasing behind him was the much lighter, and year younger heir apparent to the African Empire. Oliver raced behind his adopted cousin. A slender imp of a child with a wild Ethiopian fro. Hou wondered just how much the African youth knew what was going on. But he – like Oliver – was laughing all the same.

To his curiosity and relief neither ventured too close to the waves. A fear of the water he suspected from their near-death at sea. This left the concern of those present at how soon the soldier chasing after them could hold up running through the sand as he shouted in Chinese at the two to be careful. Neither of them could understand no doubt. But Oliver was too interested in the crab to care.

“They're energetic kids.” a congressman pointed out, seated alongside Hou as the two men reclined back in wooden lawn chairs the security staff had dragged out.

Hou was too old and too feeble on his feet to stand after his stroke. Even with a cane he did not imagine he could hold himself up. Legs crossed together and with the brim of a white panama hat shading his eyes he watched from under his low wrinkled brow as the royal children played on foreign shores.

The Congressman was Wo Bao, an uncommitted leader from Shanxi. He was old, like Hou. Underneath his own summer hat, short thinning hair hung in loose wayward strands. A similarly unshaven mustache clung to an upper lip that hang just a little too far out from his face. Between the two a small crate sat as a pedestal for one of the new transistor radios, a long series of chords that ran up and onto the deck kept it plugged in as the small shoe-box sized appliance played delicate traditional music.

“As all youths are.” Hou responded in a thin dry voice.

“The tea is good too, I appreciate the lemons as well.” comrade Bao praised.

Hou only nodded, laughing a little as the two kids suddenly broke their usual course and ran the other way, spilling the soldier into the sand as he turned all to sharply to catch up. The two had split up and were looking back laughing at him. They thought he was playing tag with them now. Distantly Hou heard his spit and sputter as he quickly brushed sand out his short black hair and quickly scooped his green cap up off the beach to chase the two.

“How have you not given your family a new generation of its own?” Bao asked, making polite conversation.

The question stung Hou and he turned and shot Bao a cold hard stare. “That's something I don't discuss.” he said, disapprovingly sour.

“Ah, forgive me, comrade.” Bao tumbled, giving the chairman as much of a bow he could from his reclined position, “But if may ask, why is it I'm here? Surely to not watch some black emperor's kids with you.”

Hou grunted unsympathetically, “What do you think of Auyi?” he asked in a dry voice.

“He is a dreamer, that is for sure.” Bao said, “But politics isn't for dreamers, it's for pragmatic realists.”

“So is the nature of many things in life, comrade. But if politics is not for dreamers why then did you fight in the Revolution?”

“Because the Revolution was a realistic inevitability.” Bao smiled, sipping his tea.

“Then unlike some, you would disagree with the notion the Revolution was not a mission of dreamers?”

“The Revolution certainly was not,” Bao chuckled, “it would have happened eventually, even if destroyed. China needed heroes to save it from its corruption. If I had died fighting my sons would have fought again in the next generation and the inevitability of Revolution would have succeeded.”

“Then what about the world, is it realistic to believe it might soon undergo Revolution?”

Bao stopped to consider the question. He and the retiring Grand Secretary exchanged silent thoughtful stares. “Yes.” he answered.

“How will it be done?” Hou asked.

Bao considered, “I do not know.”

“Then what area is left for their to judge on whether or not Auyi is a realist or a dreamer if you can not say which way the world shall achieve Revolution if you yourself don't know?”

“All I know is when something's time comes: it will come.” Bao answered back.

Hou nodded and turned back to watching the royal children run circles around the guard. He had resigned to starring lost and helpless down at the two tireless imps. Looking up and seeking help from the others loitering nearby he was only greeted by unhelpful laughter at his plight.

“I will give you a realistic outcome if you support Auyi,” Hou began, “and that is even when I am gone from the office in Beijing I will still command the Party. I can make assurances to you that I can help your merit and standing within the party. I can see to your advancement, or influence it either way.

“I can make you more qualified to be a minister, or Grand Secretary yourself someday. You may perhaps sit on Politburo if all else fails.”

Bao turned to him, surprised. “Are we trading horses?” he asked, stunned. He never figured Hou for that sort of person.

“We're not trading horses, we're discussing your future. Will you promise to raise your hand for Auyi and rally your people to him? I'm only asking.”

Bao leaned to the side, resting his arm on the side of the lawn chair. He licked his chin and scanned the beach and the rolling waves on the sand. Suddenly downing his entire cup of warm tea he sighed heavily and said, “Why not.” he laughed, “Auyi will have my name.”

“You're a man of realistic virtue.” Hou complimented him, not turning to look at him, “You're dismissed.”



There hung in the room a heavy moody silence as minister Zhang Auyi stood starring up at a large replica of a Japanese destroyer. It wasn't a 1:1 model per say, but was large enough all the same to fill the warehouse sized room. All the while clambering over it, and scuttling over the decks child's-toy sized doll replicas of revolutionary and Japanese soldiers alike did frozen battle from small fishing boats butted up against the steel hull of the Imperial warship and climbed aboard.

Frozen in time by resin and paper, smoke billowed from the deck as glass fires illuminated by twinkling lights illuminated the wood deck of the ship. Standing just beyond arm's reach from the entire display that floated in a shallow pool of water Auyi observed the meticulous dramatization of a scene from the liberation of the port of Dalian from Japanese forces.

It could hardly be called accurate. But it was in a way a modern terracotta army. But instead of leading a dead emperor in the after-life it kept alive a certain flame of memory of the not-to-distant revolution. The figurines who hung, stood, lay, and screamed frozen in the not-so-miniature memorial had a certain child-like quality to it. Like it was something a creative boy would have dreamed up in an afternoon, but painted over in an adult veneer that straddled the more propaganda side of art.

Hanging not too far off a small number of pressmen stood taking pictures or waiting for him to turn and say some smart words about the revolution. Perhaps give praise. But his visit to the museum memorial of the battle – as built by the city – was not orchestrated to make a speech per-say but to make a polite show.

He had with him a handful of middle-aged veterans of the battle, most not much older than he was. They and the tour-guide, an older portly woman traded stories in hushed breaths about the battle.

“This was the last engagement comrade Yan Sing commanded,” proudly boasted an old soldier, his face scarred with his fair share of shrapnel and burn wounds. But he wore them proud as he smiled, recounting the day through yellow teeth.

“In conjuncture with the capture and destruction of Unit 731, he ordered our mixed revolutionary battalions to corner the Japanese navy while it was docked at port and cut down the Imperials!” he continued to boast, hushed. A ways away, a few journalists attempted to write down what he was saying. Perhaps it was important, or would be later. Perhaps it'd be well-received by the editors and they wouldn't have to re-write the visit for content; or lack there-of.

It had been Auyi's campaign manager's idea. A solemn visit to a memorial in a humble show of piety to the state. A sort of pilgrimage, if cheapened by a presentation that lacked classical restraint or ancient humility. It was idolatrous, and very much so. But no one could complain. It was their story in this city.

“We praise Sing for his ability to have acquired information!” the guide said, “It was through him that the Revolutionary Army acquired the intel to know when the bulk of the navy would be on dry land. Near to half the Japanese navy were in port-side bars at the time, half-drunk by the time the first shots fired. Others more in their barracks, resting. The rest were in their ships, but not enough to save them from the uprising in the streets.” she pointed down to the small recreation fishing boats, to one where a scene of its own was playing out; a soldier wounded in the face being cared for by his comrade as another readied to throw a grenade onto the Japanese decks, “Early the previous day, agents of the Revolutionary Army had acquired local fishing ships, and built small rafts to paddle out and surround ships still in the bay at the time and boarded.”

“Fascinating.” Auyi said, feigning being impressed. He looked up to the side where he saw his manager Chen Wu scurry half into view. Turning to his company he bowed politely and said, “Excuse me.”

Turning away from the exhibit he felt a little relief that he no longer had to look over something for so long it'd convince the hawks that followed him that he cared for things. While he himself was a veteran, the liberation of Dalian was simply not his battle. His were in the inland, among the hills and battles. And while he drove the supply trains and rarely saw the fights first-hand, he all the same could not feel nearly as attached as those fellow comrades who fought here. And perhaps after this they could move to another exhibit and he can silently judge another penny exhibit.

“Chen Wu.” Auyi greeted his manager in a hushed tone.

“Auyi,” he nodded, I reached out a hand and gently led the minister off to the side, keeping their backs turned to the press, “I have a probable opportunity for you, if you want to jump on it.” he invited.

“Is it another county museum trip?” Auyi asked irritably.

“No, not quite. My friends in Beijing have confirmed that Empress Azima of Ethiopia is presently meeting with Congress, or giving a speech to the Congress to petition them over Africa. It won't be long until Mang Xhu hears of it, and I think it would be expedient if we tried to reach and meet with her first before he does. It would look good if you sit with her and talk about your foreign policy.

“It could...” he stopped to shrug, “It could bolster credentials if you can at least talk to her.”

“Ethiopia has no power here though.” Auyi admitted, “I don't think anyone is going to listen to the endorsement of a foreign monarch.”

“We're not asking for one.” he said, “At the best you could sit with her and work on details. Or simply hear her out. If we plan for the future like this, start taking pre-emptive steps as if you are a leader, then maybe we can inspire confidence in your campaign. We could be implying we are confident and leading, take a leading step.

“Failing that, you could play it off as a visit from your own ministry.”

Auyi nodded. He ran his hand through his thick black hair. “Alright, how fast can you set it up?” he asked, wanting more to try and deny Xhu something. Even though he might use her to hawkishly promote revolution through war in Africa.

“We'll see, she's protected by Hou directly but if I can get a message to her while she's still in the capital I might be able to deal with her directly.”

“Very well. Do it, and do it quick.”

Chen Wu gave a delicate mousy bow. Righting his enormous glasses on his stubbed nose he turned and scuttled off for a telephone. Auyi sighed, as he played with the white cuffs of his suit.

“Forgive me for the distraction.” he smiled wide as he turned back to the group he was slated to tour with, “Where were we?”

The tour guide lifted her arm and lead him away from the mock battle for the ship. “The next piece in the museum is a ink-painted horizontal scroll, depicting Revolutionary soldiers seizing control of a local bar full of on-leave Japanese sailors.”




It had been a couple weeks since the train that had entered town had exploded. Since then orders had hardly changed. Huei Wen had kept the forces of Quan Yun-qi in place. So much so that the command itself was beginning to suspect it was because of the train that forced Wen to keep them there. Should the Russians, or a Russian force seize control and outflank the Chinese it would spell a certain failure in the campaign and disorientation.

The wreck had been cleaned up, peace moved from the tracks and the damages were undergoing repairs. The plentiful injured moved to hospitals and the dead returned home. But responding to what had happened was not yet finished.

But the city was behind Tsien Huang as he sat over the bed of a truck, idly drumming a stick against his knee. His olive fatigues hung loose and puffed from under the tight straps of a armored breastplate. The hard metal plate matching the color of his dress, a flat matte green drab. Resting across his back the two thick tanks of his flamethrower hung against his shoulders. The thick padded tube wrapped and curled down to the working end of the weapon, silent in its waiting.

With him at the road-side a handful of men sat and stood about waiting. Some leaned against the cold rusting posts of the electrical and telephone masts that marched between the road they presided over and the train tracks. Or rather, where the tracks had once been.

Days earlier they had passed through, tearing up from the Earth the tracks and the entire rails for a hundred yards down in both lanes. The measure was taken as a strict security measure. Ultimately: it cut Surgut off from the rest of Russia. The only lines in were the roads and the river. All else around the town was thick forest, thick with young and old pines and gnarled leafy bushes hiding deep sandy ruts.

But the road was clear, for miles down its length Huang could look down its length and see nothing but vast emptiness and cracked asphalt. For a time there had been light traffic, but the few days he had been sent to check on checkpoints all had been reported dead. For all intents and purposes it would seem: the town of Surgut was forgotten by the rest of Russia.

For now, it wasn't to watch the road. For whichever the reason Huang and his men were out waiting for orders to be relayed to them over their radios. One such lay on the truck bed behind him.

“My girlfriend back home is begging me to get out of the army alive so we can marry,” a soldier said with a laughing half-smile. He played with the shoulder-straps of his assault rifle as he leaned against one of the many thousand telephone poles running along the route. “She's afraid too as soon as we're done here I'll be pushed off to Africa to fight the Spanish.”

“Well are you?” his conversation partner asked.

“Well sure!” the other laughed, “She has great breasts, who wouldn't want to marry that?” he laughed, clapping his hands together once before adding, “Besides, if it happens she wants to get busy right away. And with how little action I got up here I'll happily oblige my lack there-of on her if she'll be the first to spread her legs.”

“And what, fucking leave her before you go to Africa?”

“If I go to Africa.”

“Well whatever. So besides ploughing your girl senseless to knock her up for sure. What would you do when you got out?”

“What sort of question is that?” the soldier laughed, “Back at the farm, like my father and his before him.” he cackled, “Don't think I got any assurances to any other future. It's why I got in here. At least I get to do something else other than farm sunflower.”

The one who had asked the question snorted, “Why even leave?” he shrugged, “At least you're not so tense.”

“What'll you be doing then, Ho?” Huang asked suddenly, forcing himself into the conversation. His voice was low and level. Straight to its point.

The man shrugged, “I don't know, always thought about leaving the city.” he said with a smile, “Tianjin, I never really liked it.”

“So what brought you into the military?”

“Lottery, I got drafted.” Ho snorted dismissively.

“So what are you going to do when you get out?” asked the man who was thumbing his weapon's straps.

Ho looked over at him with a heavy sharp graze. He stopped tapping his stick against his knee and gave it a brief thoughtful silence. “I don't know.”

“You don't know?” the young man said, shocked.

“I don't know.” Huang repeated, “I never thought about leaving. I assume I'll keep going until I die. Otherwise I go back to herding goats.”

“See, I wouldn't mind that.” commented Ho. Huang snorted disapprovingly.

From behind the radio beeped. Huang turned around and snatched it from the deck. Throwing on the headset he talked into it. “Tsien Huang here.” he answered.

“Your orders are clear.” the radio said, “As we gave you at your debrief, take your squad down the tracks and search them out. Your operations commander is Tong Hu who will be following you. The winds are in position and will be assisting you on your flanks. Investigate down the rail to the old imperial rail town, check the tracks on the way down for hostile activity and recon the junction site and identify any possible future threats as happened prior.” operations command reported in.

“You're clear, we'll carry it out.” Tsien Huang said dryly. They were on the move, but looking at the broken segment of rail it was clear they wouldn't have any means of traveling the hundred-mile walk by foot. “Do we have any new intel on the target position?” he pried.

“No we don't. All we can tell you is the name is Nicolasgrad, must have been built to service the intersecting railroads.

“Stay in touch with the best of your abilities and report in when you arrive.”

“Copy that, Tsien Huang out.”



The sun set on another day. Wheezing from outside a choked engine spasm'd between fitful life and fruitless death. At times sounding like thunder. At other times pattering silent, barely audible through the windows Ullanhu sat at, starring out with tepid concern. While Vasiliy had gotten it to start again, seemingly on scraps it wasn't going anywhere else fast and the Chinese agent was tempted to suggest to just take the tires on this vehicle and attach them to their old one. But he was buried so deep in his words, he was afraid the Russian was stubbornly deep in his work and insistence he could revive it.

It would be more than safe to suggest as Ullanhu sat at the kitchen table of the dead man's farmhouse he had his doubts. Was his partner's sacrifice of the old car necessary to get here? Was he just paranoid to think he had to switch vehicles so often? Would it have really mattered to either of them if they just entered towns and not meander lost in the country?

President Alexander Belyakov sat tied into a chair. There was little trust between he and Vasiliy and his sour glowering face wasn't shy to that point. The times Vasiliy came back in he shot him a low grumbling look. Per Ullanhu, his opinion of their prisoner was now just resigned. And maybe the feeling was mutual.

While he was kept in the middle of the house, sat up so as to be seen from anywhere Ullanhu stood the Chinese agent had went about trying to make the place livable. They wouldn't be there for a while, but after dragging the corpse of its former inhabitant out to deal with it there was a lingering smell that the Mongol fought to suppress. It was his only attempt at achieving a normal state here. Back home, in the Mongolian IB offices he had kept his work station immaculate. To many of the military officers there it was his shining trait, the final end result he believed was what all drill sergeants wanted. It wasn't something he did by distressing compulsion so much as it was always boredom.

“Makulov.” Belyakov spoke.

Ullanhu stirred. “Excuse me?” he asked.

“Makulov, is that who you're taking me to?” he repeated. The president's face was pale and frowning but met Ullanhu's gaze with a solid stony gaze.

Ullanhu didn't know how to respond, or what to ask as he look at him from the window seat. He felt his chest constrict nervously as he fumbled his fingers across the table surface to his lap. “That is who.” Belyakov said again, “It took me awhile to ponder, but I figured in the end I have a fifty-fifty shot at guessing who I'm going to.

“Even if I'm not going to Makulov, I would in the end much rather be in the possession of someone else.” Belyakov finally admitted.

“What makes you think that?” Ullanhu asked.

“Because I know I'll be safer with anyone but Makulov.” answered the president.

“No, who it is we're taking you to.”

The president sighed and nodded. He craned his head back to stare at the ceiling for a moment and shifted uncomfortably against the binds that held him to the chair. “Because if it were anyone else but the two parties I'm thinking of I'd be dead.” he repeated, “And we're going east, that much I can tell. A little too north, the air is colder.” Belyakov laughed as he turned his head down and met Ullanhu's gaze again.

“Don't look too surprised [i]comrade[i].” he said, sneering around the word 'comrade', “I know these things, I was once a youth scout in better days.” he smiled nostalgically, “I spent a great deal of time in the north woods. I recognize the cold, sharp, crispness of their summers.”

“Fascinating.” Ullanhu remarked, pretending to humor the man.

Belyakov chortled, “I also learned duty to Russia, but that's another topic all together.

“But as I said, if it weren't the two I suspect things would be very different. Political enemies in the Republic I'd be dead in my apartments. If it were the damnable Mafiya I'd be strung up on a poll and set on fire. The Cossacks, maybe I'd be dragged behind one of their horses until I succumbed and died.

“I had a lot of time to think about this when I took charge. A government minister was found burned the moment I tried to crack down on the Mafiya, it's how I thought I would go if they ever reached me. But I'm alive, which leads me to two suspicions: Makulov wants me, or the Chinese do.”

“What about the Siberians?” Ullanhu asked.

“The Siberians are a Chinese puppet.” Belyakov scowled, “Nikolov doesn't jump until Beijing tells him too. That much I know about the man.

“But to see a Chinese agent possibly helping Makulov: that is a treat.” he added, laughing, “Why are you here? To lend support skill? From what I can tell the two of you aren't very adept. Were you two fall-guys? Selected to fail on purpose for some ghosts to disappear into the night and you two just got lucky?” he scowled.

“I don't know anything about that.” Ullanhu remarked.

“Of course you wouldn't.” Belyakov gave a resigned sigh and hung his head. He stirred silently for a brief moment before looking back up, “Makulov's dangerous.” he said.

“How so?”

“No one knows what he's going to do.” Belyakov answered, “He's a traitor to the old ways, suggests he doesn't hang his loyalties on something very long. Even when I was an imperial magistrate I heard rumors about him. That he was a bleeding heart liberal, an anarchist, or some other trite horse-shit.” he spat, and went on, “Wasn't much different from most I assumed. But the moment came and he dropped his hat; don't know why.” he straightened himself as he went on: “So if a Chinese man is helping a Russian traitor and his phantom army, then I guess the Chinese want Makulov in their back pocket. But how long will it be until Beijing upsets his world view and he turns on you too?”

“Why does it matter?” Ullanhu asked. He didn't know where the president was going with this and wanted to know. For curiosity sake, and to report back to headquarters all the same.

But Belyakov refused to answer. He returned to a distant silent demeanor as he looked over to the window and watched the setting sun cast long beams of orange light across golden stalks of waving fluffy grass. It almost looked like wheat.

“Makulov won't be able to protect me.” he added solemnly, “And if he can I suspect he wants me as a bargaining chip against the National Duma. But the Duma doesn't care for me, I was already on weak footing as it was. There was talk about indicting me on conspiracy charges. But you two stole me before they could do it. Now they'll be fighting the army over who gets to see out the rest of my term. The assistant president, or their friend the prime-minister?

“No, he'll probably find me a useless venture when Republican politics comes to light and I'll be tossed out with the garbage.

“Comrade,” he said, appealing to Ullanhu but not without sneering the word between his teeth, “If you have any power in you to do it, I would much rather be surrendered to the Chinese. I would feel safer in their custody over Makulov's. And I would surrender what I know to Beijing if it keeps me from being spit-roasted in a prison fight.”

Ullanhu knew what it was he was referring to, but felt the grave weight of what the man was asking from him sink into his stomach. He was effectively going to turn on Makulov and Vasiliy if he followed through on it.

Turning to the window to see the last pale violet light of the setting sun Ullanhu bit on his lip, “I'll see what I can do.” he said weakly, hoping their return to the Urals would make whatever decision easy or automatic.

What was going on in the east, he wondered?

Sun City, Arizona

Sun City Mayor Tom Clark felt flutters in his stomach. The elevator shot up past floors. His bodyguard, Officer Melvin Brown, close by. A single sheriff's deputy served as sole protective detail. He wanted it that way. Mayor Jerry Hill, his predecessor, had a huge detail. Two dozen cops in black suits with black ties, black shirts, and black shoes. They formed a mini Praetorian Guard. Lines blurred. They became more secret police than protection. They muscled the mayor's enemies. They tapped phones. They shook down wealthy Arizonans for contributions to the Hill slush fund. Tom's very first act as mayor: Destroy the protection detail, shatter it into a thousand pieces. Cops on the detail were fired outright or given a chance to quietly retire and take half pensions. Brown was his main protection against a would-be assassin. Tom supplemented it with a .38 detective special he kept in a shoulder rig. His suit coat was baggy enough to hide the piece. Two years since he resigned from the sheriff's department and he still carried heat. Old habits died hard.

The elevator dinged. The doors slid open. He stepped out into the Lucky Gent's penthouse suite. Evidence of a party's aftermath all around him. Empty glasses on the floor, articles of clothing covered couches, empty liquor bottles stuffed into a plant pot, a used rubber hung on a lampshade, coke residue scattered on a coffee table. Naked call girls sleeping on the floor. His head felt light. Dizziness came and went. The sights made him woozy.

He found them outside on the balcony. County Sheriff Scott Andrews, County Administrator Hubert Perkins, DA Carl Hull, and US Senator Rod Marston. Andrews, Perkins, and Hull wore suits, Marston wore a bathrobe and slippers. The four wolfed down breakfast food, bacon and eggs with hash browns, coffee, and booze. They stopped when Tom stepped out.

"Mr. Mayor," said Marston. "Have a seat, have a seat. I hope you don't mind we went ahead and started breakfast without you."

Hull said, "We figured you weren't coming."

Andrews winked, "Six months since your election and you still haven't showed up to our little breakfast pow-wows. Where is the love, Tommy?"

Tom waved Brown inside the suite while he took a seat at the table. Tom and Hull were the city powers, Perkins and Andrews held the county power. Marston towered above them all with his hands on state and federal money. The monthly meeting between the municipal powers was where Marston held court. He lorded his power over the other pols like he did to the state gaming commission and the casino mobsters. Nobody in Arizona did anything without Rod Marston approving and getting his cut.

Marston dabbed his mouth with a napkin and said, "Regardless, he's here now and he is a very welcome presence. Mayor Hill was a valued member of our little meetings, and I hope Tom continues the good work of the former mayor."

They spieled while room service sent up a plate of food for Tom. Perkins cracked racist jokes. Marston regaled the men with last night's exploits. He did hookers three at a time while coked out of his mind. Tom's food came on a tray with beer and booze. Andrews and Hull pounded shots and Irish coffee. Andrews and Marston danced an Irish jig arm in arm. Hull did some soft shoe. Tom felt queasy. The booze tempted him. The Thirst came on strong. It made his mouth water. He forced his food down and zeroed in on secrets.

His big secret: Dirt files on all the men gathered at the table. He found them three years ago when indicted sheriff Mark Hickey went to jail. Tom was internal affairs boss at the time. An IA asset forfeiture squad raided Hickey's private safety deposit box before the feds got to it. The squad found a thousand pages filled with hidden secrets on Arizona's elite. Six novels worth of secrets. Six novels worth of political juice. The words CLARK, THOMAS spooked him bad. He read it. Detailed paperwork on his rehab stints, copies of the divorce papers Simone's lawyer served him with. The papers cited his affair with Liz and drinking as grounds for divorce. He pocketed it, fudged the chain of evidence so it wouldn't be missed. He destroyed his file and stashed the rest in his own safe deposit box. He was too afraid to read the rest of the files in the stack. He could not trust himself with that type of information. He would either use it as blackmail to get ahead, or evidence in a trial. Either way his political career would be up in smoke.

The party hit a lull. Marston said, "There is a lot of federal money coming down the pipes, boys. A few senators and I are working on an urban redevelopment bill. This bill will put the entire Northside right in the crosshairs of federal grants. It's still going to be a year or two out, but there is going to be a lot of money made on that land. Right now the property out there is dirt cheap. I suggest we all get to buying."

Hull picked his nose, "In my legal opinion, land is always a good investment."

Marston picked bacon from his teeth, "All of North Sun City, my friends, even spilling out into the county. We'll make at least seven figures on kickbacks alone."

Perkins winked. "Kick out all niggers, jack up the prices, and sell it to the rich white people who think it's hip to live in a bad neighborhood. Gentrification at its finest."

Andrews smiled. "God, I love this country."

They went silent. All eyes fell on Tom. He sweated through his jack and coat. The Thirst practically screamed from inside of him. He did a quick count: At least six counts of federal fraud and corruption felonies. Andrews popped his knuckles. Hull flicked a booger off the balcony.

Tom held his glass of water up for a toast.

"God bless America," he said with his best fake smile.

They cheered. Tom wiped sweat and gulped water down.

Welcome to the corridors of power.

----

Note: This section was co-written with @Vilageidiotx

Philadelphia

Jack Rawlings sipped champagne and mingled among the crowd in the hotel ballroom. Not a bad crowd here on this Saturday night, upward of a hundred people and a lot more than Jack thought would come out. He shared a quick word with Brianna Foley, a secretary for the Philly chapter of the NAACP, before moving on to find other familiar faces. Plenty of the people here were familiar to Jack. They were also, save for a few here and there, all black. The dinner and party here tonight was in honor of the Congressional Black Caucus' first full year of existence. It wasn't a powerful caucus, its six members paled in comparison to the Southern Caucus' forty-five congressmen and twenty-four senators. But it was now six where it had been only four before the election. Jack was part of the group as a second-term congressman from Ohio and one of the founders. He had suggested the name of black over negro or colored.

Black.

He found there was power in that word if they used it. Negro and colored had been what white people had labeled them as hundreds of years ago. To Jack, they were words he began to equate more and more with nigger. The name reflected their choice to define themselves and their destiny. No longer would they wait patiently for white people to decide when it was time to progress. The black people down south had sought to fight for what they believed in, and now so were the black people on Capitol Hill. And that spirit was not just here in America, but across the ocean in Africa. The five men and one woman that made up the CBC all wore their hair in that long, poofy style that was now starting to be called a natural or an Afro hairstyle. They all wore pins with the Ethiopian flag on their lapels that was as much a show of solidarity as was their hairstyle.

That was why Jack found himself scanning the crowd for their guest of honor. Edgar Gordon, the CBC's leader, sent him the invitation with a half-expectation it would be turned down. But to Jerry's surprise and the surprise of the rest of the CBC, Ethiopia's ambassador had accepted the invitation to deliver the keynote speech at the dinner. Jack needed to find him before the mingling ended and the sitdown dinner and speeches started. They had business to discuss.

--

Whenever Tomas Haile walked into a room full of Americans it always struck him how strange it was for him to be there. At sixty four, he hand been born the same year as the Battle of Segale. He was a distant cousin to the Emperor through Mikael of Wollo, who was Tomas's grandfather and the Emperor's great grandfather. In his teenage years, he rode with the cavalry during the second civil war, armed with a pistol and a lance. Two decades later he commanded men in the third civil war. He had seen dust rise over highland battlefields, and taken part in cattle raids. He had went to sleep in scrubland wilds where wolves could be heard howling so close they sounded like they were sharing his camp fire. Now he was here, in America, surrounded by a people so removed from their African past it seemed little more than an academic factoid for them, in a genteel hotel ballroom with colonial walls and carefully chosen furniture and decorations that would have been at home in George Washington's front room.

It was a funny juxtapositon, him with his history in this place, but it did not make him feel uncomfortable. He cut a different figure among these people. His face was pock-marked from a childhood bout with smallpox. His hair was pale grey, and clung to his head in a prominent widows peak. His lips were thin lines that clung to his teeth when he smiled, but he was an outgoing man who smiled often. He wore an immaculate black three piece suit with a white dress shirt and black bow tie. A sash in the Ethiopian green, yellow, and red hung limp from his shoulders.

It took a moment for the Americans in this room to notice him, but once they did it was not long before somebody approached him for conversation. It was a young man and his date. Both of them wore their hair in styles that reminded Tomas of how commoners still wore theirs back home. They both held in their hands drinks mixed with mint leaves.

"Ambassador Tomas. My name is Wilton Madison, this is my wife Bess" the young man thrust his hand. They shook hands vigorously and Tomas smiled. "It is very good meeting you, Mr. Madison, Mrs. Madison." Tomas said.

"I have to say how much of an honor it is for you to be here tonight, Ambassador." the young afro'ed man continued. "My friends from the Southern Union of Voters would all like to extend our sympathies to your people and your fight."

"This is much appreciated, Mr. Madison." Tomas said in carefully spoken English. He was proficient with the language, but learning it as such an old age left him with a pronounced accent. "I stay here in this country and every day I think that American hospitality is most generous."

Wilton Madison beamed at that compliment. "It is good to hear. When I think of people like Isiah Wolde or your old Emperor Yohannes and what they have done for my people, well... I feel like I should shake your hand again."

Tomas laughed, as did the Madisons. From the corner of his eye, the Ambassador could see another man approaching.

--

Jack came upon the small group with a big smile and pleasant greeting. He gave both Haile and Wilton a firm handshake and a pat on the shoulder before he took Bess' smaller hand into his and warmly shook it. None of the three other people were short by any means, but Jack towered over them. He was by far the tallest Congressman in Washington at six foot three. Senator Helms was technically the tallest man on Capitol Hill at six foot five, but old age had made his legs useless and put him in a wheelchair. Jack only took a small bit of pride in the fact that the old racist bastard was stuck in a wheelchair, robbed of his height and his legs, while Jack could race up the capitol steps three at a time if he wished.

"I hope you all didn't mind the extra drive out to Philly," he said after greetings had been exchanged. "People tend to forget that the states around Washington are still segregated. Philadelphia isn't much better but," he shrugged before adding, "they let us rent this ballroom and we got to go in through the front instead of the kitchen."

"We're hoping that'll change," Bess Madison said with a nod. "The CBC is the start of something, Congressman, feel pride in that. You're showing negro- black people all over America that they have a voice in Washington."

"More of a whisper," Jack winked.

"But it's growing," said Wilton Madison. "I think that's why y'all need to work on a voter rights act before a general civil rights act. Give black people the vote, and the rest will follow. That whisper will turn into a roar."

"What do you say, ambassador?" Jack asked. "The vote or the lunch counter? Which one comes first?"

"This is not my country for me to be making your decisions, Mr Congressmen." Tomas Haile said. "But if I can give advice to you, I say fight for both and get what you can when you can get it."

"Smart idea," said Jack. "One theory is that we should lump voter rights in with civil rights and try to pass them as one bill."

"That would be the first casualty," Bess Madison replied. "Those white people would tear the voter rights part out as soon as they could."

"It's gonna be a bitter pill to swallow regardless." Jack shrugged. "Might as well try and get it all through in one go."

"Not to change the subject," Wilton said with a look towards the ambassador. "But I want to change the subject. Ambassador Haile, maybe you could enlighten me on something, what is it like to live in a nation that doesn't have these problems? How does it feel knowing that you and your people aren't judged or held back by superficial things like race?"

Jack closed his eyes and sighed. He felt embarrassed at the question. Ever since Jack was a small boy, black people in America had thought of Ethiopia in only the most glowing terms. To them, it was a kind of post-racial utopia. Jack understood exactly why they did that. It was because he had once done it. It was easy to see why; it was a country of Africans run by Africans. To a race of people being kept down by their governments and institutions, the idea of a black government -- a black emperor -- was practically a fairy tale. They had treated it like such for years now. In the four years Jack had served on the House's Foreign Affairs Committee, two of those years as chairman of the African subcommittee, he had finally come to the realization that it was not simply a land of black people or African people. It was a hodgepodge of nations, religions, and tribes. To think otherwise was naive. Jack was about to say as much, but Ambassador Haile held a hand up to stop him and spoke instead.

"When I was a child, I was taught to think I was not 'black'. There were people in the west of my country we called 'black', because they are darker skinned, and my people looked down on them and kept many as slaves even into my childhood. My people, the Habesha, believed for the longest time that we were a Caucasian people. Many still do, I think. It was the Emperors of my lifetime that led my people to identify with the rest of Africa. But I think that is good news for you, because if my country could become better in the lifetime of one man, it means you can win your fight as well."

The Ambassador smiled warmly and put on a fatherly air. He left many things unspoken. His position was that of a diplomat after all, not an educator, and it seemed unfitting to talk about the many racial tensions that existed in Africa. These black Americans, who's ancestors had all been taken from the west coast of the African continent, imagined the black race to be one people, and that fiction helped to unite them. It was not his business to present the blacks of Africa in their true form, as divided as the whites of Europe.

"Well said," Jack said, gently placing an arm on Haile's shoulder. "Ambassador, I have to introduce you to Philadelphia's NAACP president. Wilton, Bess."

The Madisons nodded and said their goodbyes as Jack led the ambassador through the party. They passed by the NAACP table and Ray Waters, the Philly president, and headed for the ballroom's far wall. The wall wasn't actually a wall, but a black curtain hung across the middle of the ballroom. Since the dinner wouldn't fill the space to capacity, the hotel had closed off the unused part of the room and charged the CBC a half-rate.

Jack and Haile walked through the curtain and into the unused half of the ballroom. It was dimly lit, with only a few floor lights on and casting long shadows across the room. Chairs were off the floor and overturned on their tables. For a moment, neither man spoke as their eyes adjusted to the lighting and the area.

"I apologize for pulling you away," said Jack. "I'll be brief, but the State Department wants me to put out feelers to you and the Foreign Minister about some things. Have they said anything to you about the foreign aid bill that our Congress passed last month?"

"The Foreign Affairs Office has given me permission to accept the offer. They have been quiet out of respect for your country's delicate relationship with Spain, but I swear to you that my country and my Emperor very much appreciate what the United States of America is doing for us." the Ambassador replied.

"That does me pride to hear that," Jack said with a big grin.

Outside the House leadership, Jack and the CBC had done more to see safe passage of the bill through the House than any other group of congressmen. He'd done his share of horse trading and vote whipping to make sure every Democrat, and a few Republicans, voted to pass the bill.

"I'm not sure how much you know about the legislative process here, Ambassador, but the bill prohibits the US government from raising or earning revenue for the purpose of supplying Ethiopia with military aid. All we're authorized to spend money on is medicine and food for civilians, which will be forthcoming in the next few weeks."

Jack adjusted his tie and flashed a sly grin.

"But, there's a potential loophole that State, Defense, and even the White House want to use. We nationalized a weapons manufacturer in New England months ago and they've been working around the clock, making new weapons and equipment for the military. That gives us a lot of surplus we need to get rid of. Since it's surplus, we wouldn't spend a dime on making it, and since we're giving it away we won't make a dime selling it. It's not the best equipment, Ambassador, but it could help. I understand if you can't answer for your government here and now, but it's something my government has full intention of moving forward with if your government is willing to accept."

The Ambassador listened carefully, leaning his head forward to catch the low-spoken words. "This is good." he said when it was his turn to speak. "I will have to send word to my people, you are correct in that Congressman. But I do not see them denying this help, so you have my permission to go ahead with your plan as if I have already received consent to accept it. If there is a problem, I will bear the embarrassment."

Jack held out his hand and held it wrapped around the ambassador's own hand.

"You're going to hear a lot of things tonight about how much the black people in this country admire the stand your country is taking against Spain. A lot of it is gonna seem like ass kissing but know that it's legitimate. For three hundred years, we have been kicked around, kept down, and treated like animals. But yet we're still fighting, and we're gonna keep fighting. Just like your people will keep fighting. We need you to win your war so we can win our rights."

He placed his big hands on the ambassador's shoulders and pulled him in.

"You don't want to admit it, baby, but your people and ours are in this together. This ain't about land and civil rights, it's about the future of our race. We have been under the white boot for centuries. The coming months and years will decide if that will last into the new millennium too. If Ethiopia and the Pan-African Empire falls, the best hope the black people of the world have for a future is extinguished. Your nation needs to survive so that the world can witness that black people can create great nations and defend them just as well as white people."

Jack surprised himself at the words he had just said. They were more idealistic than he liked and he said more than he had meant to. He let out a little embarrassed laugh.

"Let's go get something to eat, yeah?"

The Valley of the Kings, Egypt

Heruy had said something once, as they crossed over old foot-trails and river beds in their effort to avoid sight of the city of Luxor. "Thank God the Pharaohs died so we might have this road." That thought came into Leyla's mind as they ascended into the valley. There was no other reason for these dunes and rocky bluffs to have so many roads attached to them. And this abandoned tourist trap was of no use to the authorities at Luxor, so the chances of meeting an enemy here were slim.

Leyla remembered a rant about the Turkish handling of Egyptian antiquaries from a school teacher when she was younger. For the Egyptians themselves, these places were hallowed and symbolized an eternal greatness for their people. The Turks, however, had saw them as opportunities to bring tourist money and legitimacy to their occupation. They had added new roads, and spent obsessionally on archeologists to scour the nation for any find that might increase their prestige. These places were of course abandoned now, but they presented serendipitous highways for the fleeing Ethiopians. She hadn't considered it before, but the Copts had informed her of this route.

They left the Coptic village three days after they arrived. She had never meant to stay so long, but the rest had been a welcome one, and the Copts were welcoming to the point of obsession. It was understandable. They were threatened by the Imam at Luxor. It was why they hadn't asked any questions about their prisoner, the sullied priest Junedin. When the priest had commenced his delirious mix of obscenity and pleading, the needful Copts didn't bat an eye.

Few words passed between the surviving Ethiopians the day they traveled to the Valley. Their short rest among the Copts made the desert seem even more hateful than before, and they had to travel slow in the hills. Junedin's shouting echoed from his place in the back of a landrover, and his curses put Leyla in a bad mood. She kept her mind on the prize.

It was twilight when they reached the Valley of the Kings. The tombs themselves were not what made the place obvious; their entrances hardly stuck out from the bluffs. There was a stone road and signs written in Turkish and Arabic that marked where they were. Sand dusted the paving stones, and a thin layer of the stuff was beginning to obscure the already unassuming tomb entrances. This place hadn't been visited for a while. It seemed as good a place as any to rest for the day.

"This is a morbid campsite." Heruy said in a lowered voice.

Leyla smiled, ignoring Junedin's raging chant of 'cunt' in the background. "You afraid of dead people now?"

"Well, who isn't?" Heruy sounded sincerely defensive as he helped her drag out sleeping bags from the back of a landrover.

"These people have been dead longer than... well, any tombs I have seen now I think on it. What is in these places is only human-shaped clumps of dirt."

"Souls, Leyla." he replied, and his face betrayed only seriousness. "This is their place, and they have had it for some time."

"They will have to give us some room for tonight." she tried to sound consoling. "We can't go anywhere else."

They ate bread and cold chicken for dinner, being careful not to start a fire. Leyla felt painfully aware the only thing between them and Luxor was a rocky ridge-line and a few miles of farmland. How much of that did this Imam of Luxor patrol? What was the true nature of his control? The Copts had made him and his sound like a fully-constructed government with real control of Egypt, but was that just an exaggeration born from their precarious situation? Perhaps this Imam was little more than a priest with a weak militia of followers.

She hoped she wouldn't have to learn.

The stars were bright against a crisp black desert sky. Moonlight bathed the ground in a comfortable blue glow. Heruy elected to go on guard first, and the other men kept to themselves as they usually did, leaving Leyla with the large Barentu. His unkempt dreads were crusted with dust, and he had grown a respectable beard in the time since the Battle for the Suez. She watched as he finished his dinner, tearing manfully into the tough bread the Copts had provided them with.

"I wonder how the war is going." Leyla said in an attempt to make conversation. Barentu only paused his eating. "The Egyptians told you the dam down the river is ours." he said. "That must mean something."

"I got the impression they only knew rumors." she replied in a soft voice, like a mother afraid of waking the children.

"That is the only news we have heard. What else can we expect?" he said slowly.

"You saw the strength the Spanish showed at the Suez. This is a power we are dealing with."

"You sound like you respect them, Leyla." he said, tearing another rip of bread

"I do." she spoke strongly this time. "I do respect them even if they are my enemy. It would be a mistake for me to do otherwise. I might be disgusted in what they are doing, but that does not change what they can do."

Barentu stopped eating. Bread crumbs clung to his beards like the stars in the sky. "I do not want to spend time respecting ferengi. If a man killed my mother, I would not think about how skilled he was at murdering."

"I understand." Leyla said. She looked into Barentu's eyes and tried to gage his mood. They reflected wetly in the moonlight. There was a simple weight in them, like the eyes of a hunting dog, and in that she found comfort somehow.

"It is like Junedin." he continued. "I know there are rules, you have told me your rules, but all I need to know is that he did a horrible and selfish thing to the Egyptian woman. He should die for that despite the rules."

The harsh tone he took on this subject always made her uncomfortable. When she thought of him, she liked to think of the loyal giant, and the harsh soldier parts of his personality always eclipsed that when it came out. "There are no military laws about... what he did. Not for foreigners."

"Insubordination." he answered.

"He isn't my soldier, and I am not his officer. Not really. Remember we killed some of the people defending that village, and only to steal food and water. It's... it's an ugly affair. If he acted against one of us, or against me... well, that would be a crime I could punish. No. I can only report him to the authorities when we return."

"He will do something to hurt us. I know he will." Barentu leaned back and looked into the sky.

Leyla had the same fears. But what could she do? Despite what Junedin had done, to that woman and to their mission, she didn't hate him as much as she had before. She could tell his captivity in the hot sun was driving him completely mad. And why would it not? Their conditions had strained her nerves, and she had complete control of herself. He was hogtied in the back of a landrover and hated by everyone around him. He had done such a horrible thing to that innocent woman, and empathy for her own sex should bring her to despise the man more than Barentu seemed to. But... the world was horrible. She knew that, and she always had. The entire situation left her feeling dully responsible for more than she knew how to accept. She had to swallow it all and move on. Looking up into the night sky, she slowly fell asleep. She slept, and she dreamed.

It was a dream of Armenia, muddled together from so many impressions that it could never have happened like this, but the dream felt real none the less. It was the city of Erzurum, war-torn and smouldering, with the sound of battle only miles away. The normal practices of city life had been replaced by processions of military hardware and soldiers. It was the logistical side of war, the only way she ever experienced it in Armenia. Despite the brimstone and gunpowder atmosphere, there was Elias grinning as he always did. She felt the certain comfort her partners grin always fed to her in the field. There was a feeling of urgency, a mission that needed doing, but it melted away. The dream shifted them back to the gardens of Yerevan, and then a showhouse in Sevan. Armenia didn't seem like a nation in the dream. It was like an amusement park, where each door led to something else. She followed Elias through it all; wars, parties, government meetings. At the end they were on the shore, a boat full of baby goats, and the feeling that something was missing. This was their mission. But what was it?

"FATHER"

She woke up suddenly from the scream. The sun had hardly started to rise, and the stars were still out.

"HALLOWED BE YOUR NAME!"

The voice shouting was Junedin's. The awful priest was shouting the Lord's Prayer into the morning air. He did not sound like a priest, beseeching God. Rather, The words were spat out like curses, like a man screaming hatefully at children in the streets.

"YOUR KINGDOM COME!"

"Shut him up!" she saw Heruy walk up, visibly irritated.

"Did you see any ghosts?" she asked him.

"YOUR WILL BE DONE!"

The young Heruy looked down at her and frowned. "That isn't appropriate. We should shut the priest up. We don't know how far he can be heard."

"ON EARTH! ON EARTH AS IT IS IN FUCKING HEAVEN!"

"He might wake the dead." she teased. Heruy made sure she knew he didn't appreciate that. She stood herself up and stretched. Sand and gravel fell from her blanket and clacked onto the ground. "Gag the prisoner." she commanded. Her voice flowed freely and she realized she was used to command somehow by now.

"GIVE US SOME SHIT BREAD! GIVE US DAILY.." he went quiet at that moment. She wondered what cloth they had used to quiet the prisoner today.

Things seemed to flow smoothly after that. The land-rovers were prepared before the completion of dawn. Leyla looked at the entry-ways into the tombs and, for a moment, she fancied to spend the morning playing the tourist. She thought better of it and it was not long before they were on the move.

They went through a tunnel that had been blasted to the south of the valley. It was painted on the inside to look like Egyptian hieroglyphs, but there was a softness to the style that differed from truly ancient art. In the center of the tunnel there was no light except for the two ends. They exited into another valley, the bluffs and lower ground all the same uniform color of sand. The valley ended at an ancient mortuary temple complex, where the columns and the statues and the colonnades shared the same dull sand coloring of everything around them. They descended into the valley at a careful speed. Leyla rolled down the window and felt the last of the cool desert air pass over her before the sun came high enough to scorch everything.

Thin lines of grey smoke started to stream from the engine of the landrover in front of them. It was too early for this. Once they were in the valley, she motioned them to the side and hopped out of the vehicle to talk.

"We checked the fluid levels before we left." Heruy explained from the drivers seat. He had with him the others, who's names Leyla had failed to commit to memory.

"That temple looks like it has a courtyard, and look." she pointed. "I think we can drive into it. Pull into there."

Perhaps it was inappropriate to use the ancient mud-brick ramp to enter a sacred temple in a couple of landrovers, but she couldn't help but use the protection its walls provided. She wondered what the ramp had been for. Perhaps its easy incline had been for transporting the mummified dead all those eons ago? It would take time for them to fix the engine, giving her the chance to explore.

The entrance to the temple was guarded by standing figures, crowned with the two crowns of ancient Egypt and standing firm against the columns. They stopped inside the walls and she wasted no time starting her personal tour.

'Mortuary Temple of Hatshepsut' a sign read, posted in Turkish. She skimmed the rest of the text, but the temple itself interested her more than the history, and she wandered the courtyard. The columns were carved with hieroglyphs, and the last flaking bits of painted scenes hung on the walls. There were scenes of birds and animals along the Nile, peasants and royal processions, and animal-headed gods reigning on their thrones. It all seemed so alive... and peaceful. She felt as if Egypt had degraded since those times. What would the ancients paint of the modern state of their beloved land? Rifles, blood, and dust. That was the impression her time in Egypt had left her with.

Under the colonnade, the paint was better kept. Here, the dust and sun had only slightly faded the colors. Strong blues and reds contrasted where red men worked along the river. Red land, black land. She recalled that conversation with Heruy, and had to smile. These people didn't share the color Heruy supposed them to.

She looked across her shoulders to see Barentu plodding across the courtyard toward her. "We have a problem." he whispered. She noted the whisper immediately, and knew exactly the kind of problem he must be talking about. She led him to the entry-way they had entered through.

"There." he pointed to four dots on the horizon. "On camels. I used the binoculars, and I saw guns."

She grabbed the binoculars. They were leaning behind a column, hiding in the shade of the temple. "How did you see the guns? I can't see them." she whispered.

"I saw a flash." he said. She assumed he meant a glint of light.

The two of them watched the men approach on camel back. There were five of them. They were still watching the men make their slow approach when Heruy came up and told them the landrover was fixed.

"Tell everyone to be quiet, and don't move unless you have to." she whispered to him. "There is not much sand to kick up, but caution is how we survive."

And so they watched in silence. The desert was an especially silent place, where wind made the only sound. Soon enough she could hear the conversations of the camel-riders echoing between the cliff-faces, but she could not make out there words. Their camels also snorted from time to time.

The watch was grueling. Her heart was in her chest. The sun had taken well into the sky, and beads of sweat were now pouring down her skin. When the camel-riders reached the road they had driven across just minutes before, she thought they were discovered. Surely the tracks would tell. But to her luck, they seemed not to pay attention. They started up toward the tunnel, seemingly unaware of the Ethiopians' traces.

"FATHER! HALLOWED BE YOUR NAME!"

That voice... that hateful man. It rang through the valley like a bell. How had Junedin spit his gag? There was no time to think about that.

"YOUR KINGDOM COME!"

The camel-riders looked straight at the temple. They were moving quickly now, and they knew. For Leyla and her soldiers, there was one option. It would be a fight. The Ethiopians took their places behind the Pharaonic columns. There were four Egyptians against seven armed Ethiopians. Those odds were good, but they were in enemy country, and with Luxor just over the ridge there was no promise the odds would stay good.

There was a silent moment, like the desert took a breath. Nobody would fire a shot until the Egyptians were in range. Heruy had disappeared for long enough to gather rifles and the rest of the African party. They were all together now, each with his own column.

When the enemy reached the foot of the ramp, the Ethiopians opened fire in one staggering volley. Camels dropped, and an Egyptian fell dead. The surviving enemued took cover behind the corpses of their animals. They returned fire. Mudbrick walls, which had lay still for thousands of years, shattered into flying shards and a haze of dust.

Combat became one thing. A single event, where no other thoughts or emotions existed. Yank the bolt, feed a round, aim, fire. Soon enough, gunfire made the angry shouting of the priest a forgotten detail.

Crack. Crack. Thud. Crack-crack-crack. Leyla couldn't hear anything but guns. The sound made her ears buzz. In the valley below, camel corpses swallowed the rounds in bloody spouts until the blood was all poured out. The sand went red, and shifting walls and the animals became walls of shredded meat and fur.

She couldn't feel her body. Adrenaline. Bullets punched into the walls and columns around them. One hit so near to her, almost just behind her, and it was so close that it made her arm go numb with a sort of empathetic fear.

The gunfire slowed to a trickle as one by one the Ethiopians realized the enemy response had ceased. The silence that came afterwards was fearful. Her ears rang, but moment by moment she started to hear the gentle wind again. A thin cloud of dust filled their part of the temple, and everything between them and the butchered meat at the foot of the ramp.

"Leyla." she heard a startled voice call to her, and she looked to see Barentu looking down at her strangely.

"We need to get away." she said to him, and she realized she was woozy. When she looked down, she saw that her hand and the stock beneath the barrel was stained in blood. The last thing she noticed was how the world smelled like gunpowder, and then her world went black.

It was a sound that brought Tsung back to the all to near reality. The sound of gunfire and artillery fire that cracked and banged from inside the besieged capital of Yekaterinburg. Though if talk was anything to say, much of the Republican government had been divided between this city and Moscow. So it was doubtful a fall of Yekaterinburg would be a functional defeat of the Republic as a whole. The officers were lording over the battle all the same, calling it a moral blow to the Republic if they lost here. And although they never answered the additional rumors, they had been letting as many dirty ragged forced to be sucked into the city so as to trap and starve them.

But Tsung hadn't seen any of that. All he saw of the battle was through the small filtered screen of a tank operator's windows. He doubted even Song had as clear a picture of the wide battle as he. And when they made it to their dirty, salty camp all that was left to be seen of it was the wounded that cycled into and out of the position on a regular basis.

And is it had turned out for them, this forward base was less a base, and more of an impromptu fortress. Attempting to control the entire quarry that lay in the ground behind him like a massive gash carved into the Earth's flesh a large part of the area was fortified. It was hard to tell if distant gunshots were from sentries patrolling the outer-rim deterring raiders, or something from the nearby neighborhoods and industrial cordons of the city's edge.

On clear afternoons when Tsung was not piloting his tank into the streets he could look towards Yekaterinburg and see passed the trees that rising smoke of smoldering buildings and blocks of the city as regular shelling tossed towards the Republicans a mortifying conflagration.

But now it was neither a patrol, nor was it day. The night sky sparkled above him as he sat above the edge of the quarry at a table of mismatched garbage – plastic boxes, metal barrels, pieces of plywood – covered in the rock salt that drifted through the air in a fine mist. Some men had taken to wear masks when the most of it was being kicked up from the bone-colored floor of the pit when the equipment was most active.

In front of him, Tsung pushed around on his table a tin plate full of a sloppy stew, a slice of bread soaked in the middle. With rice, vegetables, and meat it wasn't so much a stew as it was a pile of congealed gelatin on a gray plate. Likewise, a tin cup was filled with water. Both however had soaked in so much of the still air-borne salt dust that they had become border-line inedible for Tsung who resigned himself to limply picking at the plate and glowering down at a plate that had begun to sting the tongue and dry the mouth, and a glass of water that did little to quash the discomfort. He sighed, annoyed.

The rest of the canteen was filled with banter under warm green halogen lights that rose overhead on thin metal masts. They seemed comfortable with the distant sound of rumbling artillery fire and gun-shots. For Tsung, he looked up nervously to the tree-line that rose above the mass of tents with a dismaying feeling of fear and anxiety. He had survived one explosion already, nearly; he wasn't willing to try his luck if some large force stormed from those trees and no one was ready for them.

Grumbling, Tsung surrendered and pushed the plate away. He had ate about half of it until the meal lost all of whatever flavor it had. It wasn't even warm anymore. Laying his head on his hands he looked up into the night sky. Through the powerful glow of the camp-lights the weakest stars had been stifled out so only the largest and the brightest glowed. It was a far cry from the night skies he knew back home.

Tsung looked down as he heard rocks pop and grind under the weight of a boot. Walking towards him from the mess tent Hui approached the table. He looked at Tsung, and down to the half-eaten food on the table. “You're not hungry?” he asked, concerned.

“It got salty, quick.” Tsung explained, “I don't think it'll do me any good.”

Hui raised an eyebrow as he came up to the table, “I know the cook's cooking isn't great, but I don't see how much worse it can get.” he said as he grabbed a corner of the bread, pinching and twisting it free with his fingers. Flicking it into his mouth he chewed quizzically and nodded in agreement, “You're right.”

“Water isn't much better.” Tsung pointed out, Hui wasn't adventurous enough to try it out. Evidently, neither of them wanted the shits.

“Well if you're done I was going to head back, we're heading out early tomorrow morning and it's best we get as much sleep as possible. We're going to be out all day tomorrow.”

“How do you know?” Tsung asked.

“I just do.” Hui shrugged, turning away. In the light of the camp his shaved head should have shone, but so much dust had settled and his scalp dried it did little but pick up a dull matte highlight.

At Hui's hip – much like Tsung – hung the heavy nickle polished handgun issued out to all service members in the Chinese military. The Changui revolver was as much reliable as it was very well out of style in an age where most militaries used semi-automatic handguns. But this fact hadn't dawned on command early on, who simply needed something to outfit its men uniformly over-on, the weapon had since stuck. And while they were technically in active service they were required to be armed, but to go about the camp with a rifle or assault-rifle as many other infantry did was often cumbersome and inconvenient to the men of the armored divisions who packed their weapons light, in lieu of their often packed confines. As such, their handguns were often what they had on them.

The way their weapons hung at their hips as well gave an air of a western gunslinger from American folk lore as the rested strapped to their user's sides by heavy straps decorated with pouches holding their extra ammo. Hui moved through the camp comfortably with his handgun. But Tsung not so much, who found the banging weight of the gun against his bony hip uncomfortable to manage.

“Where's Lin?” Tsung asked, inquiring over their crew's gunner.

“Probably found someone to play Mahjong with.” Hui answered dismissively, “We'll see what happens with what she brings back.” he didn't sound the least bit worried at all. In the end though, there wasn't much to gamble between them but bullets, cigarettes, and books or magazines. In the end the losses wouldn't be significant on any of them.

Though there was the time she managed to retrieve for them a few extra shells of high explosive rounds, but Hui never wanted to know how she won those. And Song himself was just as apathetic to their sudden appearance.

Drawing away steadily from the center of the camp, the number of lights illuminating the dusty, muddy paths between the rows of tents slowly thinned to only a few random posts, providing a random scatter of sickly green electrical light. Elsewhere, light was brought down in the form of lanterns that cast a soft burning orange glow, or the smoldering embers of tiny campfires that did little more than shone with small pin-prick needles of red light. In the late hour, the tents and rows and columns were sleepy, quiet, and dark. There stood at points men who sat idly around a dimly lit electrical lantern smoking and talking to each other in low voices as in the distance the murmuring clamor of the mess-tent and the central functions of the operating base continued its end-of-the-day din.

Lower down in the camp, down a rocky incline to the upper lip of the camp was where the men of the armored division camped segregated from the rest. Closest to where the equipment was kept, it was felt that it was better served for these men and the mechanics to quarter a quick slide down a dusty precipice from their equipment. Though the gentle incline couldn't be seen in the darkness of the night, it was surely there. White stones reflecting the blue light of the moon helped to guide them along the narrow paths between the tents.

They hadn't gotten far when stones began rolling down from the higher perch of the quarry's walls. A fist side rock bumped first into Hui's ankles startling him. He jumped aside as if trying to avoid a grenade before stopping to listen curiously to the cascade of sand, pebbles, and rocks rolling down the mouth. Tsung turned, hearing it too. And something else: there was the guttural sound of someone rolling down with them. And further than that: panicked angry shouting.

In the darkness he saw a figure of a man rolling and sliding down the shallow edge of the quarry, rolled up in a ball as he guarded himself against the stones as he took the quick way down the slope. “What the hell?” Hui asked as he watched the figure slide to the bottom and struggle to his feet. In the shadows both men noticed a rogue paper fly up into the air from under the man's arms.

“Cyka.” the man spat angrily, reaching up and grabbing the fluttering paper. With a staggering step he turned clumsily and limp on his foot to grab the flying paper in the moonlight as the two Chinese soldiers stood watching. 'Was this some Siberian nonsense?' both wondered.

The man caught the paper and turned to run again, seeing the two of them. “Oy... Cyka blyatt.” he swore again in a heavy breath. His hand dashed to his shirt and Tsung took a deep frightened breath in as he saw the flash of gun metal in the moon light.

“Shit!” Hui cried.

“Idi nahui!” the Russian cursed again, holding the gun out to the two of them. The two men couldn't clearly see the man, but if they could see him then they both knew he could see them well enough. And neither knew well enough what to do but raise their hands in shock. He after all had command now of the situation.

Scrambling on his feet the Russian passed them both by, switching the handgun between the two of them as he crept by. Time ticked by as the furiously frightened Russian held the two men up to his command. Both had no intention to fight as he moved between them, holding the gun to one side as he held Hui up, and froze Tsung with his cold gaze. In the dark light he could see his face clear in the moonlight; cold, brazen, and dirty.

From up top the quarry's crater's walls shouts echoed down from the distance. The Russian's face grew tight and startled as he whipped around, making quick bounding steps passed the two tank operators and looking up towards the main camp. From over the lip a man with a rifle appeared and shot towards him. The rifle cracked loud and angry as it muzzle flash lit up the night and the explosion of the bullet striking the rocky ground whipped the cold night. Tsung and Hui both flinched as a spray of shrapnel sprayed their legs and faces and the Russian was fast on the move in the spray of pebbles and rocks. With a few rapid shots from his handgun he returned fire on the rifle-man, having much more success as his bullets struck him in the chest in the night and he fell crumpled from up top.

Diving down the last stretch to the bottom of the quarry the attacking Russian dove for freedom over the last precipice as the rest of his pursuers caught up. Tsung's heart racked against his chest in a furious panic and Hui's breaths rose and fell in violent surprise. “You three!” a officer bellowed from the top of the short white cliff, “What are you doing standing around? Fucking catch that spying bastard!”

'A spy?' Tsung muttered in his thoughts. He turned to look the way the Russian bailed into the night, down into the pit.

“On our way!” Hui cheered, speaking for Tsung as he grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. He barely had time to protest before the bald cannon loader was diving him off the edge of the plataeu that hugged the edge of the quarry and they were off.

Rocks and sand slid by underneath Tsung as he slid down the steady slope of the quarry wall. Large stones knocked against his heels and his butt bumped over them as he went. He groaned at every instance he was bumped up. As he landed on his feet he keeled over, rubbing his soar bruised ass as Tsung grabbed him by the arm and threw him forward, drawing his revolver.

“Why are we chasing him?” Tsung protested as they looked for the Russian's trail in the moonlight.

“Don't challenge the MP's orders,” Hui replied coldly, “you don't need them mad.”

It didn't take them long to pick up on the spy's trail, long swept limping tracks dragged themselves through the dusty sand and fine stones. And it didn't take them long either to find the man they were chasing. Hearing them, the Republican agent turned from around the side of an armored car and fired off a few quick shots that buzzed over their heads. Acting quick Hui rose the pistol and fired off shots of his own that cracked and sparked off the shells of the vehicles. The spy screamed in surprise as the spark of a ricochet bullet lit up in front of his face and he was turning to run again.

“I'm reloading, shoot him!” Hui ordered.

Tsung fumbled for his own gun and plodded forward. He ran to the position the man had been standing and turned, seeing his spectral silhouette staggering between the vehicles. Hesitantly he rose his gun and fired one single quick shot and the infiltrator dropped screaming in agony in the salty dust. Seeing his dark body hit the ground in a lump filled Tsung at first with guilty shock, overcame slowly by a feeling of pride, like he had killed a fat rabbit for dinner.

“Got him!” Tsung shouted, turning to Hui who rounded around near him closing the cylinder on his revolver.

Turning back though, the moment of pride melted away. It was only fleeting, in the moonlit white-dust of the ground the black form of the Republican had disappeared. “Shit.” Tsung muttered.

Hui hurried forward, both his hands holding the revolver straight forward. Tsung ran after him like a school child until they reached the point he had shot him.

“You certainly shot him.” Tsung pointed out, on the ground was a pool of blood. It had dripped and smeared as the man had staggered to his feet and dashed off. Looking down at the ground, both men could make out the fine path of irregularly space drips of blood that zig-zagged along. Holding his gun out, Hui took the lead. Tsung followed warily, suddenly aware of the tensity of the night.

They didn't make more than a few steps when the spy they were hunting leaned out from behind a tank and shot at them. The bullets cracked passed Tsung's ears and he felt the burn of at least one cut across the surface of his arms. He recoiled reflexively against the pain and fired almost as a twitch. The roar of the handgun filled the night and scarred the Russian back into the night.

“You hit?” Hui asked.

“I-” Tsung began, he felt alright. All he felt was a burning sting across his arm and a light trickle of wet warmth as blood seeped from the wound down his arm. “I'll be OK.” he said, hoping for the best. He shook nervously from the rush of adrenaline in his system, and kept moving after Hui as they pursued their target.

Elsewhere in the quarry the voices of prowling security personnel echoed in the dark night. Sweeping beams from flash-lights lit up sections of the pit as they scanned every which way in the night. But with a trail, they had no where to go. Unlike Tsung and Hui who kept their eyes down to the ground, following the irregular and oddly spaced drops of blood.

“You mustn't have gotten him bad.” Hui pointed out as they continued on, “Maybe he'll slow down.”

Neither of them could reject the feel they were like hunter chasing after a wounded animal. At some point they might find him set up somewhere, tired and too injured to move. Then they'd have him.

Unfortunately, it didn't seem to be the case. All Tsung's bullet seemingly having done was leave a convenient trail that peppered the ground like the brass shell casings ejected from his gun.

On the trail of the intruder, the quarry fell silent. Tsung wondered if he knew there were more men hunting for him at the bottom of the pit, and firing his gun would get their attention. Hui considered if he had ran out of bullets, and was just now trying to keep a step ahead of them. They left the cover of the motor-pool, keeping their eyes on the ground for signs of blood and the disturbed dirt of a man dragging his foot along in a wide limping gait. At each corner Tsung turned tense, afraid of the probability of a gun barrel bearing down into his face with the cold sharp light of the moon and stars above.

He wondered: would Hui be there to save him if it came to that?

The agent they were after having left the motor pool threw away his abandon and by the direct course of the trail was attempting to cut a direct path to somewhere, throwing away his notions of simply weaving between the armored hulks of tanks and combat vehicles as it turned through the dark emptiness of the quarry. Tsung and Hui gave a quickened chase, with any luck they hoped the injured spy wasn't too far ahead, and they'll find him crumpled behind some rocks. But it wasn't any rocks he led them too, but a battered metal hatch at the far end of the quarry, thrown open in the side of the wall.

Large enough to allow in a large truck, it stood against the rocky wall of the mine at a slopping angle against the wall of the open-pit mine. A smooth concrete and steel throat led down into the sepulcher darkness inside. Hui held up his gun into the darkness, looking down at the ground to confirm the blood trail did indeed go inside. Just inside the hole someone had left an oil lantern burning softly just inside.

Tsung felt the apprehension just as much as his partner as they stood at the edge of a darkened underground oblivion. They stood there, hesitating. If the tunnel represented anything, it represented the entire notion of annihilation. A constant obtrusive barrier of all-consuming nothing, broken only by the burning lantern that sputtered in the cave-like breath just yards down from the entrance, marking the steady drop the floor made as it went. Not so close that its light spread out into the night, but just far enough that in the end, its glow was the eye of the abyss watching them. Neither men were surprised the other didn't want to go in.

And perhaps they lingered too long. Running up along them a security man caught up, his green helmet brandished with the insignia of the Chinese military police force. Held up along his melon-like head his gun flashed in the dim light of the night as a torch lit the ground at his feet.

“What's going on here?” he asked in a harsh demanding tone, turning to look down into the darkness of the pit beyond.

“That guy we're after,” Hui spoke, “We hit him, his blood trail goes down in there.” he said nodding into the perpetual darkness.

“Well there's a lamp down there!” the man barked, flashing his flash light towards the dancing flame of the small oil lamp. Salty rocks and gravel shone back against the warm yellow light as he scanned the inside of the tunnel's maw. “Why haven't you gone down to chase him.”

“We don't know where it leads!” Tsung blurted out, in a nervous bleating voice. The MP shot him a cold severe look, like that a disapproving father gives his kid.

“You two have to be fucking kidding me,” he groaned, “you two dumb shits are afraid of a little cave?” he scolded annoyed. He sighed deep and sneered as he looked in, taking the first steps through, “You two were first on the scene, you're with me. If you pussy out on me then I'll see that your both scrubbing the latrines for the rest of the war for this horse-shit.”

He went in, his light lighting up the rocky ribs of the cave walls. Hesitantly, Tsung and Hui followed. Tsung took the lantern as they passed it.

The tunnel they walked was long and straight, climbing ever steadily downward. In the floor the cuts made by trucks passing along the soft sand-packed floor was clear with the sharp hard shadows throw by the lantern and the flashlight. The walls were grooved and cut in softened rings, like that in the trachea. In the claustrophobic silence of this deep mine, the foot-steps of the three soldiers echoed off the walls as much as the drips of water from above did. The air tasted salty, and humid; already Tsung was sweating as the temperature and humidity slowly climbed.

“What is this place?” Hui asked, checking down and ahead of him every so often as he held his gun ahead with the light of the MP.

“Some extension of the salt mines.” the MP explained in a dry dusky voice, “We had scouted it out briefly, but no one wanted to go too deep. Places are flooded, others twist and turn. We just kept the hatch shut and locked, posted a guard alongside it. Didn't think anyone would throw it open.”

“D-do you think our man has a map?” Tsung asked, stuttering as he stepped over a ring of small blood droplets on the ground. He had to be careful to not smudge them, these were his way out.

“Can't say.” the MP growled, perpetually in a sour mood as he led the two through the briny tunnel.

After what felt like hours, the floor leveled off. Dropping off into a wide low chamber they stopped to scan the room. While the walls before had been white and muted brown, the floor, ceiling, and walls had taken on stripes of gray and muted reds sandwiched in layers from the pressure above. Scattered in the middle of the chamber rusting mine-carts lay on tracks half-submerged in puddles of water that shone a brownish-green as the lamp and torchlight shone off the tense flat surface of the stagnant pools. Here, the humid briny air had taken on a strong salty smell, with a mingling scent of bleach that ebbed and flowed with each gentle breath of the tunnels below.

“Damn.” Hui exclaimed.

“I hear it gets more impressive.” the MP remarked, scanning the ground for the blood trail. Amid the puddles of water that pools under neath cracks in the ceiling and gathered rust, it was difficult to tell where the blood went. But in dry patches a coagulating sheen of dark red would glimmer in the light, and they followed the trail of bread crumbs into the deeper caves.

Abandoned on the spot the three passed mine-carts on rusting iron tracks, picks, and mechanical jack hammers laid up on the ground or against the walls. But here the latent salt in the air and high moisture had turned each piece of equipment into a heavy chunk of rust that sealed and seized every possible moving part, rendering them a statue to an industry that had long abandoned them after the nation fell apart above it.

At points, crumpled cigarettes packs lay strewn on the floor with other miscellaneous pieces of refuse. Candy wrappers, cigarette butts, cans of kvass where the paint on the aluminum cans had faded and chipped away until they were barely legible until brought right in front of the face. There were abandoned lunch boxes, wooden boxes, and cardboard. Laying soaked in one salty puddle Tsung counted at least one wayward sock, forever divorced from the regular laundry.

They seemed to be following the trail of blood deeper still into the tunnels. The drops becoming much more regular and staggered as they wove from wall to wall. Their pray was tiring, becoming disoriented and tired in its frantic escape through the underground.

It was also here when the rocky walls and the exposed surfaces of the tunnel became much more dramatic.

As their lights opened up into a wider chamber carved into the rock the rock face exploded in front of their eyes in a plethora of hues and colors unmatched in any underground. Fiery reds and oranges banded together with nearly phosphorescent, photosynthetic greens and blues. Soft tans and beige crowned with bands of silvery white and gray.

Across the floor milky pools of green water swam with clouds of disturbed white and black like a cosmic display of suspension. Tsung was taken back as he mouthed his wonder at the wider cave. Rising the lantern higher to cast more light against the walls and ceiling.

Cut into the rock face concentric series of circular cuts were carved in succession like primordial design on porcelain and ceramic wares. They decorated the walls, etched into the mineral rich rock face from where workers more than a decade previous had bore into the rock wall with great grinding machines to collect the sparkling rock dust that would fall from the walls as they worked. Rusting iron spokes in the ceiling and walls from where electrical cables would have ran added to the color, granting the walls streaks of red as bright as blood from a fresh wound.

“He must have passed through here, the water is disturbed.” Hui pointed out, but Tsung hardly paid attention as he followed them at a distance into the oily, brine water that pooled at the bottom of this chamber, which had to be two stories tall by his estimation.

“We'll have to find where his trail picks up when we find a way out.” the MP added.

“If we do.” said Hui. The light from the flashlight swept across the wall only livening the drama of the colorful walls by making mineral spots glimmer bright like stars, even as the beam passed away from the spot they shone with the reflected light like small mirror dots.

Tsung wasn't paying much attention as he marveled, or at least until the gunshot. It tore apart the silent stillness in the cavern. More than that: it destroyed that. The compactness of the space echoed and amplified it and Tsung's ears rang terribly as he recoiled around to watch the MP standing with his hands clutched to his through. A long deep gash along the side squirted blood so thick in the moment it took for him to press against the wound his fingers were already heavy with it. Tsung was caught in horror, his heart palpitating fast as the MP stepped back several steps and fell back in the shallow ankle-high water around them, choking and sputtering through his final breaths as the water filled with the blood that squirted out in volumes from his neck.

Hui was the first to move, as he bound behind a column of rock. A second shot from the Russian spy's gun scattered Tsung and he himself dove to the safety of cover as the oil lantern exploded in his hands. The flame caught the fuel as he moved to the side, catching a splash of hot burning lantern fuel on his arms as he dove into cover.

The hot flames on his arm burned and in his panic he began slapping his arm with his hand, hoping to dose the flames. When that didn't work and the burning across his arm rose he surrendered to chance and dove his arm into the water and began loudly splashing. Between Hui and the Russian thief, fire was exchanged and each gunshot rang louder than a church bell in the enclosed space. The smell of gun smoke quickly came to overcome the smell of brine and the harsh humidity.

The MP's flashlight still shone in the water, giving the entire chamber an eerie aquatic glow as bright bands of light through rippling waves filtered across the exposed rock surfaces and lit the watery floor in bright colorful hues. Furthermore, the shot-through lantern had leaked its burning oil in the water which left a floating pool of flame an arm's reach from Tsung, spreading a harsh red-orange glow on the walls and further casting the chamber in harsh fire-light and knife sharp shadows.

Tsung picked himself up, fishing himself out of the water as well as his gun. Turning to look around the dark-side of the column of rock, the fire-fight had already stopped. A hanging silence filled the chamber that only accentuated the tinny ringing in his ears. He looked nervously to Hui, who returned the favor.

There was a moments worth of quiet hesitation in the air before Hui spoke. “Cover me.” he commanded. His voice was heavy and nervous though all the same, he lowered himself and crept through the water with his pistol raised, the barrel still smoked from the fire-fight that had just ensued. But the memory hardly mattered as much as Tsung heard his heart through the persistent ringing in his ears.

He drove a tank, why was he so bothered by this fire-fight?

Rounding the last column Hui pointed his gun down. Tsung had hardly watched the fire-fight ensue, but it didn't take much imagination to piece the scene back together. Hui stood up straight, holstering his side-arm as he picked up a leather-bound folder from the water.

“He's dead.” he said in a solemn tone, turning to walk to Tsung. He rung his fingers across his bald head as he turned to look down at the dead MP laying in the turning water, the fire from the broken lantern getting all too close to him. “How are you?” he asked Tsung.

The question was like a scissor cutting a string that was all too tight, it brought the young soldier back violently and he collapsed in the water shaking. “Oh, fuck.” he moaned to himself, “fuck, fuck.”

Hui walked up alongside his shaking crew-mate and patted his head, “It's alright, we're done here.” he said in a comforting tone. Or he hoped they were, with the stolen papers under his arm. He turned to look at the positions of the two bodies and solemnly nodded his head, “We'll get someone else to come down here and pick these two up.” he told his comrade, who was at the edge of hysteric tears as the entire situation came down on him, and the adrenaline rush came to a sudden and violent crash. It wouldn't be long until the stinging pain of an arm sized burn would creep up from his skin.

He wasn't supposed to be here. He shouldn't have been. What the fuck?

“Get your composure back and we'll head up to meet the rest.”

Dire Dawa

Nobody in the whole of the Spanish Ejercito could explain how the Ethiopians had managed to stall the attack on Dire Dawa, but they had. The Africans were dug in at the center of town, fortifying their location with walls of scrap wood and steel rails anchored between ruined buildings. This battle was supposed to be over and the Africans in rout, but against the common sense of every Spanish soldier their enemy was still on the field inflicting unsettling casualties. For Alvar Panzano this was his first taste of battle. He was with the reserves that were brought in on the fifth day of combat, and he was licking his lips for the chance to prove himself.

Colonel Honorato Inigo de Loiola led Panzano's section of the field. He was a brutal man - a Basque, who was often seen near the front line looking at enemy positions with a hungriness befitting a lion. He was middle aged, with a trimmed red beard and mustache that obscured his mouth, and there was a sinewy dark look about him. It had been his idea to take anti-armor guns meant for the African tanks and turn them on positions fortified by infantry. And it had been his idea to press an attack, an idea he expressed to the men like clockwork every day, though high command stalled and waited for some perfect moment that did not seem to be coming.

Alvar sat behind cover in the same place he had used all week. It was a crumbled mudbrick house, with a few shattered and shredded decorations on the wall, and furniture that had been blasted to kindling and cotton fluff. Alvar slept the last two nights in its walls. The first night he had shared his hiding place with the grey-eyed corpse of a young boy. He must have been ten or eleven years old, and the crusted blood on the back of the dead boy's head told exactly how he had died. Alvar wondered what kind of child let himself get stuck in the middle of a battlefield. The elderly, sure, they couldn't help it. But the young didn't get that excuse; he looked like he'd been healthy, what the hell made him stay to become a civilian cadaver? The next day the body was carted off to be burned behind the lines, leaving Alvar with more room to stretch.

There was not enough action for Alvar. Colonel Inigo de Loiola had ordered two assaults across the rail yard, but they had come to nothing. Other brigades put pressure on the flanks, but the enemy held strong in the thin alleyways and streets at the center of town. Now the two forces were stuck, taking pot-shots at each other from deteriorating nests.

"Command needs huevos! Do you men have any spares? Maybe something left behind by the desert negros?" The Colonel said loudly so all the men on that block could hear when he arrived that morning. He looped his thumbs on his belt and walked with a smile on his face and frustration simmering in his eyes. His staff car idled nearby, and Alvar noticed two officers waiting in the backseat of that car, watching the Colonel and the troops with a pair of matching suspicious scowls. The Colonel stopped and stood in the middle of where the soldiers were gathered, and they all surrounded him as a loud buzzing wing of Spanish fighters flew over and strafed enemy positions just half a mile away. The enemy air force no longer had control of the airspace above the city, which only made the Spaniards more frustrated that the city hadn't fallen yet.

"I think you men could take those positions easily if we all got together and attacked at once." the Colonel explained. He had heard this speech before, or variations of it at least, but it never failed to make him feel proud to the point of giddiness. Of fucking course they could take it! These were negros, they weren't supposed to be holding their own, and revanchist reminders of Coquilhatville in '55 bothered the Spaniards in the darkest moments of their constant downtime.

But no bad memories of Coquilhatville bothered the soldiers now. "Yes!" "Let's Go!" "Fuck the negros!" "God is with us." the soldiers all shouted at once. Alvar added "Let's kill them!" to the noise and watched the officers in the back of the staff car shift uncomfortably and fix their frosty gazes toward nothing at all. That told a story. In this moment, if the Colonel had asked them to follow him back home and overthrow the Prime Minister himself, Alvar wouldn't have questioned.

"This is good." Inigo de Loiola grinned mischievously under a bushy mustache. "You are men! I will see you later today. Remember what you have felt just now, because you will be able to use that soon."

With that, the Colonel climbed in the staff car and drove off. The officers with him did not seem too interested in him, and they continued to stare at nothing until the car had disappeared behind a corner and Alvar could no longer see them. Inigo de Loiola left the soldiers at a rise and with nothing to do; cock blocked, like all of their girlfriends had arrived, given them a few sucks, and then abandoned them right there with their wet shafts bobbing unfinished in the air. There was fight in them now, and nothing to do with it. Alvar grabbed his rifle and went into a nearby building some other soldiers were using as cover in their sporadic shooting match with the Ethiopians.

It was unnervingly quiet, where all the fighting was far away. There were other men in here, some with guns and others with larger anti-armor rifles. The later were long, unwieldy guns that shot high-caliber rounds normally meant to bore through the armor of a tank. They were using them now because the Ethiopians had spent most of their armor in the opening fight, and the men knew an anti-tank round would make a pretty little mess out of an unarmored infantryman. Most of Alvar's comrades looked vigilantly out the window, though a few gave him a suspicious glance before going back to whatever they were doing before. They were covered in grime the same color as their brown desert combat fatigues, where only the whites of their eyes seemed to be clean. Alvar took a position at a window and gingerly looked out at the rail yard.

All sounds of combat seemed to be elsewhere, echoing far away. This was the center of the battlefield, and like the heart of a storm, all the violence surrounded it while leaving that center in an unsettling calm. It was a short decline to the railyard, where the African rail used to lay. All that was left were old wooden ties. At the top of the rise was a multi-story apartment building the enemy held as their fortification. The small but steep hill that rose to meet the apartment was covered in brush. There was a wide bridge off to the side that crossed the yard, wide enough a tank could easily cross it. That was what made this place so vital - there were few places in this part of the town Spanish armor could use to move further in. They had already tried it though. The Ethiopians had rocket launchers and mortars in the game, and they had already exploded one tank in the center of the bridge so that the Spaniards now had to take control of the position before they could move more armor up to fight.

"How do you spell 'testament'?" Alvar heard a soldier from C Company talking to one of his comrades. He knew their company for the scorpion patch they sewed to their uniforms. He lost track of their conversation for a moment when he looked out and took a peak at the railyard below again. The indentations left by the pulled tracks could still be seen. Spanish corpses strew the field without ceremony. He saw where one man had been shot clear through the head, and his body lay lifeless against a rail tie.

"I don't know what to write." Alvar overheard the man speak again. He tuned back into the conversation in the broken house between the soldiers in C Company. There was an awkward sort of giddiness in the other man's voice. "I suppose I should leave my college fund to my sister, you know? She is younger. She can use it."

"That is a good idea." his comrade said mildly. Alvar looked over to them. One was writing on a scrap of paper propped on his knee while the other watched out the window and calmly smoked a cigarette.

Nothing continued to happen. Alvar moved over to where the men of his platoon were standing, and they did their best to ignore him. Bastards. He hated them for how they treated him. They still hadn't gotten over the gossip from Djibouti, and most of the men ostracized him. It was rare for him to look at their faces and not imagine his fingers on their throats, choking them so fierce that their skin peeled beneath the force of his grip.

"Fonseca." Alvar greeted in a bland voice.

"Fuck." Fonseca muttered back. He had his eye aimed down the barrel of an anti-tank rifle, and he did not look up at Alvar.

"Can I try out the anti-tank gun? You can take a break, take a piss or..."

"Fuck off Panzano." Fonseca muttered. Alvar turned tomato red. Piece of shit! Bitch! Alvar seethed. The dishonor of the way he was treated! "Me cago en la leche de la puta que te date la luz.." he growled.

"Fuck off Panzano." Fonseca repeated before Alvar got his last syllable out.

A sharp and quick roar from overhead cut them off. "Mortars!" somebody shouted. With that call, everybody dove for cover. The shells landed all along that block, sending up dust and pulverized brick and causing it to rain down all around. Alvar had his head buried into the ground so that he did not see the strikes, but he could feel them. Every hit caused the ground beneath his face to vibrate in an ominous way. When it was done, the sudden cacophony gave way to that strange war-time version of silence that had been in place before. He could hear moaning somewhere outside of the building.

Everyone looked up cautiously, one man after another. There was a fog of thick particles that obscured everything at first. They could see how the walls had been shifted and scarred by the blast. Finally, as each man got his bearings, his eyes would inevitably drift to the corner where one of the men who had been sitting silently moments earlier now lay as a casualty of the war. His arms were twisted and broken, and the skin on his face had been burned away so completely that it looked like it had been flayed with a knife. He was dead, there was no doubt about that.

Gunshots rang out from the other side of the tracks. Everyone scrambled back into their positions. Bullets scattered debris, punching into walls and into the dirt. In the next moment the Spaniards were returning fire.

Alvar peaked out at the apartments on the enemy side of the tracks, looking hungrily for the enemy. The Spaniards returned fire like contestants at a shooting gallery. Alvar aimed his rifle and shot at a few quick flashes of enemy silhouettes. How great would it be to try this with a tank rifle?

"Fonseca." Alvar started meekly.

"Fuck off." he replied predictably enough. When Fonseca pulled the trigger, the resulting explosion sounded heavy and hollow, and the kick-back stirred the dirt beneath them. Alvar didn't have time to rage. He took a few shots before the shooting gallery came to an end. Everything went back to battlefield quiet. Nobody said a word. The entire scene felt heavy from the fresh corpse in the corner of the room. Two of the men got up and carried the dead man away, though the ground was still stained with his blood.

Very little gunfire was exchanged the rest of that morning. The noontime sun brought with it equatorial heat, and it made the Spaniards listless and bitter. Nobody said a word. They had canned meat when it came time to eat, using the peel-away lids as makeshift spoons.

Hours went by, or at least it felt like hours. Alvar listened to the sounds of battle for a while. They were distant patters of gunfire, the scream of fighter planes over head, and the deep resonances that could belong to either explosions or collapsing rubble. It all blended together soon enough until he felt exactly like a bored youth at an extended fireworks show, though when a shell landed nearby it never failed to wake him up and pique his awareness to a fevered level for a while. He wondered if they would ever take an Ethiopian city without destroying it. Maybe the Ethiopian capital, the name he always forgot? He briefly thought of his cousins, and the possibility of maybe finding a prostitute in the city, but the idea made him feel uncomfortable and he dropped it from his mind as quick as he could.

It was sometime in the afternoon when they heard another staff car drive up, and the men of the regiment crawling from their hiding places to greet it. That must mean Colonel Inigo de Loiola, everyone seemed to know that instinctively, that could be seen in everyone's eyes. It was one part hope, two parts dread, and another part a sort of relief knowing that their lives hadn't completely stalled and they could move on to the next task.

"Men." Alvar saw the colonel standing like a prophet among his flock. "I have a job for you. How would you all like to kill some negros?"

That was it! Men shouted their support, but it all ran together and Alvar didn't pay attention. He didn't even notice what he himself added, though he knew he shouted something too. When everyone was huddled around, the Colonel explained.

"I have told your officers where to go, but I feel I must tell you. There is a near-dry riverbed which leads behind the enemy and would let us cut them off, but we cannot get our armor through there. The enemy is holding the position from the steeple of a church..."

--

Their regiment moved along the sides of the streets, walking slowly and hunched over like big cats on the hunt. Who knew where the enemy might be hiding? His eyes were wide and open to every small movement all around.

There was no real street-plan to most of Dire Dawa. People had built their houses wherever seemed good at the time, and the result was curving streets where walls and overhanging mudbrick buildings blocked lines of sight. This helped the Spaniards in some ways - their approach would be difficult to spot. But it also gave the city a labyrinth quality. Alvar could feel the distance between him and the place he had started, every meter adding to a sense of uncertainty and a fear that he couldn't find his way back if the worst happened. His head swam, and his hands clenched his rifle like it was the golden thread that would lead him back.

Nobody spoke. The reports of gunfire came closer. Their officers led them by hand signals - motion to that alley, or across that yard. When they reached open spaces and crossroads, Alvar's heart pounded, and he could feel the nerves of his comrades. They would inspect the situation, divide in two or three groups, dash across the space, and continue their prowl with each grouping on a different road. The first few times were quiet, but on the third crossroad when it was only Alvar and his platoon, their luck changed.

The bullet struck the dirt beneath Corporal Fonseca's feet. When he reached the other side, he immediately opened fire in the direction of the enemy, and the rest of the Spaniards came across one by one. The enemy took a few more shots, but nothing struck.

Fuck yes! This was living. They were getting closer.

The church soon came into sight. They could see it above the shorter huts. Alvar was looking at it when he heard a short-lived report of assault-rifle fire down the street. His head whirled to catch his fellow Spaniards falling into cover. A fire-fight ensued. Enemy lead chewed through the weak wooden furniture and wicker walls that decorated the outside of the homes. Alvar couldn't see the enemy. He could hardly tell where they were shooting from, aside from a vague direction. No matter. He shouldered his gun and fired.

The shooting continued, back and forth, a single undistinguished roar. When they realized the other side wasn't firing back, there was no time. Their position must be confirmed to their enemy now. The slow prowl was over, and the Spanish soldiers rushed forward in a sprint.

From then on, it was like they had crossed the event horizon; everything moved faster and faster. The first fight had been with a single Ethiopian - a man in beige fatigues with a white du-rag instead of a helmet. He had been killed by a shot to the neck, and the dead man's blood fled him quickly so his skin became grey. Alvar stared at him when they passed, and he would have stopped if things weren't in such a hurry. The fight was moving quicker.

It was one gunfight after a next in punishing succession. A Spaniard took a bullet to the belly and fell over into a pathetic, crying heap of wounded man. He held his hands to the wound as if he were trying to keep his blood inside, but it was clearly no use. One soldier stayed with him to return him behind the lines, and the rest dashed forward in the advance.

They reached the church. It was in an open area where there was a plaza filling the twenty meters or so between the church and the start of the residential maze. On the other side was the riverbed, running thin with water. Snipers were already at work from its steeple, pinning down platoons which had approached from separate streets.

"Fuego!" the order was called as a scream so everybody could hear. Gunfire spewed from all around, and the church almost seemed to yawn from the attack. White plaster dust exhaled from its structure. When the volley was done, Alvar's platoon advanced. They burst into the church. Corporal Fonseca shot the first negro. The stone floor was littered with bleeding corpses. A gold-painted Ethiopian Cross on the wall had been turned to kindling. When he saw a bloodied negro writhing on the floor beneath him, Alvar smiled wide and drove his bayonet through his forehead. He felt the skull crumple, and the man die.

Alvar didn't notice he was the only man smiling among the serious and focused faces in that room.

With that, they had the church. The steeple had been cleared before Alvar could look up. But there was no time to get excited. The Ethiopians from the other side of the shallow river came at them now. There was no time to think. The Spaniards took positions at shattered windows.

The Ethiopian counter attack was a futile thing. They charged across the river and were gunned down like soldiers during the Great War. Their blood flowed into the river in thin streams. Alvar realized the church was not under any real danger, but he joined the fusillade greedily, hoping to bag him a few more negro kills before he was done.

It was the advancing Spanish armor that ended that. They moved up the river, somber as a funerary procession, and the weight of them crushed the bodies in the stream into a bloody mush.

"Why the fuck didn't we do this before." Fonseca spat, wiping the sweat from his brow. Alvar hadn't thought about that until now. Why the fuck was Inigo de Loiola the only officer in this army that knew how to attack?

Amsterdam, Netherlands

“The Kingdom of Netherlands faced several issues after the Great War ended. Belgium's economy collapsed after they were freed from the German Empire, despite help from Allied forces. Many of its' original citizens quickly returned to their homes and saw the damage caused by the war. Netherlands quickly closed refugee camps after the war ended, but there were still dealing with thousands of refugees. The economy of the Netherlands wasn't in better shape, because of the blockade by the United Kingdoms of Britain and Northern Ireland and the cost of refugee camps. They had no other choice and shut the camps down two weeks after the war ended. As for the refugees, they returned to Belgium in special trains paid for by the Dutch government.

However, many Belgians saw their homes and businesses destroyed by both sides of the war. As mentioned before, Belgium's economy was in ruins and many Belgians rushed back to the Netherlands. In the matter of months, the population of Belgium decreased and countries', that declared neutrality before or during the Great War, population saw a massive increase. Especially the Netherlands. Many went there, because it was the cheapest option out there. From the most of the 1920s, the Dutch military patrolled the Netherlands-Belgium borders from any illegal immigrates. Often enough, they were dragged to trains or horse wagons and sent back to their country.

Hundreds and thousands of Belgians were caught and dragged back to Belgium for years until the country managed to repair their economy and infrastructure...”

Stefaan's focus on the book was interrupted by a knock at the door. He rolled his eyes back, closed the book, and placed it down next to the radio. The radio was still playing classical music as he got up from his chair and walked towards the door. Then, he took a look at the peephole and saw one of his neighbors at the door, Marcel. Living across the hallway of the apartment, he and Stefaan were more of acquaintances than friends but they would talk often enough. Stefaan opened the door and greeted Marcel before offering to let him in, but he politely refused. Marcel had to get ready for his new job as a gym instructor at the new gym between Amsterdam's financial and downtown area.

Stefaan didn't care about going to the gym and having a healthy body since he started going to the University of Amsterdam. But, there was a gym nearby the university that he was considering to check out someday. Marcel tried to make it quick as he held out an envelope in Stefaan. He started to speak about the envelope, “I found it under the door, but it didn't look suspicious at all. Because you were gone yesterday, I kept it safe so no-one else takes it.” Stefaan took the envelope for Marcel as he looked at the address and discovered that his family sent the envelope. The location was his hometown, Baarle-Nassau. A small border town, between the Netherlands and Belgium, with a population around six thousand.

“Thank you for keeping it safe, Marcel.” said Stefaan gratefully as he was getting ready to close the door.

Marcel nodded.

“No problem at all.”

Marcel left for work as Stefaan closed the door and walked towards the kitchen with the envelope. He placed it on the wooden table and looked around for a glass cup. He grabbed a clear one from the sink and fill it with water as he headed back to the table. The radio was now playing an advertisement from Thirty Seconds Over Detroit and other newly released films. He sat down and torn the envelope open and pulled the letter out. He threw the envelope to the trash can and looked at the letter.

Dear Stefaan,

I hope that you're doing well in Amsterdam. It's such a beautiful place to be during the spring time, especially when you go to Albert Cuyp Market during the rush hour. I hope that Ethiopian lady, that sold the clothes in the market, is still there. They are still in good condition enough to wear.

Anyway, Baarle-Nassau has seen better days since the increased population. The town had a population of 5,700, now it's growing to 6,000. Most, if not all, of the new citizens are Belgians. It isn't only Baarle-Nassau that had an increased. Ulicoten, Castelré, and other border towns had an increased population. Especially Castelré, where it went up from 100 to 200!

I am worried that we are facing another crisis at our hands. Since Belgium's economy has gone downhill, there are wild rumors spreading all over the Netherlands. You must hear some of the rumors while you walk around Amsterdam. This kind of events must interest you since you are getting your major in history. Speaking of which, I hope that you're doing well in your classes.

Mother is doing well and still has a job down in the local market, making more money than ever. Bart finally got into the army, now he's doing training and he can become a medic. And I'm doing great too. I moved into a new house and found myself a boyfriend, a military guy like Bart; however, he's in the navy not the army.

You need to tell me how you are doing. After all, it took thirty minutes to write this up and I could of done something useful with that many minutes! Anyway, the family loves you and misses you. They also hope that you could come back home once awhile.

- Jacolien Pezie

He missed anything about his family from the mother's horrible jokes to Jacolien's cooking. And he also missed the market in his hometown. You could always find something worthy in that market, if you look carefully. He placed the letter down as he through on the current situation in Belgium. It's economy was going downhill once again and the government hasn't made any announcements about the situation. The Netherlands hasn't respond the situation at the moment; however, they are going to respond by the end of the week. Then, he got up from his chair and started to look for some paper and pen. He didn't have to write right away, but it would be nice to get something down right at the moment.

He went to his bedroom and straight to his desk. The desk has been around since he first moved, left by the previous owners. It was made with Teak hardwood in a Southeast Asia 'workshop' and it was old. He started checking out the drawers until he found a piece of paper and then grabbed one of the pens from the pen holders. The radio was still on the same station as Stefaan existed his bedroom. He was getting tired of listening to music, and wanted to hear the news on the television. As he was passing by it, he turned it off and quickly turned the television on. It was on NOS Journaal, the news channel, as always.

He liked to hear the television as he's doing something else other than watching it. And he sat back down at the chair and began to write:

Dear Sis,

It's good to see that you're writing to me. With the amount of school work, I would of forgot to write to you guys! Anyway, the city is still damn beautiful and the market is doing great. The woman is still around and selling the clothes as well, I might have to buy one for you.

And it's also good that the town is growing, even if it's Belgians. They are most likely staying until their country gets their shit together. So, be mindful and treat them with respect. Besides, the mayor knows what to do with this situation. Stop worrying about it and stop listening to the rumors. They are most likely made up for some reason. And if it makes you better, I often hear the rumors as well around the city.

The government will fix it before you know it. I trust them and you should as well.

Tell mother that I-

The sudden, dramatic music blasted the entire apartment room and he almost jumped from his chair. The pen was still in his hands as he forgot that the audio was that loud. He dropped the pen and rose from the chair to investigate the television. But, the first thing that he did was turning it down so the audio won't cause the cops to come over. Stefaan rolled his eyes as he realized that the music was for a commercial about saving animals with ten cents per week. He didn't believe in that kind of crap and the commercial was just to get some money. The commercial finally ended with a picture of a dog with a sad face as it went back to the news. One of the anchors smiled as they appeared on the screen, the other started to talk about a recent press conference that happened about an hour.

“The press conference was held by the Financial Secretary, John Vansteenkiste. He talked about different steps on how Belgium is going to deal with the current financial crisis in the country. And he warned that political unrest “unavoidably” damage the economy and cause “unwanted chaos” for the nation. Vansteenkiste talked how the Prime Minister and the King wants peace throughout the nation and finished the conference with no questions answered.”

Stefaan then moved towards the couch and sat down as he never knew that a press conference had happened. He kept watching the television completely forgetting about the letter as there were two more people next to the anchorman. The letter was going to be finished later on the night after the news would end. Plus, the information provided could be useful for his debate club.

---

Amsterdam, Netherlands

The warning about possible political unrest in Belgium was terrifying for the Dutch government. They didn't thought that Belgium would suffer another financial crisis, the worst financial crash that the government even had since the end of the Great War. Still, there were plans in place if something like would happen again. Since the Netherlands remained neutral throughout the war, the country didn't have to make any sacrifices unlike Belgium.

Prime Minister Rikkert Wiecherink was on the phone as he just learned of the news moments ago. The beloved Prime Minister of the Netherlands was a conservative and related to Antoon Wiecherink, the famous Dutch politician that kept the Stelling van Amsterdam for shutting down and becoming a landmark. Despite advances in technology, Antoon and his supporters stool for the fort and it didn't shut down. In fact, the Dutch government is currently in plans to update the defense line. On the other line was the Minister of Defense, Theun Groot Overmeene. He also was a part of the movement to keep the same fort from shutting down as well. A gifted general of the Dutch navy, Overmeene is overseeing the entire fleet and patrolled the East Indies in his youth until the government lost control. Now, he was overseeing the entire Dutch military and kept a close eye on recent events in Africa.

“We need to do something about the so-called 'protesters' at Belgium before its too late.”

Overmeene was worried that communists, socialists, liberals, and every other political party in the country were going to rebel against King Baudouin. Most of the European nations had 'recovered' from the damages caused by the Great War. Belgium was going to be a problem for the European nations if Baudouin were to be overthrown by a left-wing political party or even a socialist party. China and her allies would also take advantage of this moment.

“We will, Overmeene.” the Prime Minister ensured the Minister that the discussion of Belgium will happen. However, the Minister always wanted results right away rather than waiting for them. He lacked any form of patience, but he often got results quicker that way. Overmeene tried to present his reasons for holding an emergency meeting.

“Sir, we can't wait until Friday to talk about it. Something bad could happen during the week and we won't be ready for it. You and I know that those college students can get a bit rowdy when they don't like something or someone. I am afraid that will protest about it and then they'll have a revolt on their hands. That is why I think that you should hold an emergency meeting with the other ministers.”

Wiecherink was used for Overmeene's reasons and theories, even if they were a bit outrageous. He quietly groaned before he spoke up to calm his fears.

“Listen, friend, you got nothing to worry about. The students are unorganized, stupid people that haven't matured yet. Trust me, the police will put them down before they do fight against the 'corrupted government'. Plus, the rest of Europe will be against the new government if they successfully revolt. I think that you can wait three days and nothing 'terrible' will happen during them. I suggest that you start drinking some tea, it makes you calm after a busy day at work.”

After giving the advice, he looked at the clock and lied to the Minister that he 'had something planned with his family'. He hung up and sighed as he was getting tired of the long phone call. The office was silent as he started to think about replacing the old minister; however, he had been friends with the man for thirty-three years. His thoughts were also about the problems facing Belgium and the rest of the world, especially with the war between Spain and Ethiopia. Then, he got up from his seat and walked out of his office to get some tea. He really needed some tea.

Dire Dawa, Addis Ababa

The International Sefari was placed on the far wing, in the hills above Dire Dawa where there was no fighting. They spent a week there looking at the smouldering city and listening the echoes of gunfire and exploding munitions. For Bucephelus Scott, war was familiar enough he could make some guesses at what the Spanish were doing. The terrain here was open and awkward. It was a place of rocky hills and vast country, and the Ethiopians knew every inch of it. The Europeans would avoid fighting in the mountains for as long as they could, and would focus on hopping from town to town. And from what little Buck Scott knew had learned about this place and its people, that strategy would hurt Spain. This wasn't a nation of city dwellers. Life breathed out from the rural villages, so even if the Spanish should take the cities, every village would defy them.

Buck Scott was starting to know his men. They came from all over the world. More than half were blacks, out of the ghettos and southern farms of America, the sun-drenched slums of the Caribbean, and the poverty of Latin America. Some had lived in England for some time until the racism of that government led them into this fight, and others immigrated from further away. There were whites too - socialists and liberals, communists and mercenaries. There was a union boy from Appalachia who wore a red bandana around his neck, and a young Chinese from Shanghai who had left China before that country entered the war. There was no standard language among the Internationals. Spanish was the common tongue for many, while others tried to learn Amharic. English also held sway, since it was Buck's language and his position as their Fitewrari gave it some prestige.

Bill Vipperman, a West Virginian who spoke something akin to English, had taken a particular shine to hanging around the Fitewrari in their hill camp. Buck would find a rock to rest on, one he could sit and look out at Dire Dawa, and Bill Vipperman would come up and try to force conversation. When Buck went down to his spot that morning, sure enough it wasn't long before Bill joined him and started droning on about something. Buck answered curtly and didn't pay much attention until slowly choice words peaked his interest.

"This is the way I see segregation, General." Bill said. "People's happier among their own folk. Now don't mistake me, I don't like them KKK boys none, but they are the extreme."

"Mhm" Buck nodded. This topic. How was it appropriate?

"Well, think about this country right here. This is a good country full of good black folk. But if me and my kind moved in down the block from that Emperor? Or we set up somewhere in the hills next to one of these colored villages up here, how you think these folk would react with their shouting 'Fair-En-Jay' all the time? Well, my folk wouldn't belong."

"You think colored folk need to leave America, Bill?" Buck replied calmly.

There was a pause, where Buck could almost hear Bill's mind working out how to crawl up from the hole he was digging himself. "Naw, Naw." he finally started. "Colored folk helped build America, I have no problem there. But I'm sayin' that our folk might have less to disagree with if we keep split up. You know, like how you grow crops. You keep your corn in one patch, and your pun'kins in another patch."

"The ol' Injuns used to grow them all together, all their crops." Buck replied. "Helped the soil out is what I hear."

"Aw, but what the ol' Injuns know anyway?" Bill said. "Look what all they know got them to? Hell, I never met an Injun until I joined the International Sef-aRR-ray here."

There was another pause. Both men looked out at the smoking remnants of Dire Dawa. They couldn't really see the fighting from here. Sometimes they could see the fighter planes from the sun glinting off their fuselages. They would weave together and dance and dive, the chopping reports of heavy guns rending the air. Other times they would dip at the ground and open fire on targets the Interationals could not see. At this moment, however, the sky was quiet.

Another man came up to them. He was one of the Jamaicans, an ink-black man with heavy dreads. "There a message fi yuh Fitewrari di Ras wa wi dung inna di city" he said.

"The city?" The Fitewrari hopped off his rock. "How many of us?" Though it was called a Sefari, the Internationals were only about the size of a single brigade.

"All of wi sah. Wi being call up to di battle."

The men hastily packed camp and gathered to march. Buck Scott felt a hint of pride in that. He had drilled them some, not as much he wanted to though, and it gave him a shot of confidence to see that they knew their basic soldiering. The veterans had something to do with it, he knew that in his gut. There were so many veterans here, of so many wars. Men who had fought in America and Canada, in Russia and in the Philippines, in Armenia, Italy, and in other parts of Africa. Damn. So much war. How was the world still standing? It was rare for something like that to strike Buck so suddenly, and perhaps it was because how so uncharacteristic that feeling was that it passed as soon as the International Sefari began its descent into the battlefield.

They followed a goat path down. The rocky soil shifted beneath their feet and gave the feeling that one was unbalanced. The hills were covered in brush, rare patches of green grass, and a few sparse and dry acacia trees. Africa. There was a magic to this continent. Every black man and woman in America would say the same thing, but Buck had been cynical about the effect until he arrived. What was it about this place that made him feel warm and happy? This place with its villages, the tribal traditions like gugs fighting, and their strange food. Perhaps it was as simple as its Emperor. Yaqob II had invited him to be a guest. How strange was that? If Buck Scott did as little as drive into the same neighborhood the mayor of Kentucky lived in, any black man could bet he'd be pulled over and cited for some bullshit reason. But not here, not in the motherland. He had met the Emperor. He had been his guest. He had sensed in Yaqob a young man with an old soul. That man had a way of making a person feel warm and comfortable by his presence, but there was a melancholy hiding thin beneath the surface. And why wouldn't it? There was nobody in the world as burdened as that Emperor as far as Buck could tell.

When they reached the main road they found it trafficked with Ethiopians moving in both directions. Some were on foot, others in trucks or staff cars, or even walking alongside pack camels. There were corpses left on the side of the road where men had died from their wounds, or where enemy strafing runs had shot them dead. A lightly armored truck with a machine-gun mounted in its bed burned on the side of the road, and they had to give it a wide berth to avoid the scalding heat of the flames. Some of the native Africans stared at them, others completely ignored them, but it seemed to always be one of those extremes, and each look was grim.

War. It was exactly how he remembered it from his Vancouver days. The Ethiopian soldiers were bruised and covered in grime, and their uniforms hung torn on their bodies. He could see how tired they were - that kind of tired only a soldier could know, where every inch of their bodies and every facet of their souls were drained. It showed it their faces. No life, not now. They were the walking numb, like one might imagine the victims in a leper colony looking before parts started dropping. Every step they took was a heroic feat of strength and survival. Buck would be there soon. He didn't look forward to it, but it was going to happen. What could he say? It was his fault. He had signed up for this after all.

The city of Dire Dawa started with scattered huts and mudbrick homes. They began to stack on one another. Stone buildings came next, and then torn market stalls and real roads. The battle roared here, sounds from all across the city. They arrived in a city center, where a statue of a European man reigned. Wounded men were laying in stretchers all throughout the central plaza. There were the bloodied, the gauzed, the limbless, the dying, and the dead, all laid out while women and old men did their best to care for them. Without asking for orders, the few medically trained men among the Internationals went to work. Buck didn't stop them. These Africans needed the help.

"Where is Ras?" Buck asked the first knowledgeable looking Ethiopian on the field; a nut-brown man with a thin face and bright, tired eyes. He wore white robes, a belt with a knife, and held a rifle in his hands. The man pointed forward toward the sound of the battle.

They found Hassan near a bombed-out multistory apartment building. Ras Hassan. He had heard the name so much, in the news before he arrived, and in Ethiopia, and among the Ethiopians. Who he met was a thick-set man, almost fat. His black-grey hair receded into a widows peak and he had a fresh crop of thick stubble on his face. Buck noticed the man had vaguely lighter skin than most - a dark tan, with a pointed nose that made him look un-African. A dramatic scar on his face suggested an equally dramatic personality. The stars and crown insignia on his shoulder identified him to Buck. And there was his manner too... he gave off that air of Command.

"Ras." Buck saluted. He almost added 'Sir', but not knowing how to say that in Amharic, he swallowed the word. "Fitawrari Bucephelus Scott reporting."

Hassan looked at his strangely, and the corners of his mouth curled with amusement. "Fitawrari?" the Ras looked him up and down. "You have the Internationals."

"Yes, Ras."

Hassan nodded and turned to give a sealed envelope to an Arabic-looking man standing nearby him. "Move" the Ras growled. The man stiffly bowed and walked away from the scene. Hassan gave his attention back to Buck. "The Ferengi have take my sky, Fitewrari. I cannot trust my supply lines while I'm concentrated in this place. I need to extract this army from Dire Dawa and spread a line into the countryside." Hassan explained. "I want to have all my armies when I do that."

"What do you need us to do?" Buck didn't hesitate to ask. How odd it was to be talking to a person as... infamous as this one. Buck held that thought inside.

Hassan pulled a map from his pocket, unfolded it, and slammed it against the crumbling wall of the apartment building, holding it firm with the palm of his hand. It was a nice map, detailed, but marked with handwritten notes. "This is where we are." he pointed somewhere in the southern edge of the town. "This snaking blank line you see here, that is the river. That is where they will get us. I think you understand what I am saying already."

"Yes." Buck said. "Where is the best place to hold it?"

"That is the problem." Hassan said. "There is no best place. The bend of a river might help you some, but you will be up against their tanks. I am sure of that."

Were they being sacrificed? That was a deflating possibility. They were foreigners in this land, and this was a country that didn't seem to like foreigners. But he was a soldier. He pushed those doubts back. "We'll give you some time." he said dutifully.

Hassan betrayed what almost looked like momentary relief. "I want to pull back and hold them at the heights south of town. My men do not fight well in the city, so we will make a new battle-line in the bush. Ten miles south of here is where the Harari plateau rises. When it time, that is where you will regroup with us."

"We will meet again, then." Buck said. Hassan's face went placid, and he paid Buck a respectful look. They parted. His presence, and the fact Buck had met a man such as him, stayed with him until the fighting was joined.

The Internationals spread out along the riverbank. It was shallow enough that casualties which lay on the floor of the river were mostly dry above the mud-colored water. Buck's men hid in the bushes, and against the walls of Dire Dawa. They took places on both sides of the river and spread out to make themselves difficult to target. Men fondled the grenades on their belts, and those with high-caliber rifles or rocket launchers loaded them.

Buck took a place near the back of their gauntlet so he could oversee it. From there, he could see Ethiopian solders step from their retreating clusters and hand unseen objects to grateful Internationals. That peaked his interest, but he was too far from the road to tell what it was that was being exchanged.

"Do you hear them?" an officer nearby said. That was Major Adcox; a British-born colored man of Caribbean heritage.

Buck had heard before. The enemy armor. Gunfire slowed down so that the approaching roar of tanks was that much more obvious. It triggered memories of the fighting in the fields around Aldergrove during the Vancouver war. The hum of several dozen diesel engines was like walking between two trees colonized by bees, and it made a man just anxious.

They appeared. Centauros, the workhorse of the Spanish and their allies; and the bulkier Musteños, which they kept for themselves. There was a strange moment of quiet, as if this were all a parade, but when the targets made themselves broad against the walls, International rockets began to hiss and armor-piercing rifles opened fire.

How about that, Buck thought. Spain had challenged Ethiopia, and now for the first time the whole world answered them.

Turrets turned slow and mechanically. They spat fire, and the Internationals along the front wavered, the line of them looking together the same way a sheet looks after a short gust of breeze. Gunfire opened up from the cracks of the buildings behind the tanks, and Spanish infantry melted out, finding cover before the Internationals regained their composure.

"Come on." Buck said to the men about him. They checked their safeties and advanced to the fight. Everyone spread out to avoid becoming targets.

Two tanks had been brought down by the initial International volley. One smouldered and burned, and the other had just sort of stopped. The second became another form of cover for the enemy. Buck picked a number of men and led them personally to try and find a new angle they could fire from. One of them placed in his hand what looked like a tin can with a handle made from chicken-wire.

"This?" Buck motioned with the thing. "Are we in a cartoon?"

The man shrugged. "Africans gave us some."

There was fighting between the buildings. The streets and alleys here were not laid out like at home - there was no order. It made it easier to hide, and easier to ambush. The Spaniards didn't give. Gunfire peppered everything, and chewed through fences of woven sticks until piles of shavings and toothpicks remained.

But he couldn't fucking see them except for flashes. A helmet here, or arm there. Choke-points choked with bullets. Instinct. Buck raised, pulled the trigger, swung forward, repeated. The Spanish on this side of the river were separated from their comrades, and the effect of the International advance was to drive them back.

It stopped at the opening at the edge of the shallow water. Tanks were crawling up the winding riverbed, and water frothed against their treads. Buck realized there was a chance of being cut off here. No time to waste. They tossed grenades - the ones they had brought, and the jury-rigged cans the Africans had handed them. Fire bloomed on armored plating, and reflected on brown water. One tank slowed as the rubber of its treads melted beneath a blaze. The machine ahead of it turned its turret. It fired, and a man Buck did not know exploded from the torso, everyone around him falling singed and covered in blood. They couldn't stand here. Buck gave the signal, and they moved back into the housing.

That was the nature of the fighting, and it continued that way. The enemy armor pushed forward, undaunted by casualties, and Buck realized the line couldn't hold indefinitely. How much time had they given Hassan? Buck couldn't tell if it was twenty minutes or two hours. He didn't know if his men had anything more to give, but they had to give more. When the fight was pushed into the central square, Buck was relieved to see it mostly evacuated. A silent, broken city was left behind them. The wounded in the square had been taken, but the dead had not, and the corpses of hundreds of Africans covered in bloody blankets dotted the ground. The Internationals skipped across, minding the dead, and hurried to a hill overlooking the square. There they could purchase some more time.

It was a wooded hill, covered in spindly trees and thick brush. A palatial home stood at its crest overlooking the town square. They kicked down the door and went inside. Louis XIV furniture and a Gothic taste in art made every room feel like something from a Victorian mansion. They busted the windows and scattered what was in their way until the acrid smells of war and horror filled the stately rooms.

From this place they could pin the Spanish infantry down, and that is what they did. The tanks continued their procession forward despite the crossing gunfire. There was a brief second, just as the tanks entered into the square, where the lead driver seemed to realize the path was strewn with neat rows of blanketed dead. You could see his realization play out in the quick stutter of his engine, and a hiccup in the advance. But there was no alternate way forward. The rows of tanks plodded over the corpses, leaving a trail of gore behind them.

This was one of those moments in his life that reached right up, slapped Buck on the face, and said to him 'This is war, damn you. This is war.'

A rocket hissed from its launcher held by a man next to a chiffonier. It missed its target. A desperation set in on the hill. Buck felt glass crunch beneath his feet when he thrust himself out the window and shot toward their enemy. No effect. Spanish tanks poured into the central courtyard. They erupted, pouring shells back, and the hill beneath them shook. Walls ripped, plaster became dust, and men fell back into the house. They heard glass shatter on the second floor. Buck was hurled back onto the ground, and the air was punched from out of him. He took a few wheezing, coughing breaths. His lungs felt full of cinders. When he had gained his composure, he stood. "We need to go back." he exclaimed. "Toward the hills. Fight! Fight!"

Dire Dawa became a running retreat. The power of the Spanish advance had broken through, and trying to stop it now would risk capture or complete collapse. They rushed out among where the acacias had stood, but where now only stakes carved from gunfire remained. They would find a wall and wait for the enemy to approach, then they would open fire and scatter away. This went on, over mud walls and behind trees. They continued until they reached the hills, where they met White-robed soldiers prepared to defend their retreat.

They were clear of the fighting now. Buck looked at the sky, expecting enemy aircraft to strafe them, but none came. He saw the faces of his men - hollow and expressionless. How many had seen war before? For how many was this their first sight of it? When had he first seen battle? It was all muddled for them too.

"Goddamned." he heard the low-tone twang of Bill Vipperman's voice come from behind him. The West Virginian spat wad of blood into the grass.

"You wounded some?" Buck asked.

"No sir." Bill replied. "I bit my damn lip back yonderways."

Both men laughed darkly.

It was a cold night that had fell over the country cabin. Without the small fire that Ullanhu kept in the fire-pit in the living room than its spectral chill would have fallen across the three men as they sat looking into the low flames crackling in the brick fireplace. The wood had been gathered from dry sticks of pine and other assorted trees not far from the farm-house where a stand of trees had been found. Every so often a loud pop would spring out from the crackling fire and erupt a storm of hot sparks up through the chimney.

The two kidnappers and their presidential pray sat scattered in the room but the light from the fire cast long shadows across the floor and up along the walls to the ceiling. The inky dark shapes made the ghostly impression of three more with them all, hovering overhead like reaper's aids bent over to collect a debt. And it could have been, all three were deathly silent as they watched the fire waiting for sleep to come.

Earlier that evening Belyakov had for once been undone from his bindings so he could eat and take a shit. As an extra courtesy Ullanhu, who had been watching him, allowed him to wash up a bit from water drawn from the well. The fat balding president was too tired, or too afraid to run as he waited for the bucket to be drawn up so he could at least clean his face before retiring back to his chair prison. Vasiliy had protested, but not for long before retiring to fixing their new escape vehicle. It was coming along well he had said at the time. And now it was finished and they'd be ready to leave come the morning. They both knew they had stayed in the house for too long and were afraid someone would be catching up soon, even deep down they had already caught up and were waiting.

Perhaps staying awake for so long and attempting to conquer the night then was some move to suggest to their pursuers that they would be aware and able to move for a long time, and there would be no surprise.

There was a crack from the fire pit, and they did not stir. From outside a stick snapped and Vasiliy looked up, nonplussed. “Probably an animal.” he remarked suspiciously turning back to the fire.

There hadn't been so much as a tin full of tea in the house found in previous explorations, or anything to help Ullanhu keep himself awake. He was beginning to feel the heavy hand of sleep on his eyes and he wondered if he could pull the unspoken all-nighter as he sat cross-legged on the floor. Alongside him Belyakov sat motionless as he lay his chin against his chest as he dozed contently.

Despite having washed his walrus face earlier that day he did little to relieve the thick oiliness that had become what little hair he had left. Neither did it do much for the suit they had captured him in so many days ago. Both hung heavy to his heavy fatty papa-bear build. If things continued on as-is, it would not be surprising to see Belyakov as the caricatures he grew up seeing of the defeated the defeated western bourgeoisie when they were cast from their ivory mansions in Asia and abroad.

Ullanhu found himself lost in his thoughts when a resounding crack rang out in the still night and the window shattered inward. There was a zinging zip of a bullet cracking through the air that tore apart the silent din of the night with split seconds timing. Moments later Belyakov was laying across the floor crying in pain and both agents were pressed against the ground as a volley of small-arms fire peppered the farmhouse cabin.

Clouds of plaster and splinters of wood filled the air as cracking bullets slammed and cut through the walls and cut through the window frames. There was a furious roar like a storm-cloud from somewhere outside and the sleep's hands was torn away from Ullanhu's brow as adrenaline exploded into his system. Their suspicious fears were not unfounded as the night was full of gunfire that roared and assailed their position for a solid minute turning the walls into a lunar moonscape of bullet holes and clouded the air with a cloudy smoke of wood and plaster dust that they breathed in and coughed.

Alexander Belyakov still hollered in pain as he lay on the ground. A pool of blood formed around the side of his head and he squinted an eye closed as it was pressed in the growing puddle.

As suddenly as it stopped, it ended. Leaving both agents laying sprawled and stunned in the dusty air as it slowly came to settle about them. Somewhere outside in the night there was a crackling sound of static and the pop of speakers coming to life.

“Surrender the pig!” a voice demanded in deep growling Russian. His deep guttural growling echoed in the silent chill broken only by the popping of the fire. Ullanhu rose coughing.

“Check Belyakov!” Vasiliy demanded in a harsh whisper as he hobbled over to the window. Lights emerged from the night-time wilderness and he looked out over the window sill to see an array of automotive headlines arrayed on the hill tops, their incandescent yellow beams aimed down at the cabin and filled the yard with a faint glow. As Ullanhu looked up to see what was going on, he had to squint against the sudden sharp light bearing down at them.

Ullanhu went to Belyakov, feeling his stomach churn as he saw the blood about his head he gingerly reached down and picked up the head of the sputtering and crying president. He felt about for a wound, his fingers brushing across skin made slick with fresh blood. Eventually he wandered towards his ear where he felt where a bullet and cut through and across the rest of his skull. Looking up to see what sort of bullet hit him on the far-wall, he realized that task would be easier said than done as no wall remained that had been left untouched by the firing from through the window behind him.

“We ask again, return the pig!” a man shouted over the speakers.

Vasiliy looked back at Ullanhu with a defiant look. “Old farmer's shotgun is on table, get it!” he said with a dry urgent voice.

“Belyakov's fine by the way.” Ullanhu said back to him as he got up and went to the kitchen. From there he picked up the gun they had looted from the executed farmer's room and went back to the living room. From his coat pocket Vasiliy produced his handgun and kissed it. Ullanhu looked at him worried.

“You got enough?” he asked. He knew he had become low on bullets, if he even had any left.

“I'll have to try.” he said, “But we can't give Belyakov up. Move him over here by the wall, get him into cover”. he demanded.

Ullanhu obliged, throwing himself down across the ground and pulling the president over to the wall by the leg of the chair and moving him over into a corner let Vasiliy handle the negotiations.

“We're not about to give him up!” Vasiliy shouted back through the window.

“You're making a bad choice, my child!” the voice called back, “You do not want to be struck down for this. Let us have the bastard swine and you shall go free!”

“We're not about to, you'll have to come and get him!” Vasiliy called back, and Ullanhu groaned as he set the wounded president up in the corner. He couldn't do much for him, but let him tough it out. The wound wasn't fatal, nor was going to be. But it was going to be messy before it got better; that much he was sure. Awaken and in shock, the president looked with widened eyes at the scene unfolding from his new corner.

There was a long silence from outside. “Very well.” their attacker said, “We will just have to. Make it slow and sweet!”

Ullanhu and Jun both paused looking into the illuminated night. The sound of the speakers crackling to an end did not come. Instead simply, a child came to sing.

The two exchanged glances as the child singer sang slow and long his song, but they didn't have long to ponder nor to listen before the fire resumed.

Cracking in the night rifles and automatic weapons lit up in bursts and volleys that forced the two men to cower away from the window. It was all loud, but the sound of the speakers were just loud enough to be audible over all the chaos. The two recoiled back and cowered and somewhere from the other-side of the cabin the door was kicked in. The loud thundering of a bear of boots banged through the building and a man in an old woman's dress rounded the corner from the hall-way with a Polish-made sub-machine gun cradled in his arms. He made to raise the weapon before the report from Vasiliy's pistol put a bullet in his brow, underneath the frilly headscarf he wore.

“What the fuck!?” Ullanhu shouted stunned as the man fell with a gaping hole sputtering blood from his forehead. The SMG gave a sputtering line of fire that raked across their wall but hit nothing as he reflexively pulled the trigger and fell to the ground. Following him a small follow-up team ran in, all dressed in the clothes of Russian grandmothers.

Ullanhu dropped the first to arrive after with a report from his shotgun and he fell back with a chest glowing red from buckshot at close range. The second slipped and stumbled as he entered through the narrow hallway, his headscarf was pulled down to mask his face. But a shot from Vasiliy's pistol cut into his stomach and staggered the man, he fired again and a second burst through his lung and he collapsed gasping for air. Moments later a round fired to suppress the two smacked into the side of his head carving away half his face.

“Wh-wha-” Ullanhu began, stunned for words as he pushed himself against the wall, holding the old shotgun to his chest as he shivered. He felt clammy and sick, as much as he was confused.

“Just don't think about it.” Vasiliy said. Guns were still being fired, and the singing hadn't stopped. It warbled long on the air, hanging over each word song allowing Ullanhu to focus in on the words as they were sung. The maddening chaos outside obviously underscoring the threat just outside the cabin. It as drawing closer by the moment, each report from the Russian guns to pin them down drawing louder by the moment they waited.

“Why the dresses though!?” Ullanhu stuttered.

“They're the Babushkas, don't ask why.” Alexander Belyakov spoke up from his corner, grunting through the searing pain no doubt burning the side of his head.

They didn't make any sense to Ullanhu who turned and looked at the injured president with a mixture of shock and questioning. “You just hold them off until that kid stops singing and they'll leave.” Belyakov shouted.

At that moment a large rock was thrown through the kitchen window and a man came into view, dressed as the grandmotherly image their named associated them with. Before he could begin to clear the glass with his gun Ullanhu raised his gun to his shoulder and fired. He caught the buckshot to the front and was thrown back into the night.

Immediately after him another figure appeared in the window to finish the job. As he rose himself through Ullanhu rose the shotgun to fire again, but it click on an empty chamber. His heart immediately sank at the thought. Vasiliy looked over and realized what was going on. Both men dove out of the way as the invader began to open fire with an assault rifle. The sound of his heavy gun clanging in the house echoed to the outside and the suppressing fire from outside came to a lull.

The weapons fire chewed large holes in the already weakened walls above where Ullanhu stood and went as far as to sink into the far outer wall above where the President lay. He flinched and recoiled against the stinging of the shrapnel kicked out from the entering bullets. His feet fell heavy as he ran through the kitchen and the first thing of his that Ullanhu saw was the long flowered dress he wore. He turned away from him and found Vasiliy but before he could fire Ullanhu reached to his legs, pulling them out from underneath him.

Unprepared for the fall he came down like a heavy tree. “Pizdec!” he swore loudly before he hit the ground with a heavy thud. Rising to his feet Ullanhu hoisted the shotgun up over his head like a club, and the stock of the weapon came down as the gangster turned to face him. Wood met bone with a sound smack that caved in his nose and smacked his head against the floor underneath him. His nose was quick to gush with blood as his eyes rolled back into his head.

“Pick up their guns.” Vasiliy shouted reaching into the bloodied pile of bodies that lay in the pile there between the living room and the kitchen for some sort of firearm. Ullanhu reached out for the assault rifle that the man he had just beaten with the shotgun stock had carried in. For good measure he lay his knee across his neck as he bent over and examined the weapon. Suppression fire from the Russian mobsters outside resumed.

It was a large gun, with a heavy dark walnut stock. Its barrel and acting components were all made out of some dark gun metal and a long dark-green rail ridged the top of the barrel like an exposed spine, no doubt giving ample points to fix an accessory like a scope. Hanging under the gun just in front of the trigger component the user had equipped a monstrous, bulbous magazine and that swung out in both sides like a side-ways number eight.

It had to be good enough, he figured as he checked the various switches and details trying to figure out how to make the weapon work. He hadn't practiced with anything but the pistol issued to him and that was... somewhere. He didn't remember where it was now.

With his new weapon and relieving more than a few bags of extra rounds from underneath the men's dresses Vasiliy returned to the window and began returning fire. Ullanhu joined him, shooting out the lights that illuminated the battlefield for their enemy.

The rifle kicked heavily against his shoulder at each pull of the trigger, the delicate nature of each pull fired not a single shot but a full burst that ejected a storm of smoking brass shells from the side of the weapon. But each firing of a burst round found their marks and steadily the lights were shot out one by one, slipping their hiding place began into cover.

But their return fire alerted the rest of the Russians who focused on their window. Both ducked aside as bullets cracked the air alongside them and split the already chewed out frame of the window. The two split up and moved to different positions.

Ullanhu's shoes crunched against glass as he crouched behind a small side window where there glass had already been shot out in the chaos. Atop a nearby hill he saw the muzzle flash of a shooter and took aim and fired at him. He couldn't tell if he was successful, but for the moment the position was silenced and attention turned to him.

It last for all of a moment, and the shooting slowed in its intensity. The bullets stopped firing on the house, and the reports between gunshots grew longer. Every so often something would be fired and a piece of unbroken wood snapped, or piece of glass shattered. A silence fell upon the cabin leaving a frightened silence lingering in the country-side and the heavy smell of lingering gun smoke and spent cordite.

As the three men sat, waiting for something to happen they noticed somewhere: the child was no longer singing. Ullanhu braved a look outside and found it was all silent. He turned back to see Vasiliy rummaging through the corpses of the men left behind.

“Did we win?” he asked, adrenaline was still coursing through his veins like fire and he beheld the world in a crisper detail than he ever had. He was aware of everything from the rustling of the trees outside to the heavy pained breathing of Belyakov in the corner.

“For now.” Belyakov remarked. Vasiliy didn't look up to answer but kept at pulling from the packs the men wore under their dresses the various pieces of ammunition or supplies they may need.

Ullanhu shot a puzzled and worried look outside, he expected firing to resume, but it didn't for whatever reason. Had they really left? “If you two have any intention of leaving, I urge you two to do so soon.” Belyakov pleaded, “They may just leave us alone tonight, but by tomorrow night they will be back.”

“That was plan.” Vasiliy mumbled low, standing up.

“Who were these people?” Ullanhu asked again.

“The Babushkas.” Belyakov again answered, “They're some group of madmen who think it's funny to dress up in their grandmother's clothes and attack people.”

“They're mostly active in the north-west.” Vasiliy added, “But with what inteligence I have it suggests they're seeking to spread further. Rumor has it they serve one of Bog's lieutenant's, Raphael directly.”

“What name is that?” Ullanhu asked.

No one answered him.

As the adrenaline rush from battle ebbed and faded away, the men turned to find some position to sleep. Alexander Belyakov was sat back up in his seat and his face again cleaned so they could check his wounds. It was bruised from the fall, but in all the blood that had come from his injuries had thickened and coagulated into a sticky mass around his ear. The bullet had cut clean through, neatly removing a chunk from the middle portion and cutting it in two before it had skirted across his lumpy lower temple leaving a shallow cut and a wide burn from the bullet's passage.

They couldn't do much to move the bodies, say loot them. Ullanhu found a few more of the bulbous magazines on the still body of the man who had carried the weapon in. He relieved their owner of them and packed them into a sack he tore from the cloth of the dresses the men wore. Underneath these gangsters wore the same clothes as would be usually expected from Russian men.

Sleep didn't come easy to them. Ullanhu found it uneasy to sleep in the same space as dead bodies and Vasiliy was too worried about a potential second assault. Belyakov dozed in and out of conciousness throughout the night. Come morning they all had roughly several hours of sleep, and when the sun just peaked over the horizon they gave up the effort and packed to leave. Belyakov was untied from the chair that had held him prisoner for the last couple of days and lead to the farm truck Vasiliy had founded and managed to get running. Throwing in their loot, the two agents took their seats and the engine stuttered to life with harsh heaving coughs.

The sky was just beginning to turn from pink to soft blue before they were back on the road looking for the way east again.



The morning sun rose low in the sky as it made its way to mid-afternoon. Overlooking the highway leading into Yekaterinburg from the east, the position that Huei Wen had made his camp was just waking up. The commander in Russia himself was already well awake and outside his quarters was seated with the rest of his staff around a fire that had been converted to an impromptu grill. Standing at said make-shift grill, a young sergeant who fancied himself a cook took over a position of making a breakfast for the commanding staff as they went over each of their office's portfolio's for the day.

At Wen's side the army's commander of security, the commanding officer of the entire military police throughout the Russian theater sat with an unfolded brief on his lap. It wasn't thick with detail and was simply only a couple odd pages that he thumbed through. Comprised of hand-written statements and typed reports, it went over some the latest things that had happened.

“We had an incident that was resolved at the Smartash forward operations point.” the MP commander read from behind small glasses. He was a small man from close to the border with Korea, could have been part Korean himself. His face was handsome enough with sharp brown eyes crowned with low-laying thin eyebrows. He thumbed at his round nose as he reported the details, “The unit had been infiltrated by a Republican agent, who posing as a Siberian officer managed to get within the base's command structure. Late the night before last he had attempted to make off with documents pertaining to the base's operations and staff registry and mission plan but he was injured and pursued by two non-commissioned personnel who chased him into the mining tunnels underneath the city and shot him dead.”

“The documents he stole?” Huei Wen asked, unscrewing the cap of a flask. Inside was lukewarm tea, he took a swig of the drink and leaned over to better read the reports.

“Recovered, but water damage. The final fire-fight had occurred in a flooded chamber in the deeper reaches. They'll probably have to re-write the entire registry and re-evaluate their plans, they don't know how much was leaked to the Republic. However the base commander has sent requests up to award both men involved with commendations for their actions.”

“I suppose both performed well in the field,” Huei Wen agreed, “I'll put in recommendations to have metals of valor pressed for them. Their names?”

“Li Tsung and Wi Hui.” the security commander said.

“Very well, thank you. I'll inform Beijing this afternoon. Anything else?”

“Yes, last night a pair of Russians surrendered to the security forces on the north-side of the capital. They don't claim to be members of the Republic and claim to server a man by the name of Makulov.”

“Makulov?” Wen repeated, struck with shocked awe, “I thought he was unreachable.” or rather, the IB attempts to reach him had failed to make any progress in negotiating his loyalty. Really by this point the commander had hoped to attract the general's devotion before they had even gotten to this point.

“Apparently.” the officer nodded, “They're being held as prisoners awaiting orders to move or release them. If you have time or interest you were asked to go and speak with them, they do claim they're messengers on their superior's behalf here to get your attention.”

Wen nodded and looked over. On the far-side of the congregation of staff officers An Angua spoke with another, their equipment officer. No doubt trying to organize for appropriations to tighten the grip on the city. Angua was anticipating an assault, Wen had kept him out of the loop and told him to keep up skirmishes and organized with him to keep Russian supplies out of the city.

“I'll see them.” Wen said.

The security officer made an approving nod, “I'll call ahead, when do you expect to set up an interview?”

“Now.” Wen answered. He considered this important and wanted to move on it soon to make up for lost effort. Standing up he turned over to his right-hand commander, “Comrade Angua,” he shouted out in a booming voice, “Get my car ready.”

“Again?” the officer responding rising to his feet. He pushed his glasses unconsciously up his nose and looked about, “We just arrived yesterday.”

“Just do it.” Wen ordered.

West Istanbul

The airport had received only inaccurate fire since the day before. As the battle raged into its third day, the attackers had chosen to focus their guns on the front in East Istanbul's industrial neighborhoods instead of strategic locations west of the canal. Craters made the tarmac look like the surface of the moon, smoke from fuel fires drifted through onto the sea. Bullet holes and shrapnel had torn through the sides of metal warehouses and hangars, as well as the concrete terminals. Several walls had new doors punched right through them by rockets. Engineers had gotten to work fortifying positions with trucks full of construction equipment: the grand windows of Suleiman International Airport had been boarded up and sandbagged down. Rubble and litter cluttered the floor, blown in by the winds and explosions while mud and soot had been tracked through by soldiers. The elaborate chandeliers that once hung opulently above the main lobby had been brought down by the thunderous shaking of artillery strikes. Their crystals had mysteriously disappeared into the cargo pockets of Armenian troops, much like the expensive wristwatches or the fancy shoes at the airport luxury outlets.

George Yaglian had been pulled from suppression duty, with most of the Turkish snipers vacating their posts the night prior. Now, only occasional pot shots were fired at the dug-in Armenians, and there hadn't been a casualty in a few hours. The Corporal was now a glorified signpost, sitting in an old camping stool in the lobby next to a portable table and a filing cabinet. Troops, freshly arrived from the Greek side of the Bosporus, were filed through the airport before heading the support the East Istanbul fighting positions. Yaglian was to simply check off the platoons that came through and tell them their assignment based on the recommendations of the military intelligence detachment set up in what used to be the airport hotel bar. Every so often, a bespectacled soldier no older than nineteen would deliver a written down list of critically undermanned positions in rough order of precedence. This, coupled with a road map, would mean Yaglian would give directions to the platoon leader and tell him where his men were needed before sending them off.

A queue had developed by midday, with Yaglian trying to process the glut of new arrivals as fast as he could. Pano had been enlisted as a second impromptu clerk who, with his limited Armenian vocabulary, was desperately pantomiming directions to new platoons. Thousands of troops had to be going towards the front in an attempt to stave off the Turks from reclaiming their former capital. From what he could gather from the intelligence detachment courier, it was a bloodbath. In traditional fashion, they had fought to a stalemate. The Istanbul local irregulars were rapidly falling, requiring reinforcement from Armenian and Greek units. A breakthrough near the canal's bridges was feared in the coming hours: explosives had been wired to blow and stem the Turkish onslaught if they ever reached the fighting positions. The primary mission was to hold the line, but it was absolutely critical that West Istanbul was held and the Bosporus was at the very least contested.

"Listen, you're needed at the Sumahat Hotel on the waterside drive north of the bridge. Just take a left at the MP traffic stop on the east bank and head right to the line. It's flag seven on the map, write it down," Yaglian stated duly. He pointed at the colored red marker placed at the hotel's rough position on the map, before shooing them towards the front door and marking down that platoon's number on the roster. He turned his head up to see two figures in lizardstripe battledress, wearing sunglasses and soft covers instead of helmets. Their uniforms, devoid of patches, had no nametapes on them. Simple orange armbands went around their left upper arms.

"Who the hell are you?" Yaglian asked hurriedly. "If you need to see the commander, he's up top."

"Yeah, you'll do," one of them said. He gestured to Pano at the table next to Yaglian and waved him over: "Find about twenty other guys, we're taking your engineers' trucks parked out back."

"Wait, what? I'm a fucking Corporal, I don't have that authority," Yaglian protested to the man, who simply smiled.

"We do. We're National Security Service field agents and you've been tasked for a mission," he said bluntly. From his pocket he produced a document with the NSS seal and a signature from a government official. "This actually goes to your commander."

He handed it to his partner, who went off to find the battalion commander. "My name is Genghis," continued the first NSS agent: a darker man, tall and imposing with a permanent five o'clock shadow and curly black hair. "The one who just went to find your commander is my second in command, Apollo."

Genghis leaned down onto the table and told Yaglian to grab his gear and eat before they headed out. Someone else was called over to replace the two at the tables while Genghis spoke into his backpack radio. A few minutes later, Apollo returned with a gaggle mixed with MI detachments and MPs pulled from random positions. The battalion commander was in tow, holding the piece of paper while protesting that he needed the men at their positions.

"You guys can all drive a truck, right?" Apollo asked, almost casually. He had the lackadaisical air of a university student on vacation in Sevan, as if he enjoyed fast boat races under the influence of vodka on the lake. His posture was slacked and his hair - shaved on the sides but long on top - had been slicked back. One hand rested on his rifle receiver and the other firmly went in his pocket, while his sunglasses were gold-rimmed aviator-types popular with American film stars or African musicians.

A quarter of them shook their heads and were sent off to find someone who could. When the new drivers arrived, confused and packing their kitbags, Genghis motioned for them to form a horseshoe in the lobby. He removed his sunglasses, revealing dark brown eyes, and tucked them into his collar.

"I am Genghis, of the National Security Service," he announced. "And the man who got you is Apollo. You have been recruited for a special mission, shouldn't take too long at all. Before you know it, we're going to drop you back here at your units and be off. We have eleven trucks we're driving to the former Ottoman treasury on the front in East Istanbul, and an eleventh with breaching gear. Once we get there, we'll tell you the rest of the story. Ready? Let's go."

Yaglian, standing to the side of the formation, was taken aback by the curt briefing. For someone used to lengthy and thorough operation orders, the secrecy was unnerving. What was the NSS doing in Istanbul? What was the treasury doing as a target? Why were they going to the front? They were hardly infantry units, just a bunch of spooks and cops who were securing an airport. The NSS agents seemed far too out of their league, sporting cut down and customized battle rifles using new red dot sights and shortened shotguns mounted to the bayonet lug. At the door, Apollo dropped an olive green aviator's bag and unzipped it, revealing strips of orange fabric. "Put these around your left arm," he instructed.

They liberated the engineer trucks, hurriedly tossing gear and crates out into the parking lot. They were told these would be returned later, after the mission was complete. A two man team manned each vehicle, Yaglian and Pano filing in behind the NSS's lead truck decked, once again, with an orange cloth draped over the front. The convoy got onto the road, following the lead of Genghis and Apollo: they drove quickly through the rubble-strewn streets of Istanbul, right past destroyed buildings and knocked-out cars. As they passed onto the main city round, driving onto a roundabout, Pano shouted: "Look!"

A Turkish fighter-bomber had crashed into the thirty-story-tall Sultanate National Bank building, setting it ablaze about an hour earlier. Nobody was there to attend to the fire, emergency services long since preoccupied with other emergencies in other parts of town. The building belched acrid black smoke and its north facade had slid down onto the ground. In its courtyard, Greek soldiers helped Istanbul security forces drape civilian casualties in white bedsheets. Men, women, and children were all lined up in the park beside the highway as the Armenian convoy moved by. The killings were indiscriminate, effected by a shower of steel rain and high explosive force. People cared, of course, but it was the very nature of war that these civilians would die. Maybe they weren't evacuated in time, but that was not for Yaglian to debate. Shit happens, and he kept his mind off of it.

The financial district once controlled the wealth of the Ottoman Empire but now laid in ruins. Banks, regulatory agencies, and corporate headquarters alike had been shelled by Ottoman preparatory fires before the invasion. As yet another vice of the war, Armenian soldiers assigned to internal security looted the shops and stole from the wealthy apartments nearby. Yaglian couldn't blame them: after years of being kicked in the teeth by Ottoman hegemony, it was good to finally get revenge. Undoubtedly, the military legal system would ignore the looting despite it being on books as illegal: there would soon be hundreds of Armenian girlfriends getting gifts of fine jewelry from the farthest reaches of Istanbul's trade. The convoy drove past, caring not for their behavior. They put into high gear and sped out down the cleared highway, civilian vehicles having been cleared by armored elements days ago. An artillery strike on a nearby park being used as a hospital nearly blew a brick through Yaglian's cabin - it bounced off the truck's hood and left a sizeable dent - but they continued unabated.

The Bosporus Bridge was riddled with bulletholes and chunks blown away by explosions, but remained structurally intact. This was, in fact, one of two bridges that crossed the Bosporus Strait: the Fatih Sultan Mehmet Bridge further north had already been blown by Armenian engineers when the Turks broke through the front lines and began to close in on the O-2 highway. Now, the First Bridge, as it was known, provided the only land route into West Istanbul. Air assault or airborne operations west of the Bosporus were prohibited by thick emplacements of antiaircraft artillery and roving patrols of local guardsmen. It was a race to the First Bridge that the Ottomans were in danger of losing. Yaglian and his truck crossed over, were directed forward by a military policeman waving a red flag, and continued into increasingly wartorn Istanbul. The treasury was only a few minutes east, located in a clearing surrounded by tall residential complexes separated by tight alleys. The Armenians drove their trucks over a former park and through a hole in the brick wall, before following Genghis's lead to the truck loading docks in the rear. The ten trucks idled for a moment before Apollo sprang out of the lead vehicle to direct them around and face the way they came for a speedy exit.

"Gather up! Gather up! Horseshoe formation around Genghis!" Apollo yelled over the distressingly-close gunfire and explosions. Genghis stepped out of his truck and onto the ground, slinging his rifle over his back and withdrawing blueprints from his cargo pocket. A plane flew overhead, released its bombs, and took off upward over them. The drivers assembled around Genghis, first few ranks kneeling, all unsure of what was going on. They were support personnel, not infantry.

"Alright, we're getting to the fun part," Genghis proclaimed with a sly grin, combing through his dark beard. "Has anyone here ever robbed a bank before?"

Volgograd

It was rare for Sahle to reflect on a certain strange fact of his life, but in his quieter moments it sometimes came to him. Even here and now, when he felt like a wounded animal fleeing through a forest he did not know, it still took him no effort to attract women. It didn't come as a surprise when he was called to Radmila's hotel room that night to discuss the curriculum of their student the Tsarina. And when he went to her room and found her standing naked in front of a mirror, performing as if he had walked in on her changing, the situation seemed completely natural to him. She feigned to hide her self with her arms, but she was no actress. A nipple slipped from below her pale arm, while below the blackness of her wild bush snuck between her partially splayed fingers. He knew what was going on, and when he shut the door the ruse melted away. She wasn't necessarily his type; pale and smooth as milk except for a vaguely tanned and aging face; and breasts that, if they had once been like ripe plums, were now beginning to prune. She was older than him by half a decade. But she was a nice enough woman, and it was better than sleeping alone.

She undressed him and led him into the bed, and they became a tangled knot of ebony on ivory fucking. She didn't feel as fragile as Aaliyah had. There was more wiry muscle in this woman than it looked. When he closed his eyes he imagined the woman Aaliyah had shot in Sevan, Vladmira with the blonde hair and perfect ass. Sahle lost himself in her; both the girl he was with and the girls he compared her to.

When he woke up he realized he didn't remember which one of them had went to sleep first. It nagged at him that maybe, just maybe, this was a sign of old age. Over the hill at thirty three. After laying twisted in the sheets for a while he rationalized and decided memory lapse was caused by a lack of any decent high except for the cheap alcohol that was so easy to procure in Russia.

"Do you realize you are closer to royalty than any person alive?" he said when he saw her eyes open. He felt clever in saying it, and more like his old self than he had in a while. She didn't say anything, but her eyes were affixed on him as if he were impossibly heroic, and that made him feel like at least the shadow of a hero. Certainly not old anymore.

"I had a dream" Radmila took in a deep, hearty breath and stretched her bare limbs. "There was a giantess on the hills outside of Volgograd. I think she was here to help us."

Sahle smiled. "I suppose we won't have a room like this again for a long time." he said.

"No." she said in a soft, feminine way. "We will be going away soon. If all goes well we may have a room in Moscow. Maybe even Saint Petersburg."

"So tonight is it." he sighed. She said nothing, but she didn't need to. Tonight Regina's identity would be revealed to Volgograd and the world as the Tsarina of Russia, and Sahle would find his new benefactors become a council of war.

They lay quiet for a short while until two harsh knocks at the door stirred them.

"Radmila." a hard voice came from the other side. "You are needed. Regina needs to meet with you."

"I'll be there." she answered. She crawled out of bed and walked across the room to get dressed. Sahle watched her ass and, while it was a flat ass, it was still something to watch.

"The Queen is going to need you too in a few hours, your majesty." Radmila spoke to Sahle in a hushed voice. She said 'your majesty' with no particular deference, as if it were his name.

"I don't know what to say to her." Sahle replied. The subject reminded him how deflated he had felt the night before, and all the predicaments of Russia reentered his mind at once. "If I knew how to teach ruling a country, I wouldn't be here. And what is there to teach? Don't fuck up. That is the main rule."

"That's the rule to most things, except being a clown." she replied, smiling. Her tongue pressed against the gap in her front teeth. The gap was a feature he was always quick to notice though he had known her a couple of weeks already. "You need to teach her how not to... fuck up, as you said."

"Somebody should tell me." he mumbled.

"Try, your majesty." she said. "See what happens. You might be a better teacher than you think."

He saw she was mostly dressed by now in her military fatigues and he made a curious face at her. "Aren't you going to take a bath..." his head flicked down at the place in the bed she had just left.

"Oh." she smiled. "No, I didn't think about it. That's a luxury in these days, not really a rule anymore."

He nodded. "Well, I think you smell good anyway." She smiled sweetly and left him alone.

Sahle laid quiet for a while and did nothing but look at the room around him. It was like so much of Volgograd - decayed, not ruined, but decayed. The wallpaper pealed and the furnishing was skimpy. There was a stubby bookshelf in one corner with only three books - The Collected Poetry of Alexander Pushkin, History of the Four Tsarinas by Anastasia Nikolaevna, and a third which he could not make out the title. Aside from that, the bed, the mirror, an flat Orthodox Icon of a woman in red holding a cross with the name 'Tatiana' printed next to her, and an open trunk full of Radmila's things, there wasn't anything else to note. Listed out it sounded like plenty of furnishing, but his eyes told him this room was a spartan one.

When he felt he had lain around long enough, he got up and got dressed. In the hall he could hear the Russian soldiers milling in the lobby. At the bottom of the stairs, he found where somebody had left a piece of bread and a half-drank bottle of Kvass on a window sill. He shrugged and picked them up. First he tried the bread. It was stale. He dipped it in the Kvass, drank the heady drink with its bread and honey flavor, finished both, and continued on his way.

It was early enough in the morning that there was still a slight chill in the air. It smelled like diesel fumes and morning dew. The street had the lovely look of societal collapse. Dour citizens and Cossacks mingled in the middle of the road, and the roar of generators and diesel engines could be heard. It was early, but the people all seemed to be drinking. Where did all this liquor come from? There were no half-empty bottles left alone that he could see to snatch, and he had no money to buy his own, so all he could do was his job. He knew where he needed to go; there was no putting it off. He went to visit the Tsarina and pretend to be some sort of teacher for her. Or was he an advisor? He swashed that question around in his brain, trying to keep his mind distracted.

He found the Tsarina with Sorokin and Radmila in their apartments in the Duma building. It was a quaintly Russian place - tobacco smoke stains yellowing what used to be white walls, an outdated map of Russia (he could tell because it showed a united Russia), tables and desks pushed to the side adorned with half-drank bottles of Vodka, and a cigarette burned pull-out sofa doubling as a bed. Radmila was cooking pancakes on a hotplate in the part of the room where the liquor was the most frequent. Sorokin sat with Regina and was casually chatting with her. Even in this charming domestic scene everyone was wearing military uniform, and there was a rifle leaning against the wall.

"Sahle Yohannes!" Sorokin blurted. He seemed unusually friendly. He also didn't seem as distressed and sweaty today as he usually did.

"Sahle." he corrected. "Well, I guess you can call me that. But Emperors don't usually adopt their father's name."

"I am sorry." Sorokin said sincerely. "I make no effort to offend. They use this form when talking about your brother."

"Pancakes?" Radmila offered. She acted like they hadn't spent the night testing out each others genitals.

"No thanks, I already ate." He said slyly, and then he turned to Sorokin. "He invented that. Some Communist shit. I don't think he uses it anymore though..."

"That's what they use in newspapers." Sorokin replied.

"I think they get it wrong." Sahle found a seat on the edge of a table. There was a bed roll laying beneath his feet. The other three started on their pancakes. He noticed the weather worn looking horse-doll he had seen in Astrakhan laying on the ground nearby and shuddered at old memories.

"So, what do you think about me?" The nine year old Tsarina blurted. "It must be so weird knowing we are both a King and a Queen."

When he saw her now, he felt bad for her. How hard must it be, a child, an Empress, on the run from her title? And she had dealt with it so long too. She didn't seem phased by it at all. He smiled at the simple question. "Lucky. I can trust my own kind."

"I will be fair." she play-acted a regal voice.

Sahle grinned. "I thank you, your highness."

"Well." Sorokin grunted, standing up and handing an empty plate to Radmila. When he got nearby enough to Sahle, the pungent smell of booze filled the latter's nose. "I need to meet with the Hetmans. We have tonight to plan. Gleb has us telling some of the men in advance to make sure there is some noise at the announcement. Regina, listen to this man, Emperor Sahle. He has been in your shoes, he knows more about your future than any of us."

"Yes papa." she said.

"You will do well." he looked back one more time, his face dropped into a pale anxious smile.

"Have you arranged for our part? Regina is going to need instruction." Radmila collected Regina's plate as she talked.

"I put Semen on it." Sorokin answered. "Her majesty should meet with him when she is ready." He opened the door slowly, and when he left it was like he had to peal himself away.

There was an awkward silence. Sahle leaned forward. "I've never been a teacher before." he said, trying to hold back any nervousness in his voice.

"Tell me what Africa is like." Regina bubbled confidently. "Or, tell me what the part of Africa that is your Kingdom is like."

Sahle cleared his throat. How to word something like that? "Imagine... imagine thousands of miles of wilderness."

"Siberia." Regina said instantly.

"Siberia. Yes, like that. There are jungles and mountains and plains, and all across it are tribes of people who still live in villages and barely know your name. Sometimes they join the army or move to a city or something, but most of the time they stay to themselves in their villages."

"Like Siberia." Radmila parroted, amused. Regina giggled.

Sahle went on. "There are places where there are cities and factories and mines though, and they know who you are there. They need your government in those places because important things need to be protected. So you have agents there, keeping things organized."

"So what did you do?" Regina asked.

What did he do? What did he do? He kept in power he supposed. Well, he didn't do that very well either. "The Emperor of Ethiopia is a boss. He watches over the government and makes decisions."

"So Ethiopia has a constitutional monarchy?" Regina asked.

"It has a constitution now. My brother made that. When I was Emperor, it was a sort of... I don't know, we pretended to have that type of monarchy I guess."

"My grandfather was an autocrat." the little-girl Tsarina mused proudly "That is how we do it in Russia. Tsars have tried to make reforms, but the people don't know how to take them. That is what Radmila says. Russians need autocracy, somebody to rule them strongly, or else Bolsheviks get their way."

"Are you going to be an autocrat too then?" he asked.

The Tsarina nodded. "I am young though, so General Rykov will rule for me. He will be my Potemkin, except I won't sleep with him." she giggled.

Regina talking about sleeping with people made Sahle uncomfortable, and he exchanged a glance with Radmila. She saw his discomfort and grinned.

"You must feel sad that Spain is invading your country." Regina said sympathetically.

"Yes." Sahle looked down. "The same way you feel about China. It's hard being responsible for so many people." Who had said that to him? His father? Baruti? Sahle never felt like he had been responsible. Yaqob was the responsible one.

"Papa Sorokin told me that too."

"I think it is the most important thing." Sahle said thoughtfully. "You know, when I made a wrong decision, I didn't think 'Oh here I am going to make a wrong decision.' It just... you make a decision, and there are all of these repercussions. Some sort of chain reaction I guess. Your decision leads to some others things, and then those things cause other things to happen. It's echoes. What you decide will cause echoes throughout Russia, and you will not always be able to guess what these echoes will be, but you will have to live with them."

"I wonder if that is what the good Kings and Queens do, guess the echoes." Regina replied. Her voice was calm, and she sounded almost like a full grown adult.

"I don't know that." Sahle replied. "I really cannot say."

"Do you recall the essays I had you read, your majesty?" Radmila entered into the conversation. "About the abolition of serfdom and the beginning of Bolshevism? Think of that as what Emperor Sahle means."

"I understand. I mean, I believe I understand..." she said.

Radmila went into a lecture on Russian history, but Sahle didn't hear any of it. Their conversation left him mentally exhausted, and he sunk thinking on his perch. Where had he went wrong exactly, when he had sat on the throne? There had been a time when he blamed the failures of his government on Hassan and his brother. After he got over that phase, he had assumed his values were in the wrong place, and he had made his decisions entirely based on pleasure. Perhaps it was that simple, but perhaps it wasn't? The simple act of pouring out buried ideas to this child had awoken deeply held thoughts imprisoned in the general anxiety that period of his life inspired in him now. And could he even say Yaqob had done that much better? His was a reign also known for its rebellion, and for the destructive war going on in Africa. How much of that could be blamed on him, and how much of Sahle's reign could be blamed on Sahle? There were webs here, difficult connections formed in the dark, and even trying to think of it made Sahle feel woozy and well beyond his skill level.

The lessons ended. Radmila and Regina said their farewells and went to find Semen. They left to prepare for Regina's part in her own announcement. That left Sahle, who had no reason to loiter in Sorokin's apartment, so he grabbed one of the leftover bottles of vodka, took a swig, and pocketed the bottle. He went away to loiter somewhere else.

Where was Vasily, he wondered. Where was Uliana? He didn't know where they stayed. Perhaps she was on the other side of the wide Volga, in the trembling forest they had shared for a night. There was no use trying to find her there; he didn't know where to get a boat, and the thought of going too far scared him. There was nothing for him in this broken town. Nothing but drunk soldiers and civilians trying their best to ignore the drunk soldiers. He didn't want to go too far and get lost. Instead he went to Radmila's room again, finding the door unlocked just as he had left it. He climbed into the bed and just laid there as if he could transport himself back to the night before. When he was bored of that, he got up and plucked the book of poetry from her barren shelf and flipped open to a random page.



That was enough for the day. He took another swig of Vodka and put the bottle on the ground beneath him. The words echoed in his mind, but he was not comfortable enough with the language to completely understand it, and he was never much into poetry to begin with. He went back to bed and this time he nodded to sleep.

--

Sahle was awoken by Radmila. "It's nearly time, your majesty." she said in a hurried whisper. His eyes were blurred with sleep so that she looked like a ghost at the foot of the bed. "They are meeting in front of the Duma building." He woke up, dressed clumsily in the dark, and followed her.

The halls of the hotel were quiet now. It was dark inside, and the only things he could see was the moonlight through the windows and the flickering shadow of an unseen fire outside. They stumbled slow and awkward down the stairs, groping for what they could remember of the railing and the walls. Sahle spilled after Radmila out of the shadowy hotel and into the streets, where soldiers were strolling drunkenly toward the Duma building. Some held torches, others bottles. There was an absent chatter coming from the crowd, the sort you might here from any crowd, but the city and the night surrounding them was quiet enough to make the people and their torches the only sources of sound. No diesel hum, no motors. They had turned the city off. All that was happening in Volgograd this night was the announcement of the Tsarina.

The Volgograd military looked something like an army themed costume party in a poverty stricken hell-world. There were men and women, most dressed in fatigues or baggy clothing that looked something like fatigues. They wore ushankas and other fur hats. Some wore pointed cloth hats like modern renditions of those worn by ancient nomads. Others had the sort of flat caps that could be seen on old white men all over Europe. The weather that night was nice, not cold like it had been in Sevan, so he saw none of the coats that might be associated with Russians. There was no order to their uniform, and there was no order in how they presented themselves in the square. Some stood, or slouched, or gathered in clusters with friends. On the fringes near the walls and fences, some men squatted on the pavement like so many pigeons. Not everyone was armed, but many were, and every man and woman looked hard enough to destroy Sahle in a heartbeat. But they had no interest in him, or doing anything to him. Their focus was on their leader.

The Hetman Gleb Apostol stood between the two lions in front of the Duma. He wore a Russian dress uniform with a big fur cape thrust over his shoulders so that he looked like a furious eagle perched on the stairs. Young smooth-skinned Cossacks, a near equal mix of men and women, stood at attention on his flanks. He started speaking, and his voice carried strong across the entire scene so that Sahle had no trouble hearing him from the back of the milling horde.

"Look at this place. Look at what you carry. You carry torches, my friends, like cavemen! And the light flickers in craters that were your roads." The burly Cossack said. Torches crackled. The crowd grumbled. A bottle broke somewhere, but nobody cared. The Hetman paused, looking around like he was seeing the city for the first time. He continued to speak alone, and he spoke so slow and careful that it took twice as long for him to say the words as it would for the average man to read them out loud.

"Your buildings, look at them! Look at this statued lion! It used to have a face, my friends, but the face has been gone for some time. This, this right here is Russia. I think this is Russia at its best now! We have our craters in peace here, and we can drink in them instead of rot in them. But is that it? Russian greatness, Slavic greatness, is that what this is? No, my friends. That cannot be true. Will we grow old here? Can you imagine yourselves in your sick beds, up there in one of those... rooms, we call them. Can you imagine yourself, dying, thinking about what you are leaving behind, and being happy with it? The Tsar died ten years ago. You all remember what it was like before. We were a strong people! Russia was the stone wall that stood between Communism and everything! This was the fortress, the castle. But now there are no castles. Have you seen the Pink Palace south of this city? Old mangy dogs piss in places where Tsars drank tea. Moscow is ruled by foreigners and Yids, and real Russians pick crumbs from under their windows and nibble them in the cold. Communists sleep in hammocks made from the dresses of Catherine the Great in Saint Petersburg. The Huns come over the Urals, and they look at those tiny scraps you have, and they plan to steal those from you too, so all that you will have is to be naked in the cold. The only thing protecting us from the Huns are those Yids in Moscow, with their constitutions and committees. Bah! They cannot even protect their own President! He was abducted in the capitol like a little child. That is who defends us? Defends Russia? If that is all I can hope for then shoot me in the brains right now so I can forget what happened to my beloved country."

The crowd had shouted whenever the Hetman paused to breathe, or for effect. They were enraptured. It reminded Sahle of a stage show in Sevan. There were the chorus girls, replaced by the young men and women that flanked Apostol in solemn silence. Between the lions was the unseen imaginary stage light, and Apostol himself the trained actor. There were few differences between the soldiers and a drunken Sevan crowd at a show too.

"My country." he started to talk, but paused briefly again as if in deep thought. "But are we not still Russians? You are the same people who lived in the Tsar's Russia, are you not? Capable of the same things. More even, now you have lived through such hard times. We have tried Communists, and Constitutions, and Warlords, but none of them have reforged Russia. We are not a people made in a factory. You cannot stamp a piece of steel and call it Russia! We are made of the old Iron. We yearn for the old Iron! They knew, so they smashed what they could find. Remember Michael the First, Remember Peter the Great at Poltava! Catherine the Great! Alexander who conquered to Paris! Nicholas the Second who vanquished the anarchists! Peter the Fourth! Peter who they murdered. They shot him, they stabbed his daughter, they killed his elderly sister and they tossed her in a mine shaft. They destroyed all the old Iron they could find. But they failed."

The Hetman looked down as if in prayer. The shouts had came to a crescendo until Peter died. After that, silence but for the torches. When Apostol started to speak again, he started with a feigned quiet like a whisper that could be heard by all the crowd.

"I was told a story years ago, and I tell that story to you now. I couldn't believe it when I heard it. A Doctor, and a good man, stood and watched a pale woman bleed to death on the carpet of her own hotel. The Royal blood of a Princess murdered by terrorists. The Princess was pregnant, she carried a child and died with it suffocating in her womb. That is how far they went to destroy the old iron. But the doctor and the good man, they saved the child. They went to show it to its grandfather, but the terrorists who killed the daughter killed Peter the Fourth, they shot him between the eyes and burned down his country! But the child lived. She saw the fire! She grew up in the smoke!"

By the end of his speech he was roaring out his words loud and fast. The crowd responded with their own roar, just as loud and just as fast, and Sahle didn't think they knew what they were cheering for. Not truly. These drunken men, the smell of vodka breath collected in the air around them, were ready for their blood to be up. Sahle watched the Hetman stare at them, satisfied. But where was Regina?

Tanks ambled into the square, moving especially slow so that the crowd may part. These were old machines, battered by war and makeshift repair, bearing the stumpy shapes of old Polish manufacturing. No art, no beauty. They had turrets like gnarled fists rising up from rivet-pocked armored cars. On the front of the first stood Regina. She balanced herself by holding on to the barrel like a monkey, and her feet rested on the plated armor as if she were preparing to sprint into battle. She wore no Imperial regalia, but instead wore the same fatigues he has saw her in earlier. The moonlight caught her, alabaster skin soaking the blue moon and harsh orange torchlight. She looked cold, and Sahle thought she might be trembling, but when she squealed out to address them in her child-like voice she sounded exactly like a ten year old girl having fun riding on the front of a tank.

"I am Regina Romanov, granddaughter of the Tsar." Her voice barely carried and she had to force it. "I am going to Moscow! I am going to Moscow! Who wants to follow?"

They heard her. An army shouted at her all at once, a manly thunder of one thousand voices or more. Random gunfire snapped into the air. Sahle wondered if he was the only one who knew he had just witnessed a show. They all seemed to accept it for what it was. He could feel it, the spirit of the thing, coming from all of these people. Pure hope. The knowledge of history and glory. He wondered if they even cared about Regina. Did they believe she was a Queen, or did they just want to drunkenly march to Moscow? But she stood there, a small girl soaking in the enraged adulation of thousands of surly Cossacks and militias. He didn't know if she was scared and dumbstruck, or if she was standing proud.

From where Sahle stood it looked like pride.

Papua City (Formerly Port Moresby), Papua, Japanese Indonesia

Angry shouting filled a small market early in the morning, as a man in rags bounded through stalls, a sack full of fresh fruit in hand. Behind him were three Kempei (members of the Japanese military police), shouting for the rest of the people in the market to move aside. However, between the noise, confusion, and slight panic, barely anyone listened to the Kempei, and the man ran away gleefully, shouting a few insults to the officers.

"Shit, that's the third one to get away this week." said a spectacled man in his thirty's. "The Director isn't going to be happy."

"Well, I'd like to see him make his way through a market to catch a wily one like that." replied a younger man toting a small mustache.

"Can you just imagine that?" said the third officer, as he began imitating an old man trying to chase down the thief. "By the time the director turned around, that thief would probably already be at Mount Hagen!"

The three officers shared a laugh at the expense of their Director, tossing a few more jokes around before the oldest of the three finally mentioned them having to report the crime. With a unified sigh, the three made their way to the local Kempeitai headquarters, and shuffled inside.

"Katashi! Welcome back! How are things out there for you and your recruits?" shouted a middle aged man sporting a goatee.

"Thanks, Hideki. But... We just lost another thief, in the market this time. I came back to report it to the Director." replied the man in glasses, looking a bit defeated.

"The Director? Oh! That's right, you haven't heard..." said Hideki, taking a nearby chair, and sitting down.

"Haven't heard what?" inquired Katashi.

"Well... I don't know if this is right or not, but the rumor is that the Director is dead. He apparently lost his footing walking up a flight of stairs, fell backwards, and split his head. I tried asking for more info, but that's all Eiji got from the mainland before they cut the call."

Katashi, who at this point had put his hand to his mouth in shock, reached over with his free hand, taking a chair for himself, and sitting down beside Hideki. After a brief pause, he removed his hand from his face, and waved it lightly in the air.

"You two... Go ahead and go back out. We have nobody to report to, so just act as if this incident never happened."

The two younger men looked at each other, then Katashi, before walking out, giving a small nod to the older men as they walked out. Once they were gone, Katashi looked to Hideki, and leaned in, whispering.

"So... If the Director is really... You know... Who's in line to take his place?"

Hideki shrugged. "Beats me. Probably some desk worker, or one of those lazy kids of his. You know, somebody that will help somebody's political agenda."

Katashi nodded while removing his hat, and wiping his brow. "Either way... I doubt anything will change for all of us who got stuck down here. After all, we're basically just here to babysit these Indonesians, and herd the rowdy ones back to their side of the island every once in a while. It's not like there's anything anybody can do down here noteworthy enough to get shipped home."

"I hear that." said Hideki with a laugh. "What are we going to do to earn a medal, really? We can't even catch a simple thief most of the time!"

As the men sat laughing, they failed to notice the heavy thumping of the local commanders boots beside them, before it was too late.

"And why is it we can't catch those simple thieves, Hideki?" barked the commander, as a visible chill ran up the two men's spines.

"Ah, well, sir..." stuttered Hideki.

"I'll tell you why!" replied the commander, now speaking loud enough to silence the whole building. "The reason we can't catch criminals anymore is because nobody really gives a shit anymore."

The two men released a sigh of relief as they realized they weren't in trouble.

"After all, how the hell do they expect us to get our jobs done, when they've been sending away all of our supplies, and our men, to that new camp up North."

"New camp?" inquired Katashi. "What new camp?"

"Well." the commander said, clapping a hand on Katashi's shoulder. "The new camp that I've been told to send you off to, Officer Minobe. They want you to pack only the essentials, and be back here at dawn. They didn't tell me anything else. Just that they need more experienced men. And since you actually were around for the Boroko riots, I thought you would be the best choice."

"What about me, sir?" asked Hideki. "I was around for the riots, too. Surely I could also help, right?"

The commander shook his head, and pointed at Hideki's leg. "They need able bodied men for this one, Sugita. I'm sorry, but with that injury you got last week, you're still in no shape to go. Maybe next time."

Shifting his attention back to Katashi, the commander returned to his normal, authoritative demeanor. "Officer Minobe! As ordered by Captain Miyamoto, you shall be relieved of service here, at the Papua-shi branch, and be relocated North, to aid in whatever way you can at the Mount Hagen camp. Are these orders clear?"

"Yes, sir!" replied Katashi, rising to his feet. "I will head home right away in order to gather my belongings."

"Good." replied the commander, easing into a smile. "It has been a pleasure working with you, Officer Minobe."

"You as well, sir."

"The Red Chamber", Tokyo, Japan

"Well, now that we are all gathered, this meeting on the culturization efforts in Indonesia may begin." said a small, mousey man wearing a Western suit, a title card marked "Ota" sitting in front of him. "As you all know, for the last few years, we have been heavily investing on our culturization efforts across the Indonesian Islands. While some of the local communities have been accepting of this work, others... Well, let's just say that they are not going to cooperate, no matter our efforts. Because of this, Emperor Akihito has ordered the construction of a few "peace" camps scattered across the islands. The local Kempei forces are currently being drafted to these camps, in order to serve as offensive peacekeepers. Now, what this means is that they, using their judgement of what is best for the Japanese people who have been emigrating South, as well as for those who have accepted the Japanese way of life, will be hunting down the terrorists who dare to oppose Emperor Akihito's wishes. Upon detaining the criminals, the officers will return them to these peace camps, where medical and psychiatric professionals will then try to find the cause of their rebellious attitude, and attempt to cure whatever it is that drives them too such extremes."

"Excuse me, for a moment." interjected a man with a scraggly white beard. "If you do not mind me asking, should the decision to rearrange the Kempei not wait until a new Director is found, to sign off on such a thing? I know for a fact that Director Konjo was strongly against the use of excessive force when dealing with the natives. To me, these "peace" camps sound the exact opposite of what he would have wished for! I highly doubt that he would agree to such a thing! He died of a fall, not of insanity!"

'I understand what you are saying, Mr. Watanabe, however, yesterday Director Konjo sat down with the Emperor himself to discuss this. As you can see..." said Ota, as he pulled a document out of a folder. "Director Konjo not only agreed, but endorsed this plan. You can check the document, if you like. I guarantee you, the seal on there is genuine. I don't know why he had this apparent change of heart, but clearly Director Konjo was far more supportive of our Emperor than you are."

The old man bit his tongue, not allowing himself to come off any worse than that comment had made him look. After all, he knew well what happened when Akihito's regime was questioned, and he wasn't willing to risk everything for a snide comment directed at the Emperor's pet.

"I apologize, Mr Ota. I meant no harm, nor did I disagree with Emperor Akihito. I simply expressed my concerns, knowing my friend's views. Clearly, though, I did not know them as well as I thought. That is indeed his seal. I have no reason to oppose this motion."

"I knew you would be reasonable once you saw that." quipped Ota with a smile. "Now, the rest of you are fully supportive of this, I assume?"

The room filled with noise, as the business heads, military leaders, and respected families all agreed to pass the motion, supporting the peace camps. Ota collected the seals of each individual, going to Mr. Watanabe last, leaning in to whisper something to the old man, inaudible to the rest of the room.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Watanabe. However, if you ever speak out like that again, you have my word, you will see waht happens when you oppose the Emperor."

Gulping down his pride, Watanabe apologized once more, and pressed the ink of his seal into the page, giving the proposal the full support of the cabinet. With no more reason to stay, the members slowly trickled out of the building, until only Watanabe was left. He leaned forward in his chair, letting out a sigh of frustration.

"I did not take this position to be bullied into submission. I took it to represent the people of Japan to Akihito, yet not once have we seen the Emperor in person. I wonder if these are even his wishes, or if that snake is acting on his own."

Shaking with anger, Watanabe stood from his chair, and stepped out of the building, greeted by a heavy rain. With a sigh, he looked around for his umbrella, but it was nowhere to be seen. Resigning to his fate, he began to walk down the stairs, holding the wide collar of his shirt over the top of his head. As he got to the bottom of the stairs, a car pulled up in front of him, and the window rolled down.

"Isao Watanabe." said the man inside the car. "Please, get in. I want to have a few words, if you please."

Watanabe looked around a bit, before reaching out, and opening the car door, getting inside the vehicle.

"Mr. Watanabe, it's an honor to meet a man as honorable as yourself. My name is Hayato Kenzou, a name you've surely heard in your line of work."

"Hayato... Kenzou? You... I know that name. Then... You are part of that group?" stuttered Watanabe, looking a bit panicked.

"Don't worry. It's not what you think, probably. I'm here because I want to work with you. I need a new ear in those cabinet meetings, seeing as my old correspondent has met a tragic end."

"Old correspondent? tragic end? You mean to say that Director Konjo, the leader of the Kempeitai, was also working with YOU?" asked Watanabe in disbelief.

"That is correct. Konjo knew something was rotten, and you, being his friend, surely do, as well. With Konjo dead, the new Director of the Kempeitai is surely going to be a thorn in my side, and I'm sure yours, as well. That is why we need to be allies. Without an ear on those meetings, I cannot know how to move safely. In exchange, I agree to spread the word of your revolution underground, through my associates."

Watanabe momentarily remained quiet, but sat smiling.

"I see now why Konjo was working with you. So... I tell you where the Cabinet and Kempeitai are focusing their attention, and in exchange, you spread the word of the people's revolution to the people? Is that right?"

Hayato smiled at Watanabe, and extended a hand, which Watanabe shook firmly.

"I'm glad to see that the People's Revolution and Yakuza will continue to work hand in hand, Mr. Watanabe."

Jun stood in the early morning shadows cast by a nearby building as he stood at the edge of the gathering crowd of drunk, sleepy Cossacks. With Makulov's agent, Artyom the two had stood at the periphery of the conference, but never getting too deep. The long reach they were kept at puzzled the Chinese spy, but he felt as he stood just out of view and the light of the torches that milled into the square at the entrance of the old, battle worn Duma building that what had been discussed inside its halls in smoke-filled secrecy was coming to an important head, and that he may be the only agent of China to witness it.

Artyom himself was not far off, he sat in an old unfinished wood chair idly brushing his fingers through his mat of curly hair. In the dim light he had long abandoned his glasses. As the torch-light passed by his face the color of his eyes shone a bright brilliant blue. He was a boyish looking man, with the appearance broken solely by a coarse stubble of unshaven beard he had let show this morning. But like his Chinese counter-part, he was tense and deeply interested in the growing crowd.

“Do we know what's going on, exactly?” Jun asked passingly, breaking the silence between them and the characteristic commitment to not comment that he had held without flaw all mission.

“Rumor and gossip.” Artyom commented, “They say the royal line of the czars is still unbroken. That some royal savior is here in the city among us. I just heard of this last night, so something tells me it got spread around to get people here.” he openly thought, watching a small group of densely clustered women walk passed their hiding spot.

It wasn't really anything more than a covered porch really. Or however it might be described. The building had long lost its windows and doors and signs ran all throughout that over the years people had stripped it down of its most valuable wiring and plumbing. Artyom supposed someone took the copper piping to make a still for bootleg vodka, and the less important metals to make stills for methamphetamine. Graffiti signs had been painted thick over the old floral wall paper that was left with a thick brush, images of naked bird women and other fantastical and terrifying creatures. Over the front door on the inside, someone had wrote, “God watches all” over the empty door frame in pale-blue paint.

But for now, it was the post Artyom and Jun used to watch the milling crowds for signs of violence or disruption. But for the men's apparent sleepy of drunken dispositions they went about well tamed by Jun's standards. And for a post-Government Russia that was more than a surprise. “I'm not particularly surprised the Romanov house is still alive,” Makulov's agent in the city continued on, “There are still Romanov's out there, persons who had escaped or were already living abroad. But we thought they weren't ready to come back, they were all too busy fighting over who simply gets to lead the dynasty.”

Jun nodded apathetically, dynastic politics wasn't his forte and he honestly didn't care. Even for the survivors of the Aisin Gioro clan of Manchus that had produced all the Emperors of the last Chinese dynasty was little more than a note hanging on a footnote in the politics of China from when he was much too young too care for or remember. And to even pretend to care for the House of Romanov was too much of a favor to ask of him.

He had however heard things. “I have heard of a Devil Child.” he said.

Artyom shrugged, “I heard something of God's Daughter living in Russia and a lot of stories going around like that. It was exceptionally profound in the city for a while and when I caught a break I tried to follow it. I got about as far as Astrakhan before it became a dead-end and I came back up-river.”

Jun looked back outside to the swelling crowd. As it grew he felt an uneasy sensation that someone had noticed him, and was now watching the watcher. It was the old cold sensation that crawled on his spine and stood the hairs up on end. He scanned the bleary foggy faces trying to find out who it was, but found no one else looking his way. He supposed it was just paranoia, but the sinking feeling just couldn't be shaken.

The crowd began to settle, with the traffic in slowing to a tame trickle. The square was packed shoulder to shoulder and the two men had a clear line of sight over their heads from the empty window frames of their first-floor perch. From atop the Duma steps lights flickered on and the events started. Dressed in a heavy robe a large beast of a man stepped out to the microphone and began his speech. "Look at this place. Look at what you carry. You carry torches, my friends, like cavemen!” the bear of a cossack began from between the two mangled stone lions that flanked the wide steps of the Duma's entrance. Stoic forms flanked him at his sides with their arms crossed and shoulders raised like soldiers at attention. The speaker's voice was deep, and boomed over the audience. “And the light flickers in craters that were your roads." he continued to speak, Jun leaned up against the wall, scanning out along the edges of the crowd. In response to him, the gathered Russians grumbled.

"Your buildings, look at them! Look at this statued lion!” he continued on in his loud speech voice, holding out a hand to one of the lion statues at his side, “It used to have a face, my friends, but the face has been gone for some time. This, this right here is Russia. I think this is Russia at its best now!" he went on, and Jun's patience began to lapse. Artyom was listening intently with his hand raised to his chin. He scratched at his coarse stubbly chin as he took mental notes on the tough Cossack's presentation and declarations. For Jun though, he was looking for something. Though all eyes were on the stage there was still a shifty sensation of Jun being watched and he desperately looked to see whose heads were turned the wrong way.

“The Tsar died ten years ago. You all remember what it was like before. We were a strong people! Russia was the stone wall that stood between Communism and everything!” the man continued.

“Who is this man?” Jun asked, leaning his head out the window to look about.

“If I had to guess it's Hetman Apostol.” Artyom answered him.

“Hetman?”

“That's his rank, a Hetman leads the Cossacks. I can't remember what his first name is, I only know him by his last. Like so many other Hetmen.”

Jun nodded, and found something sitting up on a low wall at the corner of the crowd. A round slouched figure in a dark coat and short black hair combed up over his head. The morning shadows hid the details of his face, but Jun was sure he saw the man turn his head and look at Jun. He had to be it.

Without a word, Jun turned for the door and left. Artyom turned in his chair, his brow raised. He called out behind him, “Wait, where the fuck are you going?” he called back. Jun didn't answer his question as he went through the door. “Crazy cyka blyatt.” Artyom cursed when his partner had cleared the empty house.

The air was different outside. Without four walls and a ceiling over him the morning air moved with a soft breeze in the streets. It was further moved by the vodka breaths of the spectators as they cheered, clapped, and beat their feet and fists in passionate agreement with the Hetman on stage. “are we not still Russians? You are the same people who lived in the Tsar's Russia, are you not?” he continued on passionately as Jun entered through the fringes of the crowd, keeping his head low as he parted the crowd to make his way through. Muted cries and jeers of protest followed him before the path sealed back up behind him as he went through. He thought he heard Artyom heckling him as he passed their little guard post, but he kept on through with full determination.

When he left, he came out on a side-street. He looked around and found the wall the man was standing on, but he had moved. He looked around some more looking for the figure, and found down the cratered street the ends of a coat-tail slip through an alley. He darted down breathing in the cool morning air as he went. As he drew further from the speech into the ghostly silent streets his foot falls echoed. When he came to the alley, he found it empty.

He raced through it all the same, and looked down the street he had entered out into now. There was still no sign of the man he had seen, but he was closer now to the stage than he had been before.

“I was told a story years ago,” Apostol's speech continued, “and I tell that story to you now. I couldn't believe it when I heard it. A Doctor, and a good man, stood and watched a pale woman bleed to death on the carpet of her own hotel. The Royal blood of a Princess murdered by terrorists. The Princess was pregnant,” he stopped his search and Jun turned back to the speech. There wasn't much to see of the Hetman passed the tightly clustered bodies but Jun drew near. He came to the edge of the scene and climbed up on a darkened street lamp to see and watch. The story was interesting him as it went, “she carried a child and died with it suffocating in her womb. That is how far they went to destroy the old iron. But the doctor and the good man, they saved the child. They went to show it to its grandfather, but the terrorists who killed the daughter killed Peter the Fourth, they shot him between the eyes and burned down his country! But the child lived. She saw the fire! She grew up in the smoke!"

There was a resounding thunderous roar from the crowd. If there was anymore to be said by him it was washed out by the tremendous thunder and crashing of voices and glass of the mob. Somewhere he thought he heard someone shoot a gun, and looked for a source and found nothing. He supposed it was an illusion until the tanks rolled into the square and Jun watched in stunned silence the column of ratty European-cast armor rumbled into the torch light. Carrying atop them a young girl wearing military fatigues. She looked to have been no older than thirteen, perhaps ten. The clothes she wore hung loose off her small delicate frame.

“I am Regina Romanov, granddaughter of the Tsar. I am going to Moscow! I am going to Moscow! Who wants to follow!?” she shouted over the massive crowd, her voice little more than a waspy screech that echoed in the cool morning air like the angry cry of a small voice. She was answered with energetic, enthusiastic cheers and men rose their fists and cried out their support.

This wasn't just a speech, it was a coronation. Jun looked about, and realized where he was. He jumped down from the lamp-post and slunk away. At the far end of the street he saw the dark-coated man in the middle of the street. Looking towards him. At him. With a nod he acknowledged Jun, and rose his hand in salute, before bowing and slipping away.

Jun didn't follow him. He knew he had been spotted. But the clammy sensation of someone else keeping an eye on him had not lifted. His hands crept to the familiar weight of his hand gun underneath his own tattered coat and he felt safe. Or at the least, should whatever ghost that was watching him came out to kill him he could at the least fight it. But the man he had tried to catch, he knew that wasn't who he should be worried about.

It didn't make his breaths any less lighter as he walked away from the cheering crowd. Their enthusiasm was explosive, and he was afraid if they caught him in their drunken joy then that Russian pride might just end his mission in Russia.



Huei Wen sat alone with the regal looking Russian in the dining room of an abandoned farmhouse, north of the Republican capital. Outside the sounds of camp life dragged on. But the two men were adrift in their own dimension as Wen came face to face with the former general who had been for so long a ghost and a reaving specter in the Russian north. Or for as much as Chinese intelligence had suggested.

Huei Wen didn't know what to think of the officer when he had came to the camp. Walking by foot he had stepped from the wilderness with an absolute Goliathian bear at his side. With the number of weapons holsters, straps, and bags that hung from his frame he looked no different from a foot soldier from a distance. It wasn't until through all the gear the white of his officer's uniform shone from underneath and Wen knew who he was. It was no less announced from the golem that followed him.

Both commanders retired to the privacy of inside the farmhouse were dusty light streaming through the windows basked both of them in a tired yellow glow. Makulov looked different from what Wen assumed he would, but all the while much the same. He was a handsome looking man with a head of blonde hair and a pair of fierce blue eyes. But, while that set him different from he had expected the general still looked dirty, and tired.

He had the air about him much akin to that of a guerrilla fighter in the bush. A thin scraggy beard grew underneath his chin and bags hung under his eyes. He looked hungry and the skin hung loose off his bones making his cheeks shallow and neck shrunken to inside itself. Innumerable lines traced the features of the face making him look years older than he really was.

“You took your time, I'm surprised you made it.” Makulov spoke first, breaking the tense probing silence between the two. Not much had been organized to establish what the two were to lay on the table and neither knew each other's intention. There had been no initiative to discuss what needed to be discussed, and either side held the other in patient mystery.

“I'm not the previous commander.” Huei Wen rebuked. The Russian general's comment had been sharp but he wasn't sure it was meant to be biting, “Besides, you yourself took your time.”

Makulov smiled, “I'm sure I did. I admit I under-estimated you...” he hung his words as he looked up invitingly at Huei Wen, inviting him to answer the question before it could be posed and unsure of what title to use.”

“Wen.” Huei Wen answered. “Huei Wen.”

Makulov nodded, “General Wen. While I knew the Republic was cancerousky dying from within I wasn't sure if like last time the Chinese would scurry back to the east at the first sign of engagement as was last time or press on until the Republic no doubt finally broke. The track record for conquest west has been remarkably poor, no offense. Hence my hesitation and lack of reply. I received your two agents, we talked, and I allowed them to stay.”

“So I heard the reports.” said Wen, “I haven't heard anything from either in a long time.” he matched his hesitation with suspicion. He sensed a political air to the man that made him uneasy.

“They're both well, as far as I know.” Makulov consoled dryly, “Except one dropped off my radar at a certain point and I haven't heard one thing or the other for him. The second I sent to Moscow and the news that reaches my ear tells me he and the man I sent him with did his job admirably. I am expecting the two of them soon.”

“What's the details of these missions, if I can pry?”

Makulov shifted uncomfortably, clearly uneasy over being pressed about what he was up to. “What do you think?” he asked, “At least about one, the other I don't think would have made any news.”

Huei Wen stopped to consider. News had reached him the Republic's president had gone missing but he had dismissed it as rumor. By the time it reached him it had turned into a number of possibilities. He had simply resigned his post, he had fallen ill and died, gone missing, or kidnapped by insurgent forces by either the Chinese or Radek's Neo-Bolsheviks. “One kidnapped the president.” he said, the piece fit well. He hopped not to well.

Makulov nodded approvingly and smiled. “I did, a meek one. Sort of bookish. I didn't know what was at offer with him so took my chances. Seems he paid off.

“The other, some silent bastard I wanted to clean up some things. Mutual enemies to the two of us and the Republic like-wise. I wanted the Mafiya pruned back as far as possible in my area to give me room to breath. I credit the death of a very infamous individual – two, really – to him but since they died he disappeared completely from my radar and my own contacts and informants scattered about the country haven't reported anything back to me yet.”

“Your contacts, how deep do they go?” Wen asked, prematurely.

Makulov denied him and answer and resigned with a curious shake of the head. “I don't even know if we're both going to be allies still.” he said coldly, “How am I going to tell you anything like that if I'm not confident the two of us are working together.”

The subtle suspicion that was brewing in Wen bubbled and turned inside him. But he felt he had little choice on the matter. Ever if late, and objective he had set for the campaign was before him and more man power was better than no man power. Makulov would be consolidation in a land that was so large it could very well soak him up in it. Makulov, if trusty worthy and loyal in Huei Wen's mindset would be the bit more he needed to so inundate the sponge it could be overwhelmed and no man would have to surrender themselves to simply forcing the Republic to slowly cede territory and to cut apart that sponge.

“The offer is still on the table.” he confirmed.

“Are there terms, oaths of loyalty to swear?” he asked.

“Only so far you commit yourself to the communist unification of the Russian heartlands, and you operate as a peaceful body in the formation of a revolutionary government for a future Russia. The oaths will be sworn then. Until that time, the loyalty is to the task its hand, as a coalition with the Chinese and the Siberian authorities, as me as its high commander.”

“What do we get for assisting the Chinese?” he asked.

“Access to our logistics. The Chinese military will arm, supply, and dress your men as supporters of the revolution. You will receive available intelligence from known enemy movements to broad meteorological reports. I can give you ammunition, weapons, and equipment to better enable your men to achieve our common objectives.”

“Seems like a fair deal.” Makulov said, shifting in his wooden chair, “Where is our objective?”

“Moscow, and to close separation between us and Radek's corner of Russia.”

“Great objectives.”

“And we're very nearly in European Russia. I hope a few strategic victories will so break the remains of the Republic's forces we can march straight to Moscow and bring the rest of the government to heel.”

“Then there is something you should know about this capital: it has my men inside of it.” Makulov said, “Not many. But we had been turning neighborhoods into a state of siege in revolt against the Republic. The Duma Capital was in the process of being over-turned before you arrived. You Chinese have done a good job of letting new men into Yekaterinburg, but not so much supplies and my men need foot and ammo.

“I tried to run your lines before and send envoys but they had all been shot and turned back.”

“I wanted the city to starve out, and I had not known.” Huei Wen apologized, “But if I can make an excuse then I would have known if I had my own envoys close to you.”

“I acknowledge that now.” Maklov admitted in a grievous voice, “But I had it in my hopes you might have been delayed just a little longer, that the Republic would attempt to hold every village and town between the front and the capital. But they've been in a state or near constant retreat and consolidation on the biggest targets in Russia.

“If I'm going to be wise general, I'm afraid they might try to envelope you. Or would, but the government now is confused and disorganized. You have breathing room, now.”

“What do you recommend?” Wen asked.

Makulov smiled, and leaned back. “That we take this city, relieve my men, and hold half the Republican Duma as prisoner!”

“You're an aggressive man.” commented Wen.

“I'm a timely man.” he corrected.




Warm afternoon sunlight filtered through the windows. Standing behind an armchair Wen Xiaogang, the secretary for the national congress stood at ease as Hou reclined back in his chair. The living room was quiet. The princes of Ethiopia were outside on the deck with their mother. The foreign language was muffled through the glass door wall that separated them from the two leaders.

“The congressional proposal to declare war on the Portuguese fell through.” Xiaogang remarked drly, looking out at the ocean beyond the back deck. Xiaogang was a rather average figure, he was old like so many with a nearly bald head. What hair he had left was slowly becoming silver in color and the rest of his color was fading slowly.

“It's no wonder, really.” Hou remarked with a dry dispassionate voice, “We don't have much in the way of grounds.”

Xiaogang shrugged, a little indifferent. “I was all the while believing it would pass and we'd find ourselves marching off against Spain for one reason or another. It was looking like it had wide support behind it but it fell through the rungs at the last minute with hardly enough votes behind it to leave it on the table. The War Bloc that had formed behind it dispersed and we're back to where we are before. We scheduled another hearing with the military on the status in Africa.”

Hou nodded indifferently. Wen Xiaogang continued, “I imagine Commander Lou will send another officer to tell us the same thing: Ethiopia is a massive nation and the Spanish will just be absorbed and chewed up in its territory. Like the Japanese they can't get far without turning the entire army into a line of men on sentry duty on every road, bridge, and railway, or every river and valley in that country. Then all Hassan would have to do is pick off each sentry man by man and retake the Empire.”

Hou wasn't committed to enter the discussion about war in Africa. He was such a man that any comment made about it to any person might somewhere down the line be interpreted as policy. He was sure that if had any response to the congressional secretary pertaining to the War in Africa or the Ethiopians he might even read into it subconsciously as support for one thing or another.

The silence between the two of them went on for a while until an aid walked into the room and set on the tea-table between them a tea set of two cups, and a pair of dark maroon colored soups; hóng dòu tāng, red bean soup. Xiaogang looked down at the plate, and back up to Hou.

“I asked to meet with Dong Wan Chun today.” Hou answered the question Xiaogang was too late to ask, “He likes red bean soup.”

“I'm familiar with him, he's the Judicial Committeeman, yes?” asked Xiaogang.

Hou nodded.

“So I guess I will have to leave shortly.” the secretary sighed.

“Well not quiet yet, the man has a few minutes yet. You can certainly pass him through the door.” excused Hou, “Unless you have anything else.”

Xiaogang shrugged, “My son's wedding will be in a couple weeks.” he said flatly, “You remember the invitation, surely?”

“I did, and I said I'd still think about it.”

“I hope you make up your mind.” pleaded Xiaogang, “It would be an immense honor for the chairman of The Party and Grand Secretary of the nation to show up and give him his blessings. It might as well do you plentiful good to leave the house.”

“I've been away from the house for a long time, I think I have time to catch up on.” Hou remarked, folding his hands in his lap, “But as I said, I will think about it.”

“I hope you would consider,” Wen remarked, “at the very least, you can take the trip as the last before you retire to behind the curtain.”

From outside the sounds of a car engine could be heard as wheels broke over gravel. Both men looked towards the door. Bowing, Wen Xiaogang stepped away, “Your guest is here.” he said in a low voice.

“He's early.” Hou said.

“I have things to take care of in Beijing in any case, Congress is still in session.” said the secretary as he headed for the door, “I'll keep you updated as things develop. I may someday have something to bring to your house to sign after all.”

“I trust you'll keep things all in check while I'm away. You were always good at that. I wish you the best to your abilities, comrade.” Hou called out to him. Wen smiled and slipped on his shoes as the judge walked in. The two exchanged polite bows before the congressional secretary left.

Dong Wan Chun was by no means a small sort of man. He carried a great weight on his bones and was an unusually larger person, the top of his hat brushing the top of Hou's door frame as he had entered. Removing it, he bowed as low as he was tall to the chairman. “How are you doing, comrade?” he spoke softly.

Wan Chun was a pale man, with equally white and silvery hair that clung thin to a balding head. His narrow almond eyes peered out across a long round nose and he wrapped his thick hands in his lap as he sat. With narrow features and his whiter complexion, he was very much a northern man much like Hou.

“I do well.” the chairman said in his dry voice. “Would you like some tea?” he offered.

“Certainly, thank you.” Wan Chun said in a grateful tone. “I've been needing a drink all afternoon, I hadn't had so much a glass of water since leaving the courts this morning.”

“And how is the judiciary running, I hear so little about it.”

“We haven't been nearly as busy as we had been some ten years ago. But the cases of the Red Gang still linger. The attornies and we are still at work covering the lingering court battles of the lesser-known figures.

“It's a great disservice and honor that the IB had to take the matters of law in their own hands and kill off so many of the top names outside of our jurisdiction!” Wan Chun said, taking the moment to petition the leaving Grand Secretary over his matters, “The state should function on a proper use our revolutionary law, not extra judicial assassinations.”

“It is a shame, but I stand by the end decision and the post-mortem ruling of the courts. One way or the other it would have happened. Yan Sing even offered up the responsible officers, we shouldn't dwell on that more than it needs, we need to look ahead.”

Wan Chun sighed as he had a sip of tea, and leaned back in the chair. He made himself fit, even though he looked so much taller in it than anyone else. “So, what had you had in mind to discuss?” he asked.

“The matter of the elections, what are your thoughts?” Hou asked as the judge took a measured taste of the soup.

He seemed to consider the question, hanging quietly on it as he sipped and sampled. “This is fine soup by the way.” he complimented, before falling quiet again.

“The elections,” he began with a pause, “I have decided I wouldn't involve myself in them. I would support whoever it was who won. I owe that to whoever enters the secretariat.”

“I've been thinking about my choice in time to retire.” Hou responded, quick and premeditated, “And about the time I decided to leave China's future to someone else's hand. I want it to go the right way, and I need fellow vouchers to give that weight.”

Wan Chun looked up at him, an expression of stricken surprise muting all else in his face and eyes. “What would be your thoughts?” Hou asked.

Wan Chun sighed and lowered the bowl of soup on the table and looked down at his feet for a long moment.

“I've been thinking of retirement too.” he announced, “And that as a man of my age I am done with devoting my life to politics.” he rose his look to Hou and looked him in the eyes, “I understand the importance of keeping things quiet, so I'll keep what you're suggesting down low. But I'm not a power hungry or ambitious, terrified Congressman, comrade. I have three sons and all of them have grand-children of their own. It's time I lay down my political career in full to spend time as the head of a family.”

He got to his feet, and gently returned his hat to his head. “With all due respect, comrade chairman. I won't be endorsing anyone.”




A clear sky lorded over the Friday afternoon. A dry but calm heat filled the air, typical of late July. At the banks of the Kaidu river a simple homly mosque stood overlooking the sandy river as it flowed through the middle of the small city and to the farm-fields beyond. The stone bridges across the river were already full of life as afternoon traffic passed either ways across the river, on bicycles of rickshaws on their way to work or lunch. For the Uyghur Muslims, it was the end of the Friday afternoon services and finishing their prayers, the faithful rose to their feet.

Erkin Amas, the retired general of the revolution lead his people from the door, have conducted his sermons as elected by the congregation. Pleasantries abounded between he and the meager congregation as they filtered towards the front doors. All were dressed in their bests, soft silk robes of white or blue. They bowed and smiled. Some of the former soldiers among them saluted Amas, joking and laughing in jest.

The mosque central Korla wasn't an impressive structure. It was a new building built from a block abandoned from the war decades ago. The old ones had been destroyed or seized by the provincial government on and off. Their new mosque now looked to resemble a large home or office. Two stories, made of worn concrete and stone. There was no minaret to speak of on the new building, but this had ceased to bother the members of the community and the naked form of the temple allowed them a certain level of invisibility to what they were all afraid of were those anxious types, who still regarded the faith of Islam as foreign as the Christians. Or those wary of the Uyghurs all together.

Erkin Amas had been noting the tension. Those who heard Mang Xhu's words felt strongly for them and it put his people on edge.

“Go home!” a man shouted angrily, greeting the congregation as they stepped out of the doors into the piercing white light of the afternoon sun, “Corrupting people, leave like all the dogs you are and take your foul opiate with you!”

The outburst from the heckler who had so immediately interrupted them as they stepped out from mosque caught the congregation off guard and they stood back in the shadows of the door way. A sudden tension filled the air as the man kept shouting. “You're all disgusting!” the heckler jeered in a loud voice. He was a squat man, with a face well burned by the sun. A head of wild uncombed hair laid across a spotted and dimpled head. “The Revolution should have cast you out. It is your outside ideas that corrupt the nation. You hold us all back. You spoil the image of the China!”

Erkin Amas stepped forward. The tall, sizable former general easily stood over many of his fellow Uyghur and Hui who lived in and around the city. There was still a general tension and unease, afraid they might provoke something. Erkin however, stepped through the door and into the hard light of the Korla sun.

“You!” the heckler shouted, picking out the former general, the appointed Imam, “You lead these people. Take you and your horse fucking back to Kazakhstan where you belong.”

“And what then?” Erkin asked in a polite voice.

“To tell the uncivilized nomads who are your brothers that a great revolution will come. The points of their minarets will be thrown down.” the small man raved.

Erkin walked up close to him, and the man had to look up at him. Erkin folded his hands in front of him and looked plainly down.

“My people have lived here for thousands of years. Perhaps longer than you and y our family.” he said, “We're one of the same nation. It is not a good idea to throw out your own brothers.”

“Is so if they pollute the house which they live in!” the man argued.

“I disagree, because we have done no such thing. Or have I. Do you know who I am?”

“It doesn't matter, you stubbornly do not renounce your feudal beliefs and liberate yourself for the future. Therefore, you are an anchor to our forward progress!”

“I am general Erkin Amas, of the Western Corp of Revolutionary Volunteers.”

“Unimportant!” scoffed the man.

“And who says so?”

“Comrade Xhu, the new light for China. He will become the next great leader of our nation, and he shall smash your idols and your systems to free all men. Even it means those such as yourself will be put down in blood!”

Erkin sighed, and place his hands on the man. Turning him around he guided him away from the building as he protested wildly. Looking back to his people, Erkin gave them an assuring nod and they went out to the rest of their days.

“I know not who you are, comrade,” Erkin said, “but I ask you to find some new way to vent your frustrations. We do not deserve, nor do we want to suffer your indignity.”

“Bullshit, you are the reason the west is not as powerful as the east!” the man shouted irrationally.

“I can tell you are disturbed, but leave.” Erkin insisted, pushing the man away and pointing out into the rest of the city.

Seeing as how he had been beaten by a giant, the man turned and left. But it did not leave the retired general feeling any better for it.

Amsterdam, Netherlands
It has been several days since the Financial Secretary of Belgium reported that the political unrest “unavoidably” damage the economy. The economy has been going down slowly as the country is falling apart. Students in Ghent University protested about the economy and several other key issues for several hours before riot police had to be called. The prices of basic things had risen up since the announcement. And more people are heading for France, Britain, and the Netherlands. Most of the cases are illegal, while only a few are legal.

Stefaan just left the market area when he heard some chanting in the distance. “Ze verdienen het niet om hier te zijn!” the chant translated to “They don't deserve to be here!”

A crowd had formed nearby Belgium's embassy with signs and chants for the Belgians inside to see. Police were there to keep the peace as they formed a wall between the growing crowd and the embassy. The relations between both countries used to be the one of the closest international relationships in existence, because of their shared history, culture, institutions and language. Then it all changed during the Great War, Belgium was quickly crushed and the Netherlands chose neutrality. With the war lasting too long, the small country depended on the Netherlands.

But, the conservative party decided that Belgium should look out for themselves and left them to face their problems on their own. Since the conservative party has been ruling the Dutch government since the war ended, relations between the countries kept getting worse. Now, Belgium is suffering and they want their neighbor to know that they are suffering.

Stefaan didn't want to stay too long at the protest, because he didn't want to hold the bag of food any longer. He saw several police cars driving on the street where he lived as he reached his apartment. He looked to see what was going on, but he didn't matter as he got inside and headed for his room.

Amsterdam, Netherlands
“We have a great time.” a young man said as he searched the room for his clothes. Another young man, laying on the bed with the sheets covering him, looked at the man and couldn't help to smile at him. “You sure that you don't want more?” the man asked while patting the bed and giving him the 'look'. The man grinned at the suggestion and shook his head as he got on his pants.

“I can't. I have to go back home.” he told the man in the bed.

“Alright.” he sighed as he grabbed his underwear beside him and put it on while still covered with the sheets. Then, he reached for his pants on the ground of the bed as he tried to not fall off of the bed. But, he failed as he crash landed onto the ground and the other man looked and laughed. The embarrassed young man grabbed his pants and put them on quickly. The man walked over to the man on the floor and helped him off of the ground. Then, he gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

“I will bring back some coffee.” the man said as he headed for the door and left to get some coffee on the ground floor. The young man was by his self as he got on his shirt and waited for him to come back. The man sat on the bed and waited for him as he looked at the newspaper that was a couple days old. He kept on reading it for a moment until he heard a sound that was similar to a door being kicked down below and then shouting. The man put down the newspaper beside him and started to get worried.

The other man came back as he rushed into the room and closed the door. “What's going on?” the young man asked as he headed for the scared man. “The police are here!” the man shouted as he locked the door and looked for any possible ways out. He froze in place as soon as he heard the word 'police' and started to get nervous. There was a moment where he was worried that he was going to jail until he heard a cheer.

“The window!” he said as he opened it up and looked around to find a fire escape. It was getting dark out and the police would be too busy to look outside. Both men gathered to the window as they were getting to leave until they heard knocking on the door. “This is the police. Open the door or we will break it!” a voice shouted from the other side as it tried to open the door.

The young man managed to get to the fire escape before the window was shut. The man still in the room waved goodbye to him and blew him a kiss before heading towards the door. The young man couldn't do anything besides get out of the area before the police manage to spot him. He raced down the fire escape and heard shouting and screams of pain above. The man stopped for a moment and then tried to use the ladder. It was half way down to the ground, where he could just jump off without facing any injuries.

He jumped down from the fire escape and started to run out of the area. He needed to get back home before someone spots him. The man kept running for about two blocks before he started to walk normally.

Amsterdam, Netherlands
Prime Minister Rikkert Wiecherink listened to the radio as the news was on about the protest nearby the Belgian embassy. It has since ended as people started to head back to their homes before night time. While he was listening to the radio, he was finishing up on reading about a report released by a committee that talked about the weakness of the river dikes and how they will break someday. The Prime Minister considered updating the dikes, but that would need the local population to agree on demolishing their houses and straightening and strengthening the old meandering dikes.

He knew that there were other issues at hand to enforce the order, but he wasn't against the idea. For now, he would need to put it aside until the situation with Belgium is dealt with. Wiecherink yawned for a moment before he heard a knock on the door. He got up from his chair and headed for the door as he yawned again before opening the door. The Minister of Defense stool there with his coat on and his suitcase nearby him.

“Ready to go?” Theun Groot Overmeene said to his friend as he grabbed his suitcase on the ground.

Wiecherink nodded as he walked out of his office and closed the door as the men started to walk. They didn't talk much about how their day was and how the coffee tasted good this time. They did talk about the protest that happened at the Belgian embassy. “Protests like the one that happened today will keep on happening until we do something about it.” Overmeene said to Wiecherink, waiting for a response.

“And something will happen. I am going to talk to the rest of the cabinet about it tomorrow.” he responded as the two men walked down the stairs before stopping at the ground level. “I will get some rest and we'll talk about Belgium tomorrow. You should get some rest as well.”

Wiecherink walked to the front doors and said to Overmeene, “It will be a long day.” He opened the doors and headed for the car that was standing near the entrance. Overmeene couldn't wait for tomorrow as he also got out of the building and headed for his car in the parking lot nearby. Tomorrow was going to be an interesting one.

Hotel Suleiman, East Istanbul

The boulevard leading up to the modest hotel that Abbasian's platoon had entrenched themselves in had been blasted to look like the surface of the moon. A rain had passed through the previous night, soaking everything and leaving a curious mist in the air. Craters were filled with water from either the storm or from ruptured sewage pipes, leaving the bodies rotting inside. There were bodies everywhere, cut down by Armenian machinegunners behind the bullet-ridden facade of the hotel. Most of them wore the uniforms of Turkish regulars, tan uniforms, puttees up to their knees, brown web flak jackets and web gear, and a helmet covered with a khaki fabric cover bearing their regiment's number: 806. Mixed in was a healthy dose of reservist corpses, wearing the same uniform but lacking such protective equipment like a helmet or vest. The typical Armenian rifle platoon maintained a weapons squad that brought two medium-machinegun teams to bear: they were the singlemost casualty producing weapon in a regular unit's arsenal. Abbasian had funneled them down this boulevard to deadly efficiency. Covered behind brick walls with a healthy sector of fire, these machineguns were the first line of defense for the platoon and were responsible with massacring incoming troops before the riflemen could get a good view.

The machinegun, designated the K44 in Armenian service, was a modified version of a popular Polish design. It could carry two hundred rounds on a linked belt, capable of intensely fast automatic fire. The caliber was another 7.62mm round similar to the standard one used in the service rifle: the difference being the rifle cartridge was 39 millimeters long while the machinegun round packed more powder into 54 millimeters of length. The results were devastating: Abbasian had personally seen Ottoman troops ripped in half by a single bullet, or simply exploded into a fine pink mist. It was rumored that, in close combat, the speed of the bullet whizzing past someone was enough to heat up the surrounding air by friction and produce light burns on the skin. The boulevard was slick with dark red blood and guts. It made Abbasian sick, but he couldn't show. Infantry combat was visceral and intense, a far cry from his time looking through the lenses of a set of binoculars while radioing artillery batteries to adjust their fire. He had seen battle before and had watched people die, yes, but it had been from kilometers away. He never saw the detail of what a shrapnel-producing shell would do to a man unless they were driving through an impact area on their advance, and even then the mortuary affairs personnel had already covered the enemy bodies and were loading them onto trucks to send to one of the many mass, unmarked graves.

There was no mortuary affairs team to take care of the dead Ottomans laying in their craters: at best, they would be taken care of after the battle was over. At worst, Abbasian or his platoon sergeant would an incendiary shell into one of their tube-like portable grenade launchers and torch the bodies. It was too damp for the latter option, at least for now. Their dead would have to stare the living in the face, unblinking and unflinching. It did something to morale, seeing the dead for so long. It was easy during the reconquest of Erzurum, passing by towns and trenches that had been shelled and cleared hastily. Now, with the fight turning into a slog over the east of town, both sides had to come to terms with their actions. For all the jingoism and hawkishness of the general population and the military itself, war becomes terrible when faced head-on. Abbasian had heard, before his deployment, that killing begins to affect a man in terrible ways even when that killing was necessary. For all the glorified depictions of war in the cinema or the patriotic literature, they neglected to tell him that the human mind will wander. After all, these dead Ottomans had lives just like he did: favorite childhood toys, first kisses, dreams for civilian life outside of the army, and inside jokes with groups of friends.

They had asked the officer candidates when they think they'd start registering guilt for their actions. After ten dead enemies? Five? For Abbasian, and for quite possibly every human being who had ever carried a weapon into combat since the dawn of mankind, the answer was closer to one.

It was around noon when Abbasian realized that there had been no fighting in the general area for a few hours. He talked to his platoon sergeant and wondered if they had beaten back the enemy. His RTO, however, had informed him that nothing had come over the radio. The night prior had seen intense fighting, the clatter of fire and the booms of artillery coming in nonstop. Were the Armenians beating the Turks out of the city? It was hard to tell, being confined to one building in the center of a thick urban neighborhood. The last news he had heard was that only one bridge remained standing: if that fell, they would be trapped on the other side. There were three endstates to the conflict that they had been briefed on: Plan Blue, where friendly forces would control the entirety of the city and maintain the status quo; Plan Red, where the Turks would regain their capital and all the pride that came with that; and Plan Purple, which divided the city along the Bosporus into a friendly west and a Turkish east. If Abbasian was to be left behind in the event of Plan Purple, he would be trapped in enemy territory. His fear was that they had bypassed his position completely and were to deal with him when mopping up after pushing the Armenians across the strait.

"Platoon Sergeant!" he whispered, gesturing over to his post behind a blown-out brick wall where his rucksack leaned against an upside-down chair. The NCO scrambled his way over, taking note to keep down behind cover lest a sniper end his career right then and there.

"What's going on, Abbasian?" the man asked quickly. He adjusted his helmet - which bore a Bible verse and a cross across the front - and nabbed a cigarette from the helmet band.

"I think the front might have passed us," the Lieutenant suggested. He reached for the folded-up map in his pocket. The front had been drawn out every morning as intelligence was relayed over the radio. As of yesterday, there were right at the tip of an Armenian bulge. It was easy enough for that bulge to be collapsed by Turkish forces in the night. The RTO had been working on the radio all morning and wasn't getting signal: Abbasian gave the order to disassemble it and figure out what was wrong while he continued talking to PSG.

"I've been hearing sporadic gunfire to our north and south, it could be moving west towards the strait," Abbasian continued. He turned his eyes back towards the RTO, furiously unscrewing the back panel of the radio with his screwdriver.

Abbasian's platoon sergeant wiped the sweat out of his short, black hair. "Sir, I'm not sure if the line has held either. I'm inclined to agree... they've stopped coming down the boulevard, they must have found another way past."

"And they've stopped the shelling," observed Abbasian. "That could mean they're close, marking us as a holdout to encircle later."

"So that makes us trapped," the PSG announced grimly. He turned his attention towards the RTO: "How's the radio?"

The young radioman nervously held up what looked like a shattered piece of glass from the radio box. "I think the shockwave from a grenade or something might have shattered this little vacuum tube here. Broke the radio without us knowing."

The PSG looked to Abbasian, who nodded solemnly. "So our radio is down, what do we want to do?"

"Reestablish communications," the Lieutenant answered immediately.

The RTO shook his head: "Sir, this thing is fucking broken... I can't fix it, they don't tell me this shit. I ain't no electrical engineer, I just change the battery and turn dials."

"Alright, then I want you to rejoin your squad and toss the thing. Take up a position on the line and wait for further guidance."

The RTO scrambled off with a hasty affirmative, leaving the platoon leader and platoon sergeant to figure out the situation by themselves. The platoon sergeant sighed deeply, clutched his rifle by the handguard, and looked back towards the hotel's boulevard. "Sir, I'd send a runner out if I were you."

And so Abbasian sent a runner team out. Two volunteers from the platoon reported to him and were told the mission: head west until they encountered a friendly unit with working communications. Borrow the radio and call into company headquarters to inform them of the situation and get guidance. Return to the platoon and link up with the platoon leader. The RTO provided a notepad with frequencies and a step-by-step manual to change the channel on the device, a task more complicated than it sounded. The whole mission was to last no longer than three hours, with the platoon executing a withdrawal if the runners did not return in that time: it would be assumed that they were dead and the Turks had indeed encircled them. Passwords were exchanged and pre-combat checks and inspections were conducted. They took two magazines and a canteen of water with them, everything else staying with the platoon to potentially fend off an Ottoman attack in their absence. The Lieutenant wished them luck and sent them out through the back door of the hotel, where we watched them run through into the labyrinth of alleys that went behind the row of businesses on that street.

An hour later, a brief exchange of gunfire broke the silence a few blocks west of their position. The Lieutenant, with an icy feeling in his stomach, ordered his men to stand fast as quiet once again fell on East Istanbul. The runner team would not return by the designated time. The platoon would have to pull out the hard way.

Istanbul Treasury Complex, East Istanbul

Just a few blocks north, Apollo and Genghis rigged an improvised explosive charge to the chained, reinforced metal front doors of the Istanbul treasury building. The NSS agents stepped off and took cover by the stairs leading up to the entrance and detonated the bundles of Semtex. With a roaring whoosh and overwhelming force, the doors were blown inwards along with a sizeable chunk of the wall. The special agents shouted for the Armenians to breach, and the gaggle of MPs and intelligence clerks cleared straight into the marble lobby of the building. Weapons drawn, they scanned the room only to realize that the Istanbul militia were staring right back at them, astonished at what had just happened. The militiamen were dressed in blue police fatigues and bore whatever weapons they could find in their own homes. Many of them had bolt-action hunting rifles and leather belts to store ammunition, with a few using brown Turkish surplus equipment and more modern firearms. They were a motley looking group of older, overweight gentlemen who were outside of their element. Corporal George Yaglian guessed that these might have been less capable militiamen stuck guarding the treasury instead of immediately responding to the invasion.

Genghis stepped forward out of the mob of Armenians: "Who is your leader?" he asked in fluent Turkish, lowering his own weapon and presenting a friendly appearance.

One of the Istanbul militiamen raised his hand and stepped off from the wall. He was a middle-aged man who appeared to be an active police officer, based off of his rank epaulets and the cap he wore. He was armed only with a revolver and wore a black belt slung across his shoulder like a European constable. "Who the hell are you? Greeks or Armenians?"

"It doesn't matter," Genghis answered. The policeman rolled his eyes.

"Armenians, I bet," he almost spat. "I have a radio in the back, you're leaving this half of Istanbul to die."

"I don't make the decisions, friend."

"What do you want?"

The NSS agent turned to the group behind him, Yaglian in particular, and flicked his eyes towards the guards. Make sure they freeze, he mouthed. Then he whipped back to the police officer and drew his automatic pistol from his leather holster. "I want you to fucking drop your weapons and face the wall."

By the time the militia had figured out what had happened, the Armenians had all raised their weapons at them. Yaglian had eyes on a portly fellow who looked like he might have been a chef in real life, not at all suited for defending the Istanbul treasury from two apparently crazy Armenian intelligence agents. Genghis called an advance, leading the Armenians to walk methodically up to the Istanbul militia and press them against the wall.

"Drop your weapons! Face the wall!" called out Apollo, waving his rifle around. He switched back to Armenian and added: "If anyone goes for their piece, put 'em on the ground!"

Yaglian watched as the clerk next to him tackled a militiaman who was apparently too slow to get on the wall, smashing his head into the ground and kicking him in the spleen. The clerk had the common sense to kick the man's rifle away before grabbing his collar and forcing him back up. With a push, the militiaman went tumbling into the wall and kept his hands placed firmly above his head. Yaglian's chef had no such problems, obeying instantly. Apollo had evidently seen what had just happened and issued out a warning: "No heroics! You cannot win here. You fight back, we leave you behind when we destroy the bridge."

The militiamen turned and placed their palms on the wall, staring down at their boots. Yaglian pressed the muzzle of his rifle between the Istanbulite's shoulders and kept it there while he looked to Apollo for further guidance. This was insanity. These were their allies, after all. The NSS, apparently, had more important goals. The second-in-command, revolver still drawn, called out in Turkish again: "I want the map of this place and the skeleton key."

The police officer that Apollo had captured protested: "The key won't get you what you want... Fucking Armenians, after the goddamn gold. Thieves. Filthy Armenian thieves."

"If a key won't get me what I want then I'm going to blow the door off its hinges. This is just for convenience's sake," Apollo retorted. "And how many of you guys are left?"

The police officer growled as Apollo pushed his revolver against his neck.

"Tell me or I'll start shooting," the NSS agent warned.

"You wouldn't dare."

"Bitch, I might."

He cocked back the hammer on his revolver, an unnecessary step but an intimidating sound nonetheless. This was enough to persuade the Istanbulite officer, who reported that this was it. Their contingent of a dozen men had been ordered to secure the treasury almost as an afterthought: most of the men had to go to the outskirts of the city to stave off an attack. The Armenians were unfortunate that there was anyone there at all. Apollo softened his grip, but still kept the officer under observation. He didn't know if this completely true, but the intimidated whimper from the pistol's action was enough to convince him to go ahead.

"Genghis, take the MPs and bring them down with you. The intel clerks can tie these guys up and toss 'em in the back." Apollo turned to the militiamen and added: "Don't worry, we'll let you go afterwards."

Yaglian let a bespectacled clerk take over, his shaky hands leveling a rifle towards the Istanbulite's back. Yaglian tapped out and wished the kid good luck, before following the raid group towards the stairwell with Genghis taking the lead. The above-ground portion of the treasury contained mostly administrative facilities: meeting rooms, offices, workrooms, record rooms, and break rooms. Underground, however, was a concrete-reinforced bunker that held the reserves of the Turkish government before its splintering. Genghis, as it turned out, was interested in two things: the gold and the cash. Each one had a decidedly strategic use for the Armenian government.

The gold's initial benefit was obvious. The Armenian financial elements would be selling this stolen Turkish gold on the quasi-legal grey market. Persian businessmen, Greek socialites, and Ethiopian royalty alike would have an interest in purchasing these things. If it wasn't sold, it would be squirreled away in Yerevan's vaults to back the dram as national currency. In addition, it would deprive the Ottomans of their gold reserves if they were to retake the city: this was becoming more and more crucial as it appeared that the Ottoman forces would pry East Istanbul from the locals' hands.

The cash served its purpose for the NSS. Ottoman bills were still used in some parts of Georgia where lawlessness still reigned and the government could not stand up its economic system. NSS operatives inserted into the country would be using these stolen bills to bribe and barter with warlords. The money was also to be kept in a reserve in NSS warehouses in case of another war with Turkey, whereupon it would be quickly injected into the local economy with operators and airdrops to rapidly drive up inflation. Counterfeit bills would be mixed in with the real notes, spreading widespread distrust of the money that had just recently appeared. Economic warfare was shaping up to be an effective concept in the asymmetric fight between the Armenians, who needed every advantage they could get, and the Turks.

At the base of the stairs was an auxiliary generator room that contained a diesel generator for the electrical systems. Seeing the gates to a freight elevator ahead, Genghis pointed out Yaglian and a buddy to start it up and get it ready. This was a simple task: fuel the generator and flip the switch. Lights clacked on throughout the concrete bunker and cast a flickering yellow shade on the barrenness. Genghis sheperded the MPs onto the freight elevator that occupied a central space in the room before hitting the switch. With a laborious groan, the elevator began moving down slowly while the Armenians checked their equipment. Two minutes later, they had dropped down into the vault.

The lights were already on, illuminating a massive underground warehouse. Shelves stacked with crates of gold bricks stretched on as far as they could see. Piles of money alongside printing presses and plates lay behind prison-cell-style bars. Guard positions lay empty, the occupants long since captured on the first floor. A few of the soldiers wandered over to the crates filled with golden bars and inspected them with a mixture of curiosity and amazement. Many of them had never seen this much money in their entire life: the wealth of the Ottoman Empire, all in one place. Still, many of the shelves and cells were emptied, evacuated by helicopter during the riots and protests when the Sultan was killed. Some trucks had tried to move the gold out of the city before, but the public was tipped off and the convoy was ambushed in the ghettoes by poverty-stricken minorities.

The NSS agent picked up a bar from the floor and turned it over in his hands, weapon slung at his side. He turned to a soldier beside him and handed off his green backpack that contained a portable radio: "Call for helicopters to help out. If they balk, use the authorization code 'Peppers.' This will key them in that it's an NSS operation with full priority. Request as many cargo helicopters as they can spare to land in the treasury's parking lot. We'll move the paper money out that way."

Genghis turned to the other Armenians: "Load up the gold into the trucks. Take the elevator to the shipping dock on the ground floor and move it from there. This needs to be back at the airport as soon as possible: our flight is waiting. Let's move."

Papua City, Early in the Morning

Morning could not have come faster for Katashi, who's anxiety kept him from getting a good nights rest. Sluggishly, he got dressed and made his way outside, where a clunky machine was already waiting to take him to his new home. As he pulled himself up into the back of the truck, he saw a few other men, most of them displaced in some way, sleeping in the back of the truck. He made his way, as quietly as possible, to a seat across the only other man awake, and set his bag in his lap. As the truck coughed and jostled with life, Katashi watched as his old life slowly faded into the distance, and slowly began to nod off.

A short while later, Katashi awakened as bright sunlight flooded the back of the truck, and a large group of young men boarded the truck, filling the back with bodies and noise. Adjusting his glasses on his nose, Katashi looked around the truck, noticing the disgruntled looks of the other veterans who were awakened by the newcomers.

“Hey, you” said one of the older men closer to the front. “Do you have a cigarette on you? I get these excruciating headaches if I don't have a smoke when I wake up.”

Still too tired to talk, Katashi gave a nod, and rummaged through his bag, and pulled out a box of cigarettes, and a pack of matches, and handed them down the row.

“Well look at that.” said the man happily. “They made us give up ours this morning, something about it being hazardous. I guess the rumours where true. You folks in Papua City really were living in the lap of luxury.”

A hearty laugh filled the front end of the truck, rivaling the banter coming from the younger soldiers in the back. Katashi simply joined in the laughter, until he noticed everyone, not just the man who had asked, were helping themselves to his cigarettes. By the time the box made it's way back to him, there was only one and a half left. With a frown, he took the last full cigarette, and stuffed the broken one into his front pocket, deciding it was better to join in and not complain. After all, these men were going to be his new comrades. The company in the back definitely made the second half of the journey better for Katashi, and before he even knew it, they reached their destination.

Stepping down and out of the truck, Katashi was immediately herded to the front of the camp with everyone else. To the right of the entrance was a wooden board with the camps name scrawled across it in black paint.

“Heisha Shi”

Katashi gave the name an extra long look, puzzling at the way it was written. Instead of being written entirely in Kanji, like it normally would be, the “shi” was left in Hirigana. Looking to his left, Katashi noticed that the man who he had been sitting across from the entire trip, Tsuruya, was also puzzling over this oddity.

“It's weird.” said Katashi in a low voice. “Why purposefully write it out as shi? Do you think it's a scare tactic of Camp 4? Or do you think it means this might be... THAT kind of camp?”

Tsuruya stood there, hand to the beard on his chin, mulling over the sign in silence. Katashi tried repeating his question, but Tsuruya showed no indication that he was listening. Figuring it was best to let it go, Katashi went and joined the rest of the crowd, just as a man stepped of from behind the wooden gate.

“How many of you are ready?” the man asked, much to the confusion of the crowd in front of him. Of course, nobody answered. “I said, how many of you are ready?” Again, silence. Katashi noticed the grave look on the mans face, and spoke up, just before the man could.

“I'm sorry, sir, but... Are we ready for what?”

Smirking, the man held a hound out. “What's your name, soldier?”

“Minobe, sir. Minobe Katashi.” came Katashi's flustered and curt reply.

“Well, Minobe. The thing about this camp is once you agree to enter, you have to stay. You are put on a blacklist, unable to be moved around, and unable to leave. If you agree to join, then you're no longer a normal Kempeitai member. You become an elite.” Looking over the crowd with their confused looks, the officer grew more annoyed. “All of this, I assume, was not told to you when you enlisted?”

“Well sir.” replied Katashi once more. “We didn't sign up. We were just told we were being shipped off up here because of our skill and experience.”

The speed at which the officers hand connected to his face had to be record breaking, Katashi thought.

“Well. As was said. This camp is only meant for the most elite and trustworthy out there. I asume the rest of the details got lost down the chain, and your local commanders instead sent who they believed to be the best. Is that correct?”

The collective nod that followed the officers question is what he feared. Not a soul here had any clue what they were about to get into.

“Minobe” barked the officer. “Do you swear upon entering this camp, that you will not request to leave. That you will always work to the best of your ability, and that you will not share the secrets inside of these walls with anybody outside?”

Katashi, flustered by the sudden assault of questions, agreed absentmindedly, as he slowly repeated what was said to him in the back of his mind.

“Very good. Now, if you would please enter, we can get started.”

As he made his way behind the wooden gate, he found himself immediately being grabbed by a couple men, and led into a tent. They told him to remove his shirt, and to lean over a stool. When he stood there dumbstruck, they took it into their own hands, ripping his shirt off his back, and forcing him over the stool. They then handed him a black of wood, and told him to bite down on it hard. Now in a bit of a panic, he did as they said, just as he saw the reason why. Another man walked in with a hot branding iron, emblazoned with a modified Kempeitai symbol.

“As soon as this mark is on your flesh, it is a constant reminder that there is no going back, and a permanent brand of your service to the Emperor. Under the protection of the Kempeitai, and the Emperor himself, we will succeed where our predecessor, Unit 731, couldn't. Welcome to Camp 4, Sargent... Minobe.”

As Tsuruya shook the officer's hand outside the gate, all anybody heard was the pained scream of Katashi from within. Tsuruya instantly tried to pull his hand away, but the officer's grip tightened.

“With that, you have all officially been enlisted into this camp. Remember what I said. No going back. You're one of us, now.”

When the roads became unpaved, the dangers of the summer rains came full bear. On the unprotected highways the dirt and gravel of the sandy clay-packed roads lifted and turned to mud, washing alongside the car as it cut through the storms that rolled across the Ethiopian highlands. Hills washed into farm-filled valleys and where shallow holes had lay unattended to there now lay in wait ponds the size of lakes that broke the travel.

If it could be taken, they would drive around. The single-speed whipper blades of the ancient vehicle desperately washing away the solid walls of water through the constant heavy rains that pounded the high-country in summer. It slowed travel, and to make matters worse the truck could only travel a steady pace of forty miles an hour in good conditions. And the back-country, and the highland summer monsoons only worsened it. At times, Sen Zhou would pull the car over and let the rain fall, waiting for it to break and give them visibility and time for the water and mud to drain away so she can claim a few last hours of driving.

The room in the cab was tight. Zhou, Yu, and Jong sat uncomfortably tight with the young Ethiopian student. It had been a battle among them, even starting out to determine who would be where and was the cause of much suffering and shuffling until they had got it almost right.

Zhou, having had enough driving the newly purchased and slap-dashed maintained truck had no intention at first to drive it to Lake Tana. She had sat packed in just behind the gear lever, and by position shifted the truck through it three gears as they climbed the hills. The mechanics in the airfield had managed to tighten it, and it no longer needed a mile of space to do its job.

But Yu – who was driving – turned out to be a sloppy driver and nearly caused an accident with a mule cart on the way out of town. Shuffling him to Zhou's position very nearly gave the small crew a lesson in the effects of motion-sickness and it was hardly a block out of the capital they again changed positions, putting him at the passenger window.

The Ethiopian student soon came to occupy his seat, and soon himself needed to move. Unrelaxed and tense – or so he claimed – his hands had a tendency to wander and Zhou had on more than one occasion force him to move his hands from her leg. He obliged sheepishly, but as soon as they hit a pothole they would be back, and the story continued. He switched with Jong, who though being such a wide young man forced Zhou nearly against the driver's side window. But it was the closest they came to perfection, given the cards they were offered.

The cabin was sweaty and hot, a stifling humidity hung in the air even despite the heavy rains. Cracking the windows helped only a little by circulating the air but did nothing to keep heavy rains from not coming into the car. Matters were made worse when Yu went to lit up for a cigarette, and the dry, ashen bitterness soon filled the cabin. Rain or not, Zhou ordered him to put it out or step outside before everyone was asphyxiated by the cheap tobacco.

In the back a green tarpaulin covered the truck bed and fluttered in the wet wind, sending whirling whips of water when it rained behind them and flicking off residual water when it wasn't. Under, strapped secure to the bed were the basic supplies they imagined they needed where they were going. Guns, ammunition, food, and fuel. Dufflebags full of the soldier's personal gear also rode in the same mass of equipment. And underneath it in a locked steel boxes environmental suits packed in anticipation of the possibility of Spanish chemical use as they traveled close to the front of the war.

Before the party crossed over into the Amhara state, they stopped for lunch.

The gravel of the road cracked and popped as the tires rolled slow over the road and off to the side. The red-brown clay still glistened softly from persistent summer rains but was otherwise dry, and for the choice of time and place to stop the skies were blue and clear of clouds. The road as it were was empty and quiet as the four riders stepped out and groaning uncomfortably stretched their sore aching limbs as they looked about.

The highlands here dipped sharply into a deep wide gorge, flush with green from the rich summer-rains. Over the horizon the mountains and cliffs of the high plateaus of central Ethiopia sheered the Earth and rose into the blue sky, creating walls that ran infinitely into the rolling mountain labyrinths of the country-side. In the middle, an even deeper chasm was carved into the stone and the sounds of rushing water poured out from the rough serpentine course of the Blue Nile as it drew the provincial borders of inner Ethiopia.

As Yu and Jong began digging into the supplies for their cache of rice, Zhou walked up to the edge of the steep rounded drop to the river below.

Unlike its name, the Blue Nile did not run blue. It was full and brown of sand and sediment laden water that rolled over itself as it ran through its swollen banks. The summer rain had impregnated the river, and I t ran high enough to swallow and drown the misshapen bushes that had grown too close to the edge as it made its swift and violent course west and south.

A bridge crossed the gap, a spindly-framed wooden bridge supported by rough stone and concrete pylons whose advanced weathering looked ready to break the architecture. The bridge was not grand, nor was it modern. The wood was old and worn, clear tire-tracks run shallow groves across the boards from years of traffic and it looked ready to sway and dance in the wind. Further, it was narrow, maybe just big enough to except a large truck. Zhou's stomach ached and twisted in terrible horror as she looked at it, and she immediately worried about having to cross to the other side.

“As soon as we cross, we've only three-quarters of the journey ahead of us!” the student they had brought as a guide to collect his family exclaimed in excitement.

Zhou turned sharply, catching up as he walked up to her. His wrapped tightly around his chest as he smiled nervously. He looked up at her, and then down at the ground. Raising his gaze to look across the river gorge, where mesa cliffs loomed over the crossing and where the road continued its meandering highland crawl between the banks of a tributary stream and a rocky cliff face.

The countryside was rich with trees and grasses, thick shrubs lined the river and the banks as much as they did the road. The air was rich with the whine of insects and the calls of birds. Somewhere in the distance Zhou thought she could hear the cackles of hyenas but dismissed it as a fantastical trick of the mind.

“Why are you in Addis Ababa and not with your kin?” asked Zhou, trying to broach friendly conversation. It didn't feel right with her and she regretted the decision outright. But she was too slow to retract the question as he answered anyways.

“To get an education!” he exclaimed with excitement, “There is nothing for me at home but to herd goats, and there is no better way to support my people.” he said this with a wide proud smile, “I am to become an engineer, if all things work out.”

There was a lost sense of hope in his tone of voice. One that wanted the future he desired for himself, but one that also admitted with regret that things were now complicated, to put it in the lesser of terms. Even Zhou was unsure if China would allow him to continue his training in Chinese universities should he end up as a long term refugee if things went sour fast, and for a long time.

“But, what about you. Why are you so far away from your kin?” he asked.

Zhou didn't answer him. She wrapped he hands in front of her and continued to gaze down at the rain-swollen rapids below her. She couldn't claim to know much about Africa and its rivers. She knew hazily the Blue Nile would drain into the Nile somewhere, but didn't know where. She wasn't sure either if they would cross the Nile as they would the Blue Nile. It seemed to her to be something to expect. But she didn't want to answer his question. She responded with her own.

“What's ahead of us?” she asked flatly.

“Oh...” the deflated student responded, sheepishly. “More highlands.” he said, almost regret. He was deflated with his answer. “We'll come on the small town of Dejen soon after the bridge. If we keep up the pace we will be there by nightfall, this is all-to-slow going.”

“I can't help it.” Zhou said, “We can't help it.”

“I-I understand.” the student responded, worried. “There... There are Muslims who live in Dejen. Have you ever dealt with Muslims?” he asked this concerned, almost a little afraid. At asking the question he looked to almost want to hide.

“I have, a little.” Zhou answered. She recalled her tour through the Philippines and the Muslim villages on Mindanao's south-western coast, as well as trying to give them aid after what had been forced upon them when they arrived. Even then though, their relationship with them was tenuous. And while China had the Hui, she could not recall ever really interacting with them. She supposed in the end there would be nothing to worry about.

The student nodded cautiously.

From behind them the voice of Yu called out, “found the tea!”

“And the rice?” Zhou called back, turning on her heels.

“Still looking.” he shouted back.

“Perhaps I'll help.” the young man said nervously, turning back to the truck.

Zhou acknowledged him with a impatient nod and turned back to the river. Being a little more alone now, she could begin to appreciate the awe and extremes of this country. She wondered just how the Spanish could seek to subjugate Ethiopia and began to doubt their mission plan.

tfw u find gud Chinese revolutionary music and u think "dam fam wish i had pow"