Ioannina, Southern Epirus

"Girls, I ask you to please hurry! We're going to be late if we keep at this pace,"

There was some charm left to Ioannina, some remnant of the city that once stood before Athens decide that it must be expanded and brought into the new millennium. The old town stood out like a colored core in a ring of brutal gray, the Greco-Ottoman look slowly being overtaken by that which prioritized function over aesthetic. Ioannina had certainly grown, but not into anything that could be called beautiful. Within a small restaurant, one would find a hoard of young girls and women, ranging from 12-16, practically invading and occupying the place in their own right. Ioanna was host to an outing for a girls-only outing organized by a branch of Komen, the national Greek communist youth organization, to Epirus. The goal was to have them journey to Argyrokastro and then to Korytsa, to better get an understanding of the status of Epirus, and have the girls participate in local volunteer work to make them feel like they were contributing to the liberation of Northern Epirus from Albanian control. The train had stopped on its journey from Athens in Ioannina, with the final leg of the journey being made in the early morning.

Amid the chatter of the girls, a dark haired child nibbled quietly on a piece of baklava, only stopping to return the greeting of another girl. Athena Metaxas was 13 years old, and it was her first time so far away from Athens. Athena was fully aware of the baggage that came with her ancestry, how her great-grandfather had taken over the Country in the past, and how a depressed one-night stand between her grandmother, Ioannis' third daughter Sophia, and a nameless communist soldier lead to her father's existence. She never could fully escape that lineage, but she constantly told herself that with hard work maybe she could make it, in spite of the odds being against her from before she was even born.

Athena tore her baklava in half to share with her friend, Lydia, who had just come to meet her from across the table. Lydia was an Epirot by birth, though she had left as an infant. This would be the first time she would return since then.

"I wonder if I'll get the chance to see the building we used to live in," Lydia said between bites of the shared baklava

Athena nodded, smiling at her friend, "I've never been this far away from home, I have no idea what to expect!"

"Mom and Dad always said that it was nice over there," Lydia flashed a smile, "but I hear Athens is still better, so I hope you won't be disappointed."

The morning came slowly for Athena, who spend most of the night awake before being funneled onto an armored train, passing the military checkpoint that marked the start of Northern Epirus.

The short tour around Argyrokastro left much to be desired by the two girls. The group was lead around like a leashed dog through the streets of the city. The guide made claims of security, due to Albanian terrorist activity in the area, and yet Lydia was visibly craving to freely walk around. Shortly after the lackluster outing, the girls were huddled over to several buildings that had been defaced, and were tasked with cleaning and painting over the graffiti.

"We barely saw anything," grumbled Lydia under her breath, Athena standing to her right as usual.

Athena sighed, "I'm sorry, Lydia. But hey, maybe it's not lost yet"

"What do you mean?"

Athena smiled wide, "Well, we're spending the night here. You and I are sleeping in the same place, so why don't we slip out and take a look around Arygrokastro ourselves?"

"Athena!" Lydia's eyes widened at the suggestion, her gaze quickly shifting to her feet, to her sides, and finally over to her companion. "You know what they'll do to us if they find out we snuck out at night?"

"So we don't get caught"

"It's crazy, just insane" Lydia replied, her voice breathy with anxiety. The girl anxiously started painting again, sloppy, rushed brush strokes spattering paint all over herself.

"Don't you want to see your home city?"

"Yes, but I don't want to get in trouble!"

"It won't be trouble, just trust me!"

Lydia ceased painting

"You do trust me, right? When have I been wrong before"

"Okay...we can go out tonight, but we come back as soon as I say, okay?"

"It's a deal"

11:23 PM, Argyrokastro, Northern Epirus Autonomous Region

Lydia Panagakos had been friends with Athena Metaxas since she was 6 years old. It was days like this that made her wonder if she made the right choice sometimes.

It was a cold night, and Lydia wrapped her jacket around herself while Athena made her way out of the inn.

"Ready to go look around?"

Athena extended a hand as she lead Lydia down the street

Occupation was not kind to Argyrokastro, and it became painfully apparent beyond the central city. Armed men stood at every corner, amidst burnt out shells of buildings, decay setting in amidst administrative neglect.

"This...this isn't what I imagined"

She was unsure if it was the night or the constant presence of armed me, and lurid quips towards them from the various disheveled looking men who seemingly lined every inch of the streets, but Athena was shaking uncontrollably.

"Maybe there was a reason they didn't take us here...maybe we should just go back"

"Yeah, mayb-" Lydia started before she was cut off by a harsh shouting and the sight of two men leading a third, restrained and shuffling about pained, up to a wall. The two girls quickly backed into an alley, peaking out behind the wall at the goings-on.

The taller of the two men, clearly a soldier along with his partner, laughed as the other pushed the older man against the wall.

"Another Shiptar causing trouble, huh"

The man could only grunt, struggling with his hands restrained behind his back, his mouth bound shut

"Sick of all this nationalist shit going on nowdays; glad they're letting us just take care of you on the spot now." said the other soldier as he placed a gun up against the man and fired, the loud shot obscuring the cries coming from the alley as Athena quickly grabbed Lydia and pulled her back into the alley, holding her tight and placing her hand over her mouth to muffle the cries as she looked over to see if the soldiers were still there.

Nothing, just the body of a would-be rebel laying dead on the street. Athena sighed, falling back and letting her and Lydia slide down the walls of the alley, still clinging to her friend, who was lost in a hysterical fit of crying and screaming, her face buried into Athena's chest as the other simply stared at the blank wall ahead of her.

"Lets...lets...just go back" she said monotonously, waiting for Lydia to become stable enough, taking her by the hand and making their way back to the main roads of Argyrokastro.

The girls slipped back into the inn as easily as they had slipped out, with Lydia quickly insisting she sleep with Athena in the same bed this night. Athena accepted, but little sleep was had, as she simply stared into the ceiling for the remainder of the night.

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June 6th, 1938: On a Long and Lonesome Highway, West of Wichita
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Floyd Switzer was sweating it. Miles of flat monotony surrounded him, nothing but corn as far as he could see. K-45 stretched for miles behind him and miles ahead. He wished more than anything that this place was as lonesome as it seemed, but everybody knew predators lurked this part of the plains.

Floyd wasn't cut out to be infantry, but he knew how to drive, so that's what he did for Uncle Sam. But there was more to this mission than simply driving supplies. He sat in the cab of a Kenworth truck, a big long thing originally designed to hall lumber, but this one converted for military use, pulling a box semi-trailer. The front lines of the Second War between the States stretched over a distance that made the fabled Western Front of the Great War look the size of his granny's driveway. Maintaining supply lines over such a stretch was a challenge. The traitors knew it, and they made it worse.

Bob Koster was cleaning his gun for the fifth time that day. Kansas could bore a man to death, and Bob was sitting shotgun so he didn't have the wheel to keep him busy. Bob didn't talk much, and Floyd was too distracted by their mission to start up a conversation. Bob only occasionally glanced up, but Floyd's eyes were constantly scanning, looking for even a little bit of dust, something to announce his fear was coming true so he could confront it instead of just sitting here worrying.

Ironically, when it finally came, it wasn't from in front, and he didn't have a warning aside from a quick glint in his side mirror. There was no time between realization and the first round of machine gun fire to hit the side of the truck.

"Sheeiiit" Bob Koster exclaimed. The way he said it had the quality of a sword being drawn from its scabbard at the start of the duel. He reached back and knocked hard on the wall of the trailer. Floyd instinctively pushed the accelerator, and Bob was bucked back and forth as he reached across Floyd's lap to work the crank that brought the driver's side shield down. The gunfire pattered across the metal shield just as it closed, but a bullet got through and took off Bob's middle finger. Blood sprayed across Floyd's lap. "Mercy sakes alive!" Bob shouted, "They took the best one!" He pressed his finger into the palm of his hand while using the other hand to close the shields in front and on his side. "Put the hammer down!" Floyd saw a brief glimpse of the armored truck attacking them, the old southern battle flag waving defiantly from the back, and a surprised looking man strapped to the side with a gun in his hand. Once the steel shields were up, all he could see was a thin strip in front of him.

Southern raiders plied the barren expanse, stealing US war material like privateers of old. They set up traps. They didn't know that this truck, the one Floyd and Bob were driving, was a trap too. The hunters had fallen into a snare.

Floyd jackknifed into a field, presenting the broadside of the trailer toward the circling southern raider. The sound of metal thumping against metal echoed through the truck. Unseen firing holes opened, and a truck full of US soldiers threw lead at the enemy raider. Floyd heard it, but all he saw was young corn stalks flying across his thin field of vision like a reverse waterfall of foliage.

He piloted by ear now, guessing where the enemy was by who was firing where. He saw the armored vehicle speed in front of him, aiming at the small window. Bullets spat and sparked across the hood. Floyd ducked, and Bob stuck a pistol through the hole, firing one shot wildly at the enemy. Both cars furiously replowed the planted field.

There was more than the one part to this trap. The enemy gunfire bounced harmlessly off the armor camouflaged into what looked like a regular truck, and the US bullets bounced just as harmlessly off the obviously armored Confederate raider. But the US Army had an advantage here. The enemy hadn't expected or prepared to come across armored prey, but the Army had expected it, and they had prepared. The Confederates, avoiding the broadside of the US truck, attempted to enfilade it from the front. Then they circled around as quick as they could to do the same from the back, assuming the back to be the best target. That was a mistake on their part.

Floyd heard the big anti-tank gun go off, and felt its recoil push the trailer forward into the truck. All went quiet. Was it over? He became aware for the first time that Bob was cussing under his breath as he worked to stopped the bleeding in the stump of his finger.

Machine gun fire resumed. The battle was still on. He saw the Confederate truck in front of him, the man on the side slouched over dead.

"I wonder if this is all worth it." Floyd said out loud.

"When we're standing over their carcasses like a heap of trophy bucks, I'll call it worth while." Bob replied.

When it ended, it ended abruptly. He'd crossed a ditch, his hands white-knuckle against the steering wheel, the gunfire jittering at his nerves to the point he thought he might shatter into a million pieces. Then it all just... stopped. He was told by the gunners in the truck that the ditch gave them their opportunity. The Confederate truck was slowed for just a second, but it was long enough to the anti-tank gun to get of its perfect shot. They got out of the truck, Bob holding his bloody-drenched to keep it up. "Ain't she a beautiful sight" Bob said, looking at the smoking heap of Southern pride with a gory splatter where the outside gunner had once been. Floyd felt empathy. Not for the raiders; they had got what they deserved. He empathized with their truck, smouldering, smashed, ruined. Inside he felt the same.

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June 6th, 1960: Irgalem, Ethiopia
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The war hadn't truly ended for Floyd Switzer. He'd grown up in Colorado, but it was no longer home to him. After all these years it was still the front line. The seasons rolled by, the world moved on, and Floyd still couldn't get passed his war years. He went to the University of Maine, as far away from the battlefields as he figured he could get while still being in lower forty eight, but it didn't help. Even in Maine, it felt like the war was just on the horizon, a ghost staring at him through a doorway at the end of the hall. He shivered when he saw the sunset, remembering the dead resting on that horizon. The United States was ruined for him. He got his degree and left.

Ethiopia wasn't his first choice. It was a black nation after all, not one likely to accept a white man from the states, but his mind was changed by a professor who recommended it to him. Ethiopia was developing, trying to become one of the great powers, and it accepted white talent with open arms, without any of the racial ugliness of Rhodesia or South Africa that reminded him of America's eternal enemy: the southern states. The best part, it was almost halfway across the planet. He couldn't get further from America without treading water.

He sat on the tailgate of a landrover, picking on kocho bread wrapped up in the frond of a false banana tree. Behind him, a handful of men from Addis Ababa surveyed the hillside, and others worked with shovels and picks. He heard the bell on Betty Lou's collar tinkling somewhere in the bushes.

"Betty Lou." he called out, making a tsking sound. The dog marched out of the bush and to his side. She was an American Eskimo and Beagle mix - a mutt, though she looked like a miniature English Setter. She looked up at him. "Don't go where I can't see you, girl." he said, patting her head, "There are critters out there that'd give you a real fight."

Down the hill a cloud of dust formed. They were coming. He buttoned reclasped his the hanging strap on his overalls and stood up. Betty Lou sat at attention, staying close enough to him that he could feel her warmth on his legs.

The caravan was made up of several safari type vehicles. They were a mixed race group. Funny he should notice that. Blacks and whites sat chummily together in a way that would be highly illegal in the South - he spat at the mere thought of the Southern United States. That his guests were flouting some rule from half a world away endeared them to him already.

They pulled up in front of him. He didn't know who was the Ethiopian Emperor, though he figured it wasn't any of the whites, or the little Jap fellow, and it probably wasn't any of the drivers with their identical uniforms and red fezzes like a parade of armed Shriners. Floyd figured it was probably the sly looking moonfaced fellow with the Chaplin mustache.

"His Imperial Majesty, Sahle the First." one of the Shriners announced. The workers and surveyors stopped working and bowed. Floyd followed their lead, and was surprised when it turned out the Emperor was the youngest in the group. Sahle was taller than the rest except for his Shriner guards, had a boyish face, and something of an Impish look about him like a rascally kid from the funnies.

"This is Mister Switzer from America" The man with the Chaplin 'stache introduced him, "He is an engineer from America, and he's leading the team that is modernizing our infrastructure." They were not looking at Floyd himself, who figured he wasn't too amazing a sight except for being possibly the only white man in overalls in all of East Africa. But they did seemed transfixed on his feet. And of course they were. He was standing on a square chunk of paved blacktop.

"This is what the road'll look like." he said, kneeling down to touch the asphalt beneath his boots. Betty Lou sniffed his hand. "It'll be longer of course." he chuckled and spat a glob of tobacco juice, "We get the bitumen from the A-rabs, the gravel from pits somewhere up north. It'll follow the old War Road for the most part, but we're trying to skip places where it washes out. That's what we're doing up here." he stood up and looked behind him, where workers were backing up from a rise in the ridge. He winced before the explosion came, a big bursting roaring thing, clearing the troublesome rise and sending a shiver of bad memories down his back. He'd been so busy repressing war memories that he hadn't seen the faces of his guests in all their comical surprise.

"That'll do it." he said stoically. As his ears got used to the sound of things not exploding right next to him, he heard the puttering engine of a small motorbike somewhere down the slope. "We'll try to stay on higher ground to avoid the weather..." he started as the motorbike arrived piloted by a man in Khakis. The new arrival ran to Mr Chaplin Mustache and gave him a message that made the latter's face drop. "I apologize for the suddenness, but his majesty and myself must return to the capital. Dinner will be served here, and your lodgings have been settled. Again, I apologize."

The Emperor followed him into a Landrover and they sped down the mountain, leaving everyone else stunned. People whispered about what might of happened, and Floyd was left wondering if he was supposed to continue his demonstration. "Helluva country, girl" he reached down to pet his dog. "We'll get you some food in a minute it sounds like."

"Well shit." Sergeant Patrick Mulligan muttered the words as he stared down at the two bodies on the floor. Ambassador Heaps was crumpled against his desk, his bathrobe lying open to expose most of his body which was now soaked in blood. Beatrice lay directly in front of the door and Mulligan was glad he had not gone further into the room as some of her blood dripped off the ceiling, narrowly missing the brim of his pith helmet to splatter on the toe of his boot.

"That sums it up well." Replied a second security officer as he crowded into the doorway next him. "Murder suicide?"

"Sure looks that way." Mulligan stepped back, bumping into the second man as they both cleared the door way. He glanced around the room again, spotting the weapon under a nearby chair. It was a common enough pistol used locally by any number of Police, armoured car drivers, etc. The scene certainly looked like a murder suicide but nothing he had seen suggested that the Heaps were having domestic issues. They were lifelong perverts, wife swappers, sex party goers, and so forth. Unlikely one of the suddenly became insanely jealous. He knew that Heaps had royally fucked up the Rhodesian application to the African Union but he doubted something like that would cause his wife to shoot him.

"The household is showing up." The second officer commented quietly and a brief glance over the shoulder revealed curious house staff starting to crowd the nearby doorways, kept at bay by more security.

"Anyone called the locals yet?" Mulligan asked as he bought himself more time to think. The Rhodesian Government had a contingency plan for this sort of situation, top secret orders that had come down from somewhere on high in the event an Heaps was ever killed. It was almost to perfect... He didn't wait for a reply as a plan crystallized in his mind. "Find Abay. He's our killer. Make sure he fights to the death."

The second officer didn't argue, only nodded and turned away. Abay was a local Ethiopian they had hired six months ago. The man had Communist leanings but that had been the point in hiring him apparently. No one had explained to Mulligan why at the time, he had fought the idea, but now it was making sense in his head. Abay was a sacrificial pawn. He looked up and caught sight of Sara Reicker on the upstairs landing. The rest of the staff looked scared or worried and she was making a good act of each as well but her gaze was steady, her feet shoulder width apart, head held high. No ordinary secretary that lady.

The second security officer had vanished into the household and toward the servants quarters. Ten seconds passed before a shout rang out, a gunshot, and then the sound of breaking glass. The security officer burst into the hallway again, pistol drawn, helmet gone.

"He bolted out the window!" He shouted, waving his weapon toward the side of the house before running for the door. House staffers scattered in front of him like leaves before the wind. He reached the door and wrenched it open just as the sounds of a man yelling suddenly broke the night air, more gunshots rang out, and the roar of Ridgebacks brought shrieks from the staff inside the house. But not from Sara. Mulligan was still watching her and saw her glance outside and then turn away as if it was nothing. She was cold. And very dangerous.

The shooting died away and the sound of Ridgebacks turned from excited barks to the rumble of dogs who had found their prey. A horrible scream came from the brush, rising and falling in an awful cadence, almost over ridden by the victorious calls of the dogs. Mulligan waved one of the other security staff over, told him to ensure no one entered the room, and then headed for the door.

Outside the main yard was a blaze of light. Security Officers in their white uniforms manned positions as they were trained to do while men in green fatigues, the Immediate Action Rapid Deployment Team or IARD, hurried into the bush after the dogs. The screams died away to nothing and two men came from the brush dragging a pair of big Ridgebacks and a German Shepard whose chests were covered in blood. Another two men came a minute later, dragging a body by its arms and dumping it onto the gravel drive.

Mulligan walked over, his mind still sorting through scenarios as he went. The face of Abay stared up him, the black skin around his throat and lower jaw had been turned into shredded meat by the dogs. One leg was badly torn as well. That would have been the Shepard, they were trained to bite and hold, the Ridgebacks to kill. The man was certainly dead.

One of the IARD Men spat on the body and then stalked off, the big Shepard trotting along happily at his side. Sirens could be heard now. Gunshots were not so common in this part of Ethiopia that they would be considered part of the night noise. The local Police would have to be kept at bay but it would be impossible to simply prevent the Ethiopians from being part of the investigation, one of their citizens was dead now after all. Mulligan turned and began to rap out commands, he had much to do and little time to do it.



Three Shotel Agents stood in front of Sergeant Mulligan, three black men staring down one white man, as the world watched from beyond the cordon of local Police. More Police stood around the yard, mostly giving the security dogs and their handlers a wide berth. Here and there a Policeman talked with a Rhodesian Security Officer. The Police spent enough time in the area to be on friendly terms with the Security detail and made for a bit of a bizarre scene.

Even the Shotel men, Agent Mehret, had ties to the embassy staff. He and Sergeant Mulligan played gold together once a week at a local country club. The two men looked like interracial twins to some extent, both tall, broad shouldered, short cropped hair, and with a ramrod straightness that hinted at previous military experience.

"Communists?" Mehret said with a slight eye roll. "Come on Pat, don't fuck with me. What's going on here?"

Mulligan smiled thinly at the short form of his name. Mehret only used it when they were golfing, and then only after a few beers. He was trying to play on the relationship the two men had. Mulligan couldn't blame him, he would have done the same.

"I told you Mehret, bloody man attacked by Security Officer and bailed out the window. We know he had Communist leanings, found some literature in his room, and Rhodesia isn't exactly popular with the commies these days."

Mehret leaned in and winked so that only Mulligan could see it. "You sure it wasn't a lovers tiff? Your Heaps aren't exactly what you would call subtle in the amount of black cock she liked to suck."

Mulligan had to concede that Mehret had a point. Beatrice had climbed onto about every black mans pole she could and rode them to hell and back. In fact, it wasn't ultimately a bad story and he mentally kicked himself for not thinking of it. Mehret mistook the surpassed fury for shame at failing to cover up the real reason.

"Don't worry Patrick. It won't hurt Heaps reputation at all. Nobody liked the son of a bitch anyway." Mehret kept his own face straight but glee danced in his eyes. That Heaps had been killed by a jealous lover of his wife would delight the local gossips and keep the papers busy for a week or two. He had no doubt that Rhodesia could weather the storm.

The two men stopped their conversation as black van rolled through the crowd. The Coroner. It would take all three bodies to the local morgue where the Shotel Agents and a Rhodesian Security man would remain with them until the Heaps could be transported home. There would be a state funeral with all the bells and whistles. If there was one thing Mulligan and Mehret could agree on, Heaps hardly deserved in.

Golden Lady, Part Three, The Agriculturist, Part Five

Aurelia dreamt of money. Money made the world go round; money measured success and ambition. Money was the mark of someone who had succeeded in their goals. But if given the choice, she would give it all away if it meant resetting the game, making more money from a low position and defeating another ladder of enemies; competent enemies who were there to make things more fun.

As she woke up and called for a servant to dress her, the latter part of the dream faded into wistfulness. The Contessa would not choose to be poor like Priscilla; how did the latter measure success? Smiles and happiness were ephemeral; money and beautiful things were forever. But she had to admit it, the Lady President was successful in what she did, an equal in ability. Aurelia respected that like few others of her class had.

Once dressed, Aurelia took out some papers from her desk; a bill of transfer that would give up the bulk of the planes she had bought from Rhodesia to the Philippine Air Force; the latter's planes were obsolete models not fit for the fairly good pilots that manned them. Of course, she would keep the best aircraft for herself and her plantation, including a lavish private plane that she can use to take official 'diplomatic trips' to The West, where she needed to build up support for the Special Economic Zones that would make her expenditure on the New Philippine Electronic Grid break even.

She hadn't forgotten about her election promises; her ancestors broke deals with their inferiors without a second thought. While Aurelia did think they were entitled to such behavior, it was still stupid for them to do such things and it would be stupid for her to break her vow now.

The Golden Lady looked at the window outside, appreciating the sunrise. Priscilla had been known to do the same when she wasn't a workaholic. One of the few things they had in common. As another servant entered in, the Contessa would say as she turned around to face him, "What is it?" Both she and the servant knew the answer, but the latter confirmed it anyway, "It's the Agriculturist, Archibald Santos. He's here to see you."

Aurelia's reply was, "Has he changed to something decent? It would be shameful if he looked like a...farmer instead of a scientist."

The servant bowed deeply and said, "He's changed to better clothing, Contessa. But, if I am allowed to ask; what do you need him for? You already got some of his Ethiopian grain."

The Golden Lady smiled, "Why, we're giving each other gifts; Science needs grants, after all."

------

Aurelia was delighted by Archibald Santos' gift; the latter had even changed to proper scientists' wear to present it! Said gift was illustrated on a piece of engineering paper, which contained a very simple blurprint that even she can understand; not that she was stupid, of course!

"A wooden windmill built from scrap that powers a crude dynamo of copper wire, iron, and rubber that, with a car battery for storage, can power four lightbulbs or a radio. Why, this will bring light to rural villages in record time!" And give me votes, also in record time. "But setting these up in multiple places all at once requires either the Government's help, or mine. And for some reason..." Aurelia trailed off, "You prefer my help. Why? Hasn't the Lady President given you enough?"

Archibald Santos replied, "While it is true that I am a loyalist of the New Philippines Party till the end, the fact is that our Lady President is most understandably spending most of her money on Defense. The Military Appropriations Bill just got bloated, leaving less time for peaceful pursuits. True, I got to explore the idea of mushroom farming in tunnels; I even managed to write a thesis for it -"

Aurelia cut him off, "So, like most scientific idealists, you don't want your discoveries used for dealing death when you would rather foster life. Understandable. Very well, grants given, or should we say...patronage?"

Archibald nodded at that.

------

Once the meeting was done and Aurelia had eaten breakfast, she would then go back to her desk, where she would find more letters forwarded to her. The corrupt Worker Co-operatives in Subic had requested to be part of the new Special Economic Zones beign set up; Aurelia would allow them that...but signal her public break with them by allowing a provision in the bill to allow Youth League cadres to appoint 'permanent inspectors' to the Co-operatives with sweeping powers to interfere in their internal affairs.

This gave her an opening to convince Priscilla to allow White Flight, a Rhodesian 'Private Piloting Academy', to set up shop in the Philippines as part of a clandestine 'pilot training program' that would improve the capabilities of the Philippine Air Force. If she talked right, White Flight might even be allowed a cut of the Military Appropriations Bill Archibald was complaining about...

---

Gunfire wasn't an uncommon sound in the South. It also wasn't uncommon to see a fair few pieces of shrapnel or stray bullets flying near the town. The nearby townspeople merely shrugged, keeping their head down while doing daily tasks. Many would call this arrogance (and perhaps it was) but the people of Tindouf placed their trust in the hardy Algerian soldiers which patrolled and protected the town. Ever since tensions between Traditionalists and government kicked off, the two have been fighting it out in the desert dunes in Tindouf Province where their main support lies. While the provincial capital had stayed loyal, many of the villages surrounding the town soon turned to the extreme rhetoric of the Traditionalists. They were swayed to their side and now fellow countrymen fought, colouring the sands with crimson. Although their opposition was growing in number, the military were steadfast in their duty and were even pushing back slightly, despite being surrounded on most sides. The only roads that weren't held by Traditionalists was the one leading to loyalist Garet Djebilet and to a nearby military outpost which is currently also under siege to the west.

Some would wonder why Tindouf Province is so important. But despite its barren landscape and lack of water, iron ore is common to find underneath the dunes. There was an iron mine held in Garet Djebilet where fierce fighting was going on underground and above ground. There was also a great number of borders connected to the province and if it ever fell, fighting could spill into neighbouring countries which would hinder the war effort and relations. It could also show the current presidency to be a weak one, something which the President could not afford. It was why the Supreme Commander had told the brave Algerian men and women to stand their ground until help could arrive. Even now, the military was actively recruiting and mobilising troops, readying them to replace the battered forces which kept the state's enemies at bay. Every soldier became a patriot as most of the senior NCOs and COs had fought in the War for Independence, instilling a sense of pride and purpose within their ranks. If the President had deemed the province of Tindouf to be defended, then by Allah's guidance they were going to hold their ground. Fortunately, that's what they've done for the past few months since the fighting intensified. They built their sandbag walls, made sniper positions on buildings on the outskirts of town, machine gun nests would be operated 24/7 and cavalry sat in wait for a counter-charge. The government made no shortcuts with their country's military and has some of the highest military spending budgets in Africa due to the constant threat of terrorism and civil war.

But ever since word had come that the Traditionalists had made new allies, the government was getting anxious. Therefore they had sneaked in the best of the best of their military into the fray who could best gain the solid intel needed and had the highest likelihood to survive a disastrous scenario. Sergeant Muhammad Lellouche was one such person. Standing at 6' 3", he was a very tall and broad shouldered man whose stern face seemed to be able to melt iron. Even through the sesh turban which covered most of his head and face, his eyes could still pierce a man. He kept his hands firm on the MAS Modèle 36 in his hands, scanning the desert from atop his dune to keep watch. It was an old weapon, stolen from the French during the War of Independence. They were being phased out of the military but he had kept his hands on one, trusting this older version of carbine over the new ones. He was always a more traditional man over all, preferring familiarity over hard specifications. And no one could argue with him, he was the heart of the Algerian SpecOps. Lellouche had first served in the Modernist military since the War of Independence as a child, riding his then pony up and down the ranks to carry ammunition and supplies. A risky job that made him face death more times than he could count at the age of 15.

Now, at the age of 29, Lellouche still served the military. He had refused his promotions and preferred to be a non-commissioned officer who could be on the ground, serving the people who were under him. Although fiercely loyal, he was starting to get tired of killing his countrymen. Even from this dune on the other side of town, he could hear the overwhelming cracking of gunfire. He sighed, opening his mouth wide to crack his jaw. He checked back on his loyal steed Eva and his other patrol members, fellow Algerian Special Forces. He once more peered into the distance, using his binoculars to scan the horizon before carefully sliding down the dune towards the camp. He tapped the next soldier for a swap out. The Sahrawi man looked back at him with sharp eyes and spoke in a thick Saharan accent.

"Any Tradies out there Sarge? Command was expecting an attack on our position while most of us are at the northern side of the city." He was gripping a Karabiner 98k Sniper Variant, one of the older but serviceable models in the Algerian military. It didn't mean that Ibrahim wasn't any less deadly for it. They had all served in this war for several months and knew how much of a crackshot the squad sniper could be.

"Horizon's clean of any traitors Private. Only us and the desert right now, let's make sure it stays that way." Ibrahim nodded and slung his Kar98 around his shoulder, starting to make his way up the slope. Lellouche sat down and looked around at the group surrounding him. They were all tired, rubbing their eyes but still sharp as day. They weren't Special Forces like him, just regular infantrymen who were transferred to him. All Special Forces were split up by command as soon as they managed to sneak through enemy lines. They were to lead squads of 12 standard infantry or conscripts from the town to serve as mentors and to "assure loyalty among the ranks". He was ordered to shoot anyone who refused his orders, switched sides or deserted. He almost ran at the portly senior officer who dared such an order but his companions held him back. Thankfully, his gun remained clean, his twelve man squad of regulars remained loyal and that bastard of an officer was so far proven wrong about infantry resolve.

The camp that they occupied was small, a tent pitched up in the middle of the camp. A machine gun nest sat idle without an operator Bedrolls and packs were neatly set against each other but they were suspiciously all packed up.

A query took the elder sergeant out of his thoughts, turning his gaze to the origin. The young piercing blue eyes of Lieutenant Harcourt Hamilton Bernard stared right back at him. Although his superior, the squad was essentially Lellouche's under command's orders and the Pied-Noir officer had fallen into second in command. He was fresh, young and eager at the start of this war. The blood spilt had served to dull those once enthusiastic eyes peering through the brown sesh he wore. "Sergeant" he started, speaking in fluent but accented Arabic "there have been queries from the men about-" Several grumbles were heard, the squad females making their voices known. The officer just blushed slightly and coughed, continuing with "From the men and women about when the squad was to be swapped out for a fresh squad. We have been here for most of 48 hours and that long of a service time has proven quite tiring."

"We have our orders to stick by it Lieutenant, we are to hold our positions for as long as possible." He replied briskly, noting how sluggish the rest of his squad was. He almost reprimanded them for laziness but stopped a second before. These were normal men and women, he told himself. They were not trained for holding such long shifts.

The younger officer crossed his arms and stood his ground. "We must contact command for a swap out Sergeant. This is a matter of wellbeing and safety for the soldiers who serve under us. We cannot continue to work this shift without significant decreases in combat ability."

"Bloody Frenchmen and their nonsense." Lellouche swore under his breath in Berber, low enough that no one could hear him. His lips thinned and his eyes narrowed, standing up to the younger man. "Are you defying my orders Lieutenant? Orders that are to be taken like they were high command itself? I need not remind you the price for insubordination, do I?"

Harcourt blanched slightly but seemed to stand his ground, adamant to speak about the wellbeing of his men. Say what you want about the Pied-Noir but their officers were always caring about the people who served under them. Lellouche continued on, placing a finger near his trigger and gazed at every soldier's eyes. "You do not want to take your chances against me. If any of you disobey me, I am under orders to shoot any traitor. I want my bullets to spill Tradie blood, not comrades who have served under me in this bloody conflict. Do not make me your enemy."

The tension was thick for a few seconds before Harcourt silently sat back down although a defiant gaze was in his eyes. Lellouche just kept his hands on his carbine, the threat still hanging in the air. Then, a distant cracking sound was heard but more distinct than the others. The sound of bullet piercing skin was second followed by Ibrahim's body tumbling down the sand hill behind them. Everyone sprang into, tensions shoved away to face this new threat. Southern Tindouf was under attack. "Noor! Tend to the horses and keep them calm throughout the fight! Everyone into positions!" The sergeant yelled orders before running towards the command tent. While a half-dozen soldiers dived towards the various compacted sand piles serving as cover, a third one covering the tent. Sandbags were placed between the piles with peep covers, some taking position there with Lieutenant Harcourt while two soldiers went to operate the machine gun.

The Sergeant pushed the tent flaps away and was greeted with the messenger. A Homing Pigeon was calmly perched in its cage, staring at the familiar face. He ignored the bird and took out a pen and paper, writing down a quick but urgent message.

NEED ASSISTANCE, ENEMY HAS ARRIVED. NOT ENOUGH MEN TO HOLD GROUND. BACKUP REQUIRED.

Lellouche proceeded to roll the paper and stuffed it into the small tube before opening the cage. The pigeon soared out of the tent and into the desert sky, its training would do the rest. He let it leave through the tent flaps before exiting, he sprinted towards a sand pile. He went to lay next to Corporal Hakim, shouldered his carbine and peered into the distance. What sounded like a horde of horses came closer, a thunderous sound of overwhelming force. As the first horses galloped down the horizon, he contemplated whether he would be living to the end of the day. He steeled his resolve and hoped that the message would be carried through. The men and women around him hardened their gazes and looked through their sights. Despite previous tension, he couldn't have been any prouder.

---

---

Ana was by no means a weak woman. She was strong willed, intelligent and had fought for her position as a foreign ambassador. Even in her privileged position due to her gender, there were many others who were thought to be qualified for this job. She had to prove she was more loyal and diplomatic than any of those other plebeians who thought they were better as well. Her previous status as a Wali of Algiers may have helped her to get this position but she had still worked hard! The ambassador to the Duchy had unfortunately died of a heart attack a week earlier and she was sent to replace him. Previous relations with the Duchy had been tense due to its monarchical government and imperialist overtones but current situations made the government desperate. As the fighting in Tindouf intensified, the President was getting worried that fighting would spill into the neighbouring province of Béchar where many fund were put into water pipelines to make grazing possible in the otherwise barren hamadas. Every Algerian knew the threat of famine and the harsh landscape of their homeland caused them to cultivate in lands that would have otherwise been left untouched. If fighting spilt into Béchar, there was a potential for a severe shortage in food. It was her job to secure a trade agreement with the Duchy for food.

But this was the first step in a very large plan to increase Algeria's foreign relations with other countries. Ana could recall what the President had personally said to her. "For too long, the governments of Algeria have only ooked within their borders. It is time to find friends in Africa." The new ambassador had agreed wholeheartedly. The country had limited relations with the outside world and although tourists came in and out of the country all throughout the year, it had little diplomatic ties with any country aside from its neighbours in the Arab World. Many of the older generation would agree that this was enough but they were hardcore nationalists, blinded by arrogance and patriotism. Though the President and Algeria's newest ambassadors were no traitor, they were not keen on being isolationist and unimportant in the world's politics. She had absentmindedly thought about whether the old ambassador's death was more than a mere coincidence but brushed it aside. President Hamidou was a fair man, he wouldn't devolve into such barbaric tactics such as murder to get the right people in power. That was the type of act a brutal monarchist would make, not a democratic man like Hamidou. It was a simple, convenient coincidence.

A light knock on her office door took her out of her thoughts. Ana called out to them to come in and the door revealed the gaunt, rugged face of her "secretary". Corporal Ali Zaidi was not a man to be trifled with. He was there for her security and posed as her secretary. He was good at it and filled in his shoes as a mere secretary to an ambassador very well. The man had been so good at acting that she wondered if he was who he said he was. He could've been special forces for all she knew but he was loyal and looked menacing which was enough for her. "Ma'am, the cab has arrived to take you to the Royal Palace." She nodded and stood up, grabbing her suitcase full of documents and notes. She followed her posing secretary out through the door and out the embassy, pausing for a bit as the heat assaulted her body. Thankfully, she had chosen to wear a beautiful black and gold karakou dress which was loose fitting and good for the high temperatures of Africa.

Ana was led into an Audi of German-make though she wasn't sure of what specific model. The black African man driving the cab smiled and said "Where can I take you today Ambassador? The Royal Palace?"

She smiled back and replied in perfect German "Yes, thank you for driving us Herr Litumbe." He flashed his white teeth and drove forward. Corporal Zaidi spoke first after the silence, speaking in Berber. "I do not know if I trust this man Ms. Rochelle. Monarchists are known to use their black underlings to spy or sabotage the unsuspecting."

Ana kept a pristine face but frowned on the inside. "It will be fine secretary Zaidi, this man has driven us before and I do not doubt his intentions. If he is a government agent of some sort, I will not be discussing state secrets of any sort. I doubt he knows how to understand any sort of Berber, let alone our town's dialect and at the speed of which we are talking."

Zaidi nodded once and looked out of the window. Ana joined him in watching German Kamerun pass through the window. Though nothing compared to Algiers in her eyes, he could see that many of the black citizens were quite well off and the city was fairly beautiful. It also wasn't surrounded by barren landscape so she could concede that point. The closer they got to the royal palace, the richer the neighbourhoods got and quite expectantly, the whiter the citizens were. Though there were a surprising amount of darker faces walking in the crowds. As the cab neared its destination, she wondered if the negotiations were going to go as planned. Securing the trade agreement and making a powerful ally in Africa was going to be difficult. But Ana Rochelle Dupond was no weak woman.

"To the lions den we go." Her companion muttered but she dismissed it. She kept a positive face and a clean, pristine smile.

Florence Chideya, born to a white mother and a black father, had been born in Rhodesia, considered herself Rhodesian, and like many in her generation, saw opportunity in the softening of Rhodesian laws around the employment of black and coloured people. She, for example, had been one of the first coloured people to attend the University of Rhodesia, graduating with a Bachelors Degree in Communications, majoring in Journalism. She worked first for a local Rhodesian Newspaper that had long gone out of business, moved to England where she began working for the BBC before being sent back to Africa as a local corespondent. Six years ago she had been approached by National Geographic, THE National Geographic, to begin free-lance writing for them. She had never looked back.

On this particular day she was a guest, albeit a guest with a camera and writing a story, but a guest nonetheless. Her father, long dead, had been a member of the Chewa Tribe, near the border with Zambia. The Rhodesian Government had done its best to at least ensure public broadcast radio made it out that far and her fathers tribe had heard of her exploits on the BBC and, when she was hired by the National Geographic, they had purchased a subscription to the magazine. They had become avid fans of her adventures and sent a letter inviting her to return to witness a special event, Kuomboka.

The word Kuomboka, when translated into English, literally meant "to get out of the water". The ceremony itself took place every year at the end of the rainy season and though it was primarily a Zambian Holiday, in which they celebrated the King of the Lozi People, it had maintained its importance in Rhodesia for the local tribes. Florence had originally been surprised when she learned of the celebration and openly questioned why the whites, who did not always appreciate such goings on, had not stopped the practice. The Elder she spoke to had smiled and shrugged.

"If they take it away, we will find something else to celebrate. Why would they stop us celebrating a Zambian King, maybe they hope we will leave and go north?"

Simple but elegant logic she supposed as she listened to the heavy drumming of the royal Maoma drums, which had been echoing around the region for a day before the actual event began. She was surprised to see a number of white faces in the crowd at the event, and only some of them were soldiers, and they seemed to be enjoying themselves. They flirted politely with the women, chatted amicably with the men, gave treats to the children, and kept time with the drums on the sides of their Land Rovers. She also noted that, if there were any of the feared Ridgebacks around, they were being kept tactfully out of sight.

The replica of the Kings barge, also known as a Nalikwanda, painted black and white, was slowly sweeping around the river bend, powered on its way by strong young men who would soon be judged for their skill by the women of the tribe. The Chewa were unique in that sense, only women could inherit, so the young men must impress a wife rather than the other way around.

A huge cheer greeted the barge and the crowd surged forward toward the water, children held high so that they could see the replica of a huge black elephant, the ears of which can be moved from inside the barge, as it balanced on top. Smoke poured from the top, letting everyone know that the Lozi King was alive and well. Florence glanced around for a vantage point, her camera hugged tight to her body, she wanted to get some photos of the whole crowd. She didn't think her editor would find the event very exciting, but her family would love to see it anyway.

The closest high point happened to be an RSF Land Rover and she hurried towards it. The soldier on top glanced down at her and he smiled as she jogged up, his teeth incredibly white against his tanned face.

"Ma'am." He nodded to her as she got closer and she realized, perhaps belatedly, why she had found the white soldiers so strange here. They were polite to everyone. Despite the divide between black and white here it wasn't a hostile racism like in the United States, or even in Britain. The whites, most of them, were hardly what you could call arrogant and treated the black population like equal citizens, even if that wasn't true on paper.

"Hello!" She responded with her own smile. She was wearing a local dress, full necked and very colourful, it was in stark comparison to the drab green Land Rover and fatigues the soldiers wore. "May I come up there?" She hefted the camera to make her point and the soldier glanced at her, back at the crowd and the nodded. His two companions spared her a brief glance before turning back to watch the procession.

The soldier on the top knelt down and extended a hand rough with callouses and scored with powder burns. She grabbed it and leaned back slightly as he dragged her up onto the roof of the Land Rover, taking care not to bang her camera against the metal sides. He steadied her for a moment and then, once she thanked him, he let her go and sat down on an ammunition box, gesturing for her to sit on a fuel can.

"Thanks!" She said again and sat, the view was far better seven feet off the ground and she quickly began to snap photos. A young girl and her mother were at the waters edge waving madly to the Nalikwanda, several older men were seated on rough chairs, a polite space given to them. A black Police Officer was smiling and dancing in a circle holding the hands of a small child she took to be his son. Several young white people were standing with a crowd of young black people their own age, she pegged them for University students at once by their friendly manner, more modern clothes, and obvious prosperity compared to the locals

"You're that Florence gal from National Geographic aren't you?" The soldier next to her asked, surprising her enough that she lowered her camera and turned to look at him.

"What gave it away?"

"The camera." He winked at expression of exasperation. "And I've read your articles. You do nice work."

"You read my articles?" She asked. She didn't know why it surprised her that a white soldier read her work and she suddenly felt ashamed.

"Yea, of course. You're a bit a celebrity in Rhodesia. Not many people here, white or black, worked for the BBC, let alone National Geographic." He seemed so earnest in his opinion that she had no reason to doubt

"Well it's always nice to meet a fan." She recovered her composure and stuck out her hand. "Florence Chideya."

He shook it with a smile. "Frazer Redekker."

As he said it she glanced at his shoulders and realized, belatedly, that he was not an enlisted soldier. Not very observant for a world class Journalist. The patch on his shoulder showed a large bird with wings spread and the words "Alæ Præsidio Patriæ" beneath it.

"You're a pilot!" She exclaimed. She had always loved flying and done a fair bit as a passenger.

"What gave it away?" He replied with a laugh and nodded. "But yes, I am. These poor chaps are just along as my escort today." He nodded at the two heads below them. "I had some leave and wanted to come and watch this festival. I've only ever seen it from the air."

She was excited now, the opportunity that was presenting itself was to good to pass up. "Would you take me flying?!"

He looked at her for a moment and she saw a flash of... Suspicion possibly, cross his face but then he gave a slow nod. "I can certainly ask up the chain of command. Not every day a world renowned photo journalist wants to come for a ride." He reached into the front pocket of his fatigues and drew out a simple business card gave his name, rank, mailing address and a phone number. "Call my base on that number in the next couple of days, ask for me, and we'll make something work."

She thanked him profusely before excusing herself and jumping off the Land Rover. She still had some photos to shoot and a story to write.

Iron Lady, Part Nine

In her home, as she sat behind her desk doing paperwork, Priscilla chastised herself for feeling bad at the loss of control she was experiencing. Wasn't this what she wanted? To cede control of her country to the people and their will? Just because reactionaries are taking advantage of that to deceive the people did not change the fact that freedom to fail was still freedom; and that the Filipinos should be allowed the chance to make mistakes. But Diyos/Dios! Why must it be so hard?

What pricked her was the lack of news from Vinh; Lady Trung lived, but that was all she knew. That and the deal made with the People's Republic of Thailand to blockade French Indochina and Diem's 'Republic of Vietnam'. Better tidings came from Sarawak, where Sultan Al-Hakam Kiram and his followers were making themselves home.

Irene entered, carrying a bag with more letters. Priscilla picked one at random; it was about the Military Appropriations Bill that was jointly passed by all three major parties of the Philippines. It seemed that Aurelia's 'May 24th Movement' had made great efforts to prove its worth to the democratic system of the Philippines. That, despite the invitation extended to Rhodesians; Priscilla knew more about her rival's dealings than she let on. Well, she'd allow White Flight in, all right, but only because Aurelia had been most 'generous' in giving the Youth League of the New Philippines Party the power and responsibility to watch over the 'ideology traitors' in Subic Bay.

Another letter came from Father Agustin, saying that her moves against the corrupt Workers' Co-Operatives in Subic were not only working, but welcomed; the lot of the mixed-race children and refugees had improved after a lot of work. Then the post-script of the letter praised Aurelia, forcing Priscilla to metaphorically scourge her heart of jealousy.

Yet another letter: The Houist Party of the Philippines uges Priscilla Aglipay-Rizal not to whore her country out by resigning her office or refusing to name a member of The Party as her candidate in future elections - No, just no. As she said, her people had the freedom to fail, and she had no desire to reign like a monarch like Hou was reputed to be doing. Taking a blank piece of paper and one of those newfangled ballpens from America, Priscilla wrote a hasty but coherent reply.

I am no autocrat, nor will I be commanded like the subject of an autocrat. If you and your group have not come up with a suitable candidate to run against Aurelia in the upcoming elections, then examine and criticize yourselves as to why. Provide what the people want better than Aurelia could.

Priscilla leaned back on her chair, then faced Irene, who was still there. "I'm tired, Irene. I've been ruling too long, and the temptation to just hold tight to power is wearing me down. I've worked so hard to create a country I can be proud of, and now I need time for myself."

Irene gave an understanding smile at that. "Well, fuck everything everyone says. Aurelia, the Houists, your own desire to work yourself to the bone, fuck them. You've done enough; let others pick up the slack. Resign if you have to. Who knows, perhaps with the guilt over having privileges gone, you might go out and see the world; won't you like that?"

Priscilla was doubtful. "I don't want to leave my country in its time of need -"

Irene cut her off. "So you would rather your country keep needing you, then?"

Priscilla tensed, then relaxed. "You're right; I have ruled long enough..."

As Duke Hurst waited for his opposite to arrive from Rhodesia and also Algeria - he couldn't help but marvel at the change that had happened to the (German) West Afrikan Duchy. How twenty-eight years ago this place here - had been the site of numerous battles. Nowadays it has been developed rather nicely into a beauty - a town, that seemed plucked straight from either Bavaria or Berlin itself.

Many new buildings - built along the context of Historicism. Combining works of art from numerous great architects of the times and having added some more. Such happened, when you had a population from many different backgrounds. Like, in Nigeria - the old Telegraph Station had been turned into a War Museum - with many old guns, historical images and uniforms about the Kamerun Campaign and of the West Afrikan Civil War hanging within its halls. In addition, outside the War Museum stood an old statue - namely a marble statue of an Askari with a flag of the West Afrikan Duchy within its hand. A similar Museum had been constructed in Douala - although it wasn't as huge as the one in Port Hancourt.

Plus, it was one of the few places - which was commonly visited by people of both black and white heritage. As namely Douala, namely the city was mostly a white-majority location - one of the few places in West Afrika to be so. The latter part of the Duchy was dominated by the local population.

Ruling such a great state had been a challenge - but so far the Duke of West Afrika had managed. Starting out had been hard, as well as keeping the Duchy in the stable and prosperous state that it was. Once the initial system had been established to prevent conflict between the factions of Nigeria and Kamerun - did the Duchy started to develop into something resembling a nation.

He had made some tough choices - as always, namely Northern Nigeria had been 'returned' to the old Islamic states that had once occupied the region but had been destroyed by the British. Namely, he hadn't neither the manpower, loyalty nor will to attempt to subjugate them under the Duchy' rule. As such, he namely 'helped restore the legitimate states destroyed by British aggression'. Removing a head-ache from his lap and gaining a slightly 'grateful' ally.

Although with the discovery of many sources of mineral wealth - gold, iron, coal, rare metals, oil and gas - most such economic problems had a route to prosperity. All it required was getting one' hands dirty and starting to work on it. As such, Duke Hurst had spared no expense or rather - used the wealth smarter than most men in his position of power would have.

He had turned, what could be excused as 'infrastructure' in the colony into something productive. Namely the coastal regions were filled with theaters, museums, restaurants, summer homes and mansions of various shape and size. Also most importantly as well - beer halls. With some local-made brew, but mostly imported straight from the homeland - despite the cost of such a task. The coastal regions of West Afrika was his Neues Deutschland.

That in mind - Duke Hurst spared no expense, in turning it into an image - that would make even the Kaiser feel at home. Although, that didn't mean that the locals hadn't grown in prosperity. Namely the people of Duala and Yoruba had grown immensly. Many of their tribesmen had once been some of the Duke' most loyal Askari soldiers. In time - he had also awarded such individuals with the opportunity of becoming gentry - nobility of the lands and all the title and land ownerships that it granted.

Nowadays, the Duchy looked much different - the coast was dominated by the white minority, heavily cultured, wealthy and full of architecture. More in-land was the urban areas - whom were rather well-off as well - their quality of life, approaching that of the average Europeans in Germany or Spain - those places were usually dominated by the Yorubans or Dualas. The majority still lived in the rural countryside.

Namely, working away in the mines, farmlands or oil wells - their lives weren't as good, although they weren't as bad as when the British ruled. The rural areas had their own chiefs or councils, posessing autonomy from the state and lived as did their ancestors centuries ago. Governmental oversight was rare here - beyond the clerks, managers and truck drivers, whom managed the regional mining industry and also addressed any article of aid or complaint that the locals had to the government.

All in all - the Duchy was a marvel of German ingenuity - blacks and whites co-exisiting in 'relative' harmony and possessing a level of stability and prosperity that few states in the region had. Soon enough, the Duke was soon alerted by his Secretary - of his appointments. As thus, dressing into his best uniform - and soon making way to the main hall. As his opposite - would soon arrive in the Royal Palace of the Duchy. Namely a Palace - that had been built from the ground-up in the style of Neo-Baroque.

---

He did not have long to wait for his guest, the womans office was only a couple of blocks from his Palace in a small but tasteful baroque Mansion the Rhodesians has purchased twenty years before. It was the first foreign embassy to be opened in the city and relations between the two countries were close.

Helen Zille had been born, raised, and educated in Rhodesia. She had raised her family in the Duchy in fact, all four of he children had born and raised in Harcourt itself. Her eldest daughter was about to graduate high school and would be returning to Rhodesia in a month where she was to study at the University of Rhodsia.

Zille's car drew up in front of the Palace, the big Rolls Royce Engine giving way to a throaty grumble as she stepped out. Two SAS men had been assigned as escorts and they moved to flank her as she began her walk up the Palace steps. She was by no means a big woman, just over 5'8 with short red hair, green eyes, and a friendly smile that hid the steel in her soul. Her husband was a German Industrialist who had helped tame Kamerun. He had been killed four years earlier in one of the first automobile accidents in the Dutchy. She had inherited most of his wealth and his lands back in Germany. She had never been to Germany and she would never go. Her son, when he was of age, would inherit and he was welcome to it.

The Palace guards, big sons of German stock, were broader in the shoulders than her SAS escorts. They snapped a salute as she approached and she replied with a short nod and a smile as she swept into the Palace.

Inside the Palace, there were numerous servants and other staff mingling about as usual - among them were men and women of both white and black heritage. A young, black woman - wearing a modest dress soon bowed and showed them forward to the Main Hall.

As expected - it looked and smelled of a German Lord in here. If there was one thing, that could be said about the Duke - he was educated, smart, open-minded and a rather heavy-loyalist. In the early years - the Duke didn't want to do anything with Rhodesia, still assuming them as British puppets. Although, after several face-to-face meetings - things changed around rather quickly.

Nowadays, both the Duchy and Rhodesia trade rather openly - it was that secret dealing, of keeping like-minded allies close. Both Rhodesia and West Afrika were two sides of the same coin - as while Rhodesia kept a policy of segregation, then the Duchy kept a policy of privileged integration. But soon enough, their Guide opened the doors to a grand hall - decorated with various statues of eagles or rather the Imperial Eagle. In addition, it housed rather large-sized portraits of the five Kaisers of the German Empire. A special spot was also reserved for Otto von Bismarck as well - a bit gold-trimmed and better kept than the others.

A few Royal Guards were in the area - most of them white males of German heritage, but also a few black men as well. These likely were the famed Askari - or rather sons and grandsons of such. Soon enough, the main host arrived - namely Herzog Jaegar Hurst von Deutsche Westafrika.

The man was wearing a dress uniform, reserved for commissoned officers - a rather older variant of the Imperial German Army one as it was. Namely thirty years old, yet still looking as it was freshly made.

"Welcome, my guests. Frau Zille, an honor to see you again," spoke the Duke, approaching the woman, giving a respectful bow and shake of her hand.

"Thank you, your grace." She replied with a bow before shaking his hand. Her escort had stayed by the door, they had no fears of an attack here. Both spoke German and one shared a small joke with a German guardsman.

Helen loved German architecture but she had always noticed that the Germans thoughts they "were" Africa, whereas the Rhodesians "were of" Africa. Symantics maybe but it was a interesting distinction.

"I have to say your Grace, I am most intrigued by mention of a railway. It has been tried before and failed."

"Indeed, please have a seat," spoke Duke Hurst, offering the woman a seat - before taking a seat opposite of her. Namely it seemed, to be British tea served - a secret luxury that the Duke was famous for. Plus, he had a personal butler straight from England - whom brewed this just right - as British gentry drank in London.

Two cups had been prepared, as the Duke took a sip and soon started talking. "That may be the case - but this time, it is different," he spoke - soon showing the Ambassador a newspaper article. Namely detailing the rising tensions in the Congo.

"I have had people investigate this, and what they say - seems to be true. Congo is another colony that is wanting to achieve self-rulership. Although, they want neither Belgian or...interestingly, their own rule..." he explained. Namely the newspaper spoke of - Congo nationalists fighting against secessionist forces, and the usual white and black violence.

"This might be our chance...to help and be rewarded for our generosity," he spoke. As namely, Congo was lacking direction - as many factions couldn't seem to be agreeing on anything - as while Belgium was helping Katanga and South Kasai with their secession movement. Any ruler could see the opportunity in this.

Helen leaned back in her chair to sip the tea. It was delicious and rare here in the Duchy. Normally she had to bring it back from Rhodesia if she wanted any, they still maintained lively trade relations with the old country.

"Rhodesian foreign policy has always been to stay out of our neighbours business. We have worked hard to keep from interfering with anyting that goes on beyond out borders." She took another sip of the scalding tea and thought for a moment. "There is a chance the Rhodesian Volunteers could be sent if you needed fire power but they are completely detached from the Rhodesian Government. Did you have any specific plans yet?"

"I don't mean having direct military interference. Too messy and too de-stabilizing. The years have showed me the best kind of rulership - is a firm but gentle one," he spoke, managing to drink the tea without much issue. It tasted better than the sludge they had during the Great War, in the trenches and colder too.

"I meant in political and economic support. It is evident, the Congo nationalists haven't had much hand in nation-building. Plus Belgium doesn't seem very interested in helping them either. My idea is to offer to send some of our people to help the nationalists..." he stated.

Helen winced at the suggestion. Rhodesia had manahed a delicate balancing game when it came to getting involved with its neighbours. The Bush War had been against rebel factions, the war in Mozambique had been against Portgual, and, with another war looming, it would look bad for Rhodesia to abandon its policy of "Self defence". It was part of the reason the military was labelled a Security Force. Less threatening, even if they had all the latest things that went bang.

"Rhodesia is unlikely to send in any perssonel your Grace. For the same reasons I just mentioned. We won't commit weapons either. If you want weapons or "people", you will need to go above my head. Now money, that Rhodesia can do, clandestinely of course."

"What? Belgium is actively helping Katanga and South Kasai seceed. I assume, they didn't just send flowers and letters of 'good health'," humored Duke Hurst. "No, no. I am not planning on getting involved militarily. I advice, sending in, some advisors. To get the nationalists on their feet. If we succeed, then we gain a new ally. If we fail - then we can one-up on the Belgians - on how we helped slowly developing nation, while they turned their back on it."

"Either way, we'd win public support among the local populace," he stated.

"Rhodesia has no desire to be "one up" on Belgium." Helen replied. You could sure take the German out of the Empire, but you couldn't take the Empire out of the German. "Though your point is taken. The Congo is hardly what I would call well developed, as you indicate, we only need to get the Nationalists into a position where they can control the ports and railway."

"Indeed. It isn't something we have to commit entire resources for - a little bit of help can go a long way," spoke Hurst. "West Afrika is the prime image of that. An army of six-thousand men, changed the course of history..."

"How about we agree to send, a couple of advisors - both from Rhodesia and the Duchy? To probe and get a reading on what the situation is?" he offered as a compromise. He didn't want to alienate Rhodesia over the Belgians. It wouldn't hurt - if they went to take a peek at what was going on directly in the Congo' political hierarchy.

Helen, still sitting back in her chair, steepled her fingers as she thought. The Rhodesian Government might agree to a few "observers" at first. There was no harm in that. Rhodesia did have business interests in the Congo after all, though she doubted the locals knew that. To them, any white man was a Belgian. She leaned forward.

"Okay, your grace." I think I may be able to secure a small group of Rhodesian's to assist. It so happens our security forces have been looking for a man who was fleeing west from Rhodesia and is expected to arrive in the Congo. I am sure we could have some agents enter the region under the guise of Police Detectives who can look around while they try to find this man."

"I have also the perfect man to be send as an Observer. Have you heard of Oberstleutant Amadou Bankole von Douala?" he asked - the first name itself revealed a man of African heritage. As no white man, would carry such a name - perhaps a Frenchman, but one'd find the Duke dancing on the Royal Palace before promoting a Frenchman that high into a position of military authority.

"A rather educated Askari - intelligent and very patriotic," explained. "He might be the perfect man - to head this group."

"Head this group?" Helen asked the question as her eyes narrowed. "Your grace, Rhodesia will never allow the Dutchy to run any sort of clandestine operation with our men on board. That's kind of, how shall I say, our thing?"

"Oh...nonono. My mistake. I meant, that we have a joint-observer team. I assume, we wouldn't want to step on eachothers toes while we deal with our business with the Congo nationalists," he explained.

Namely, the Duke was honestly - up for having the Oberstleutant - as managing the staff between each other. Making sure the Rhodesia and the Duchy wouldn't start infighting - while they tried to gauge the ideals of the Congo nationalists.

The Duke seemed more open for an open, talkative and...manipulative role with the Congo nationals. While the Rhodesians were all cloak-and-daggers.

"Ah, I see. Well I am sure we can work something out. How many agents do you propose? We do actually have a criminal to hunt so I think we can safetly insert three of our own to poke around. The Belgians have allowed us to pursue criminals into their territory before.

"I am thinking of having Herr Bankole, a maximum of three Askari guards, about ten members of staff and...yes...Herr Erwin Theissig," he explained. Namely Herr Theissing was a rather well-educated political historian and a Professor at the Royal Douala Academy. If there was anybody in the Duchy whom could make hair or tails - about starting up a political system, it was him.

"I think that would work well." She stood. "I will of course have to check with my superiors but I don't see any problems. I will be in contact, your grace." Helen bowed, shook the Duke' hand, and turned for the door.

---

Soon eough Duke Hurst finished talking and discussing with his counterpart from Rhodesia - the man was soon informed, that the Ambassador from Algeria had arrived as well.

Outside, the Algerian Delegation soon saw the Royal Palace. Namely a master-piece of Neo-Baroque architecture. Although they might not know, what it might be made or why so. To them, it might remind them of some of the buildings in France.

Nevertheless - it wasn't overly empowering, and looked almost the size as some of the other, buildings and mansions that they passed on here. Despite the open flaunting of wealth - it seemed that the Duchy, was still better developed than some areas of Africa. That would likely be expected - as the Europeans, liked to live in luxury.

Soon enough, an Afrikan man came out to meet them - their guide as it was. While the Palace Guards, all white - bulky and tough looking Germans, gave them the eye and let them move on. It had the usual servants, appearance and items - that might've been found in the house of the elite class once ago in Algeria. They as well, soon arrived in the Main Hall - which had five pictures of various white males. Namely - if one knew their history, it would be the portraits of the five Kaisers of Germany. While the sixth portrait in the center of the Hall would be of Otto von Bismarck.

'These Germans sure like their homeland' Ana walked through the hall trying not to stare at the beauty of the place. Her companion Zaidi stared straight ahead and followed the man who had guided them.

Soon enough - they spotted their host. Namely Duke Hurst - a rather burly looking German, whom despite living in luxury, dressed modestly. Namely he wore the uniform of an Imperial Army Officer. Although the uniform was likely thirty years old - but still in pristine condition. With the Duke was also a man dressed in more - as one might say, poor clothing. Although Ana would soon realize by his posture and appearance - that it was a clergyman from the Fula people. It seemed that the Duke had prepared for this meeting well - and had asked for the service of an Islamic cleric.

"As-salamu alaykum," spoke Duke Hurst, welcoming Ana and her entourage in the traditional way. His Arabic was heavily broken, but one could understand the meaning.

Ana smiled politely at the attempt of a warm greeting but she shouldn't have expected any less from such a learned man. "Guten tag, Herzog Hurst, waʿalaykumu as-salām." she replied. She extended her hand, acknowledging that the monarch waited for her to do so before extending his own hand. A handshake was important in Algeria, where one was cementing a relationship with the other person and showing concern for the other. In this situation, it signified the relationship between two countries and the start of a, hopefully, cordial and friendly alliance. At least, that's what she and the government back home hoped for.

They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. It was all standard affair and Zaidi seemed to appreciate the Duke's warm gesture. They followed the Duke to a long table in the middle of the Great Hall. She sat down first before anyone even touched a chair. It showed how much the Duke knew about Algerian culture, women were highly respected and put in a high pedestal within their culture. It was pleasant to be greeted as if they were at home, dealing with native politicians. The monarch sat opposite while Zaidi chose to stand close to her. It was only customary and there was an abnormal amount of those menacing guards in the room. A show of power, something she could respect.

After a moment of silence, Ana decided to start. "I must say Herzog Hurst, your Royal Palace is something to behold. The city of Douala is beautiful and the Palace blends in with the glory of this city." It was important in Algerian customs that one keep face and be mindful about keeping the other person's honour. It wouldn't do to simply jump into the politics.

"Thank you, Frau Ana Rachelle Dupond," he replied, as well as Ana sitting - the black Muslim also sat with them. The man' face was bearded and old - although he did carry the air of wisdom with him. It had been spoken how the Duke had namely in essence 'freed Northern Nigeria from the brutality of the British yoke'.

There had been also rumours how the Fulani people - and a successor of the Sokoto Caliphate had been allowed to be formed. It either spoke of the Duke' rather friendly terms with those of the Faith of Islam. Or rather - a politically minded individual, whom allowed a likely unwilling and un-controllable faction to simply leave and establish a nation on their own. In a region, that might have been hard to control anyway.

Although, how the Duke sat - was mostly that of calm and respect. It might have been a combination of both. Allowing a region to form into its own state - without trying to contain the headache of having Islam in a mostly Christian-dominated region. Still, the Duke showed an open-mindedness that was rarely found in some other European figureheads - and at least made a show of respect, to honor their customs.

Either way - it meant, that establishing trade agreements with the Duchy might be a bit easier than expected. Provided the 'Islamic Advisor' to the Duke didn't take any offense to her religion' belief. Although, from what she might remember the Fulani people were mostly pastoralists. So as long as, it wouldn't turn to a talk of the various sects and beliefs they'd be fine.

"Do what to I owe the honor of your visit?" he asked, slowly getting down to the business at hand. Germans were known for their punctuality at least.

The ambassador minced her words for a second, thinking carefully. "The people of Algeria wanted to extend a friendly hand towards their neighbours and we were obliged to listen. The Duchy, although only a decade older than ourselves, has prospered under your rule Herzog Hurst." She didn't add her own feelings about the people of German West Afrika having only one ruler for over two decades. It was unusual and frowned upon within the Algerian democracy but she was more open to other country's governments compared to the normal Algerian.

"The government of Algeria want to form a defensive alliance between our two strong countries. We wish for friendly relations with our brothers in Africa as for too long, we Algerians have been isolation." This was, for the most part, very true of the current Algerian foreign relations.

Which was almost nonexistent in Africa. They had extensive trade agreements with their neighbours and some countries across the Mediterranean but had little to do with their southern neighbours outside of the Arab world. That's what made this position so exciting, to extend a hand of friendship to a country dissimilar to their own. One could point out the monarchiacal government and frown upon it but it was better to be making friends than enemies. Especially with the situation back home which the Duke would perhaps be aware of. "Would the Duchy of German West Afrika agree to such an alliance, Herzog Hurst?"

"Of course," replied Duke Hurst - in a rather jovial tone at that. "Although, some certain agreements might need to be hashed out in more detail."

It seemed that the Duke had likely heard of their situation - but as it was, if Ana knew correctly. The Duke was also an avid loyalist - something she might respect as well. Despite having ruled for two decades - the Duke had remained a loyal servant of his homeland. There might not be any newspaper article of the Duke being anything but that.

It contrasted rather differently - from the educated gentry, whom spoke with an air finess and respect - yet didn't assume that his way of thinking was superior to her own. Some might call the Duchy a class/tribal based Apartheid - but it was leaps better than what was happening in South Africa.

"To go into details - what agreements do you have in mind?" he asked, also listening to some words from the Fulani cleric, nodding then returning to face Ana.

Ana took a small breath to collect herself and continued. "As you would know, my homeland is not the most hospitable of places. We struggle, for the lack of a better word, to keep our nation's food up to a nominal level." Here came the difficult part of this meeting. The Duchy and Algeria had similar resources with oil being the main export of both economies. This was a somewhat difficult agreement to pitch. "We would be honoured to receive grain, crops and other varieties of food in exchange for anything Algeria can offer your fair country. We have similar exports, as you would already be aware of, so we will offer anything you would to find of value, to an extent of course. My word is an extension of the President's."

The Duke of West Afrika went silent at that request, as he soon turned into the image of a thinking scholar. His finger rubbing his mustache as he thought and thought about the situation before he spoke up.

"Tell me this. Your trade is mostly in petroleum exports. I assume you trade with the European powers? Is the German Empire one of them?" he asked, pulling likely a wild request that not even Ana might have expected.

The ambassador stopped herself from raising an eyebrow. Indeed, it was a strange request. "Yes of course, we trade with many European powers including the German Empire. The Mediterranean teems with Algerian cargo ships." She was slightly worried. She was unsure of what the Duchy was going to request after such an unexpected inquiry and she was already on the edge of her seat due to how delicate the situation already was.

The Duke smiled then in reply - as he soon leaned forward and explained his request. Namely he wanted the Algerians to lower their price on the petroleum that they sold to the German Empire. In exchange, the Duke was up and willing to selling food to the Algerians - at BELOW the current market-value.

It might be almost typical and humorous. Leave it to the Duke - to pull a national request from his pocket. All the Algerians needed to do, was sell petroleum cheaper only to the Germans - while being able to buy cheap food from the Duchy. As the Duke explained the balance in detail - even Ana could understand, that the deficit was rather minimal - favoring the Duchy. Which could easily be balanced-out, by adding a few cents to the oil they sold to the other European powers.

"Forgive an old man, for being slightly sentimental. But I have plans on visiting my homeland this year - and I have thought about, what kind of gift should I bring..." he explained, his reason.

She couldn't resist it and raised an eyebrow. This was indeed a very strange, if endearing, request. Cheaping up the oil they sent for cheaper food which their people needed? This was almost suspiciously easier than she expected but she was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. But she was also willing to sweeten the deal, eager to please and ready to make friends. "Herzog Hurst, that is a wonderful offer. If we were to lower the price of natural gas for the German Empire in exchange for cross training between our two militaries, would this sweeten the deal even further?"

It was a step closer towards establishing a military alliance with the Duchy and such a show of force might scare the Tradies and Old Republican forces. They would become less bold in their attacks if Algeria was so openly allying with another powerful African country. It was the perfect opportunity to hit two birds with one stone. She would gladly sacrifice possibly looking weak to stop the dishonourable bastards.

"Of course Frau Ana. This would be most splendid agreement," replied Duke Hurst, with more excitement than he'd normally show. Likely cause, the Algerians were fighting the French - and likely because, as a German - he disliked the French with a passion, that might rival her own.

"I might even have a Platoon or even Company to send to aid you against the Old Republicans," he explained. A many German veteran or sons of those - whom wouldn't mind the opportunity for a second swing at the old remnants, that had plagued the Kaiser for decades. "Then it is settled then. I shall have my Secretary start preparing up some agreements."

He then went ahead and got some tea - namely British tea, from the to toast with. Despite the fact that alcohol would be more appropriate - although, as likely respecting her culture and deciding not to go with alcohol, that she might not be allowed to drink. As he present one warm cup to her and one for himself.

"That would be most appreciated Herzog Hurst." Ana took the cup in her hands and took a sip. She could always appreciate a nice cup of tea.

---

They exchanged more pleasantries and discussed the future between their two countries. Eventually, the ambassador and her "secretary" had to politely excuse themselves from his presence. The ride back to the embassy felt nice, the talks ended way better than she expected. She glanced at her companion with a small smile on her face. "It went better than you expected, didn't it Zaidi?" she asked, reverting to more familiar Arabic.

The man just nodded mutely, as if deep in thought. She just rolled her eyes and as the cab went to a stop, left in silence. "Stubborn men." She muttered, leaving him behind to go to her quarters.

"Zaidi" watched the ambassador leave him alone in the embassy, leaving to her quarters. He sat down on his desk and waited in eerie silence. The telephone rang on his desk and he picked up. "The talks went better than expected sir." He replied to the muted voice on the phone using a far deeper voice. "The new ambassador seems... inexperienced in dealing with monarchs but she coped. She is definitely more open minded than the Old Guard we had to put down. Today was successful but we will need to prepare men for military exercises with foreign troops. The ambassador sweetened the deal beyond parameters but it ends up as our win." There were a few more words exchanged between the two mysterious figures onthe phone before it was put down. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He hoped that he wouldn't need to clean house in the Duchy again. Ana Rochelle Dupond was quite a formidable, loyal woman.

The German Exile, Part Four, The Agriculturalist, Part Six

Ludwig von Seckendorff was pleased to accompany the Mobile Court as they made the rounds of rural villages, rural villages close to Opposition Leader Aurelia's holdings, and thus the first to have Archibald's 'electric windmills' installed. This time, the only thing out of place was his parade military uniform, which seemed more fit for a festival than actual travel. Not that it didn't prove surprisingly tough, all things considered. As he observed horse and water buffalo-driven wagons - and a few trucks - carrying the judges, lawyers, and guards that made up the Mobile Court, the German Exile thought: How delightfully Medieval, and yet effective.

The institution of the Mobile/Circuit Court was an old one dating from ancient times, where judges and lawyers moved around the kingdoms of Medieval Europe to bring justice directly to the people when they cannot afford to travel on their own. Considering the rural nature of most of the Philippines, Priscilla Aglipay-Rizal had revived the institution to meditate between the 'Local Courts' maintained by each village and community, and the 'Supreme Court' in the Capital, Manila. Another reason for the preference for mobile insitutions was because permanent courts in regional centers were seen as giving too much power to the cities. This in turn was true; another reason to regard Priscilla as foresighted.

"Foresighted except when assuming herself Cincinnatus," Ludwig talked to himself, frowning as the Mobile Court reached the border posts that marked the edges of Aurelia's estates; it was legal for them to cross over when there were court cases to resolve. He frowned as the convoy that made up the Mobile Court entered the plantations and farms, some of whom were growing Teff; the plant reminded him of his current business in accompanying the Mobile Court and going into Aurelia's territory.

He had an agriculturalist to see.

------

Ludwig and Archibald were in the former's private tent, a tough canvas model that clearly owed more to functionality than comfort. Archibald was back in his read peasant shirt and blue jeans, although he still wore a lab coat. His expression as he registered what the German Exile was saying was surprise.

"You want me to run for elections after Priscilla's resignation? After I just accepted Aurelia's offer of grants?" Archibald was troubled, shaking in a mixture of anger and guilt at even pondering the idea. Gratitude, no, indebtedness was an essential component of the Filipino character, and one does not betray their debts and backstab their benefactors. At the same time, this was mixed with an awareness that Aurelia, for all her benefactor-ing, could not just be allowed to do what she wanted with the Philippines' democracy.

Ludwig was nonplussed. "You love the humble farmer more than few others do except Priscilla. Your motives for accepting Aurelia's grants were so that you can afford to research things that make life better for said farmers. Or was that all a lie, Archie?" A thought. "Besides, as President, you can pass laws making it easier to fund agricultural science."

Now he had the Agriculturalist's interest, especially as the latter asked: "Who will back me?"

The German geologist's answer was, "Well, this Mobile Court here, then the Houist Party of the Philippines, and Priscilla's New Philippines Party, which still maintains a lot of loyalty. I can also call upon the Muslim Congress if needed; at worst, only a third of them will take your side. Plus, the small farmers of the Philippines love you for teaching them how to farm potatoes and sweet potatoes. And it's not as if Aurelia doesn't appreciate the value of dark horses..."

Archibald took Ludwig's hand at that. He was convinced.

---

"Mister President, three minutes until your address." Farid Hamidou looked up from his desk, looking across towards his secretary. But like all secretaries for any member of the executive branch or any ambassador/politician deemed important enough, this secretary was no ordinary one. The Presidential Guard was an elite and obscure service branch of the Algerian Special Forces which oversaw the protection of the President and his family first and foremost. People often mistake that the entire Algerian Special Forces itself guarded the President constantly, ignorant of the separate entity within the Special Forces. It made him proud that Algeria had some of the most loyal, dedicated soldiers in the world, ready to die for their country and flag. The woman who stood in front of him was no exception, one of the top soldiers in the Presidential Guard and had served under him as a very straight forward secretary. She spoke her mind when she thought something was wrong and took care of him when he got too tired from discussing with the Provincial Branch. It was almost endearing in a way and he would've been more comfortable around her if he hadn't known that she could kill him in twenty different ways with just one hand. Not that she would, the military was too loyal to the state and its peoples, indoctrinating their soldiers to be so.

"Thank you Rida, I will be right out." Rida nodded and stepped backwards, slowly closing the doors to his office. The President's Office was a humble place, not as lavish as most would expect. A fine oak desk was situated to the back of the room with a great leather chair, the paintings of former Presidents on the back wall behind it. The floor was of a deep dark wood, contrasting beautifully with a lighter beige traditional Berber rug which laid in front of his desk. Surrounding the rug were several maroon leather sofas to serve as seats for any presidential guests. Drawers lined the walls and a small refrigerator was kept to the corner of the room for refreshments. Two more Presidential Guard in dress uniform stood at attention, both at two opposing corners of the room. They stood with their MAS-38's in hand, close quarters sub machine guns in case someone ever got this close to the President. Farid noted the French arms with a little disdain but knew it was out of necessity. Their former colonial overlords were more than happy to supply arms to Algeria for oil and assurance that the Old Republicans will be kept to Tamanrasset Province. For a military which was actively fighting two active insurgent groups, arms were important no matter were they came from and French ones were close in hand and quite high quality.

With his coming plans, Farid planned to cycle out the French arms altogether. Although Pied-Noirs have largely been forgiven and form a formidable part of the military, the majority Arab-Berber population were still wary of the mainland French. There was tension in the air but they held a "cordial" friendship with each other due to their combined hatred of the Old Republicans. "The enemy of my enemy is my friend, I guess." He muttered, shuffling the papers in his hands before setting them against the table. He rid himself of such thoughts and focused on the task at hand. This might be the most important address to the nation he would ever have to make, at least by some standards. It would anger a select few of the populace (and give Traditionalists fuel to call the Algerian government heretics) but his approval ratings would skyrocket. After all, the referendum had taken place a week earlier and came with landslide results. His shoulders felt heavy as his thoughts settled.

This was going to make or break his career as President.

The man had already spoken to both of the parties his address involved. One thanked him humbly, shaking his hand in the holy city of Mecca with a smile on his face. The other shouted blasphemy, calling him a heretic and a traitor to the Muslim people. His resolve was firm however and his intentions were made. He would make this address to the disapproval of an old monarch but to the happiness of his people.

The President immediately straightened as the doors opened, grabbing his papers. His secretary stood in the doorway with two Presidential Guards by her side. "Mister President, it is time sir." He nodded in thanks, standing up to his full height of 6"0', shoulders back and head held high. It was time to face the music. He was dressed in his traditional Presidential robes with a fine maroon turban on his head. The Presidential ring, a simple band of gold which gave him control of an entire nation, was placed on his index finger. He strode towards the doorway and was led into the hallway. The halls were lined with paintings of great Algerian heroes such as his own predecessor, Rais Hamidou. Guards snapped to attention as he walked past, paying respect to their head of state. He turned right and stopped in front of a plain wooden door. The entourage of two Guards entered first and took positions on the back of the veranda, revealing the flashes of cameras and talking people. He took great strides towards the podium, the crescent moon on the front with the Algerian flag serving as the background.

The flashing was almost blinding, a crescendo of civilian chatter filling his ears. He stood on a veranda overseeing a square where all the Wali, and a great crowd of citizens amassed. This address wasn't going to be new to any of them, to the reporters which sat in the front, to the Wali who sat in their high seats nor to the Algerian people who were going to read this on the newspaper or listen to him now. Farid stood behind the pedestal, putting out a hand and smiled. "As-salaam 'alaykum, fair people of Algeria. May I ask for silence?" His suave tone served to dampen the chatter among the crowd, reporters holding their notebooks in hand, pens on the ready. He took a deep breath. In and out, in and out. This was going to take a while.

"To my fellow countrymen, I have listened to your voice, to the voice of the people. We Algerians pride ourselves in our democracy and in our independence from powers long past. I have come to address one such power, on the behest of the Algerian people. I have heard your cries against injustice and imperialism. I have heard your pleas to shed the past and to unite the Arab World. To rid our ties to an Emperor who stands with a fallen empire! To rid our ties to an oppressor who refuses to listen to the cries of his fellow Muslims! To rid our ties an old man who refuses to recognise the power of the Arab people!" The crowd roared as reporters scribbled on their notebooks, the camera flashing intensifying as the various Wali nodded their heads in approval.

Farid was spurred on by the crowd, his vigor showing through his every word. "I come to you as a leader who has spoken to his people and listened. I come to the entire Arab people across the Arab World with a call, to rouse in your slumber and believe in the power of the Arab! I come to represent my people, the fair men and women of Algeria! To my fellow Arab, you must rise with us! You must remember the hardships our ancestors faced, remember the tyranny in their rule. We must honour our ancestors, our forefathers, those who fought and bled for our freedom! To my fellow Muslims around the world, from the Moros of the Philippines to the Muhajir of Southern Asia, heed the call of your brothers. Listen to our plight, look to our past and see where you stand. Do you stand with the past, a broken empire who abused your fellow muslims or do you stand with the future!?"

The President raised his fist, grinning from ear to ear. "To the world, I stand before you to denounce Osman IV, leader of the broken Ottoman Empire, as Caliph and to stand in allegiance with the Sharif of Mecca! The protector of Mecca and Medina, descendant of al-Hassan ibn Ali, who stands against our former oppressors! I stand as a voice for my people, as a voice for the Arab and as a voice for the future!" The roars and shouts of approval from the crowd was like music to his ears. It was time to shed the past and set his plans in motion.

-------------------------------------------------
June 7th: Gebi Iyasu, Addis Ababa
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The door shut with a loud echo as the German ambassador walked out. Sahle, lounging on his throne, casually threw a piece of raw beef to Aron. The lion caught it in his mouth and swallowed it in one bite.

"Who's next?" Desta said testily.

"Bacon" Benyam Felege, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, said. Desta and Benyam sat on stools at the foot of the throne. Sisay Makari, the old priest, leaned on his prayer stick at the Emperor's left.

"Jefferson Davis Bacon" a page announced. The blustery red-faced American entered the hall talking. "Now what the hell, I say, what the hell is going on in this country. An Ambassador Plenipotentiary getting kilt in his own home? Oh." He remembered to bow, and did so awkwardly, giving the Ethiopians time to talk

"I'll have the record show that Reginald Heap was not Ambassador Plenipotentiary." Benyam said, "Any potency he brought with him was his alone, and not given to him by the Rhodesian government."

"Well I don't see how this is a laughing matter. A man is dead, sir, and I need assurances that my people are as safe as they would be in the bosom of the ol' south."

"I apologize." Benyam said gracefully, "The Rhodesian authorities have assured us it was an in house matter. The murderer was one of their own staff. We're are increasing security on Embassy Row just to be safe. New police boxes will be installed, and the Shotel will keep an eye on the area."

"Well that's good to hear. Because I'll have you know that members of that damnyankee Carnahan clan have been blowing up our lines. That family ain't small potatoes, you hear? They are great big, expensive potatoes, with big expensive potato friends, and I can't afford to make enemies like that. Which reminds me, where exactly are the Carnahans?"

"Sidamo Province." Desta said. Benyam shot him a glance. Bacon looked like he was preparing to break out in hives. "You left them in the sticks? After you heard there's someone prowlin' around killing white folks?"

"I left them with the best guards in our country." Desta assured him, "They're safer than the Imperial family."

"I'm not sure that's I'd feel comfortable unless the entire Abyssinian army followed them on parade with the righteous ghost of Robert E Lee at their head. You better get them Carnahans to me, Desta. In pris-tine condition! They have much as a bad hair day and you won't sell another bean in America. We'll go over to chicory."

"You'll have your Carnahans." Benyam promised, "Fresh and lily white."

"I'll take that as a promise." Bacon said. With that, their meeting ended. Bacon blustered out the same way he'd come in. Sahle threw another scrap of meat to his pet.

"You didn't have to be here." Benyam turned to Desta.

"We did." Desta said, "The Emperor needs to be seen. The line between murder and revolution is thin."

"I disagree. It's a thick enough line. We've had some good murderers in this country, and few of them ever made it to Negus."

"Fuat Pasha" the page announced. The Ottoman Ambassador entered, a stately old man wearing a European suit and a fez, with a well kept beard that made him look a bit like Sigmund Freud. He approached the Emperor gracefully, made a textbook bow, and straightened up. "Your Imperial Majesty, the conquering lion of Judah, I am pleased to see you well."

"We are pleased to see you too. What can Ethiopia do for your excellency?" Sahle said. Nailing the words made him feel like a pilot who'd just performed a successful landing on a cheap carrier.

"The Turkish people have many enemies." Fuat said, "As your imperial majesty knows from experience, may I be so bold, greatness causes jealousy, and the greatness of the Turkish people is indisputable. The recent murder on embassy row reminds me of these enemies. I come to request better security."

"We're are increasing security on Embassy Row just to be safe." Benyam said, "New police boxes will be installed, and the Shotel will keep an eye on the area. Now, the Rhodesians have assured us it was an in house matter. The murderer was one of their own staff. But we can assign you Shotel if that would make you feel more secure."

"That would be excellent." The meeting ended, the Turk left, the door slammed. Sahle fed the lion. "Why do they keep coming here for such a basic request?" Sahle complained, "The Americans invented phones for this sort of thing."

"It's better than sitting around the Embassy playing solitaire." Benyam said. "Makes them feel useful. If we used phones for everything, like if there was some great big book of all the phone numbers in the world and we just called each other, then what would important men at the end of their political careers have to look forward to? That's why God in his good grace invented Ambassadorships."

"Anastasia Demetriades" The page announced. The Greek Ambassador was a woman of the stylish aristocracy, her hair kept in a short American style, a string of pearls around her neck. She looked flustered. Her bow was quick to the point of appearing violent, and when she came back up she was literally clutching her pearls.

"Do you have any news about the... murder?" she asked.

"The Rhodesian authorities have assured us it was an in house matter. The murderer was one of their own staff. We're are increasing security on Embassy Row just to be safe. New police boxes will be installed, and the Shotel will keep an eye on the area."

"That's good." she said, "That's very good."

"If you need any comforting, we are here for you." Sahle said. What he saw in the nervous Greek was a woman, and one not much older than him.

"All of Ethiopia is here for you." Sisay added, leaning in. "If there is anything you need."

"Well. There is one thing." she said, letting go of her pearls, "The Greek people are seeking recognition of Northern Epirus as part of Greek civilization."

"That!" Benyam stood up, "Yes, borders are very tricky. I will be glad to hear the Greek argument, but now is not the time I'm afraid. May we reschedule? Allow us to get all our candles on one stick, so to speak."

"That's all I have, your majesty." Anastasia toyed with her pearls again.

"It was a pleasure talking with you." Sahle replied. Sisay leaned in again. "Go with Christ, child." the old priest blessed her. She left. The door slammed. The lion ate.

"What's next?" Sahle asked, resting his head in his hand.

"The Filipo Ambassador" Benyam said, "Lucrecia Calimlim"

"Ooooh!" Sahle perked up, "I heard the Phillipines is ruled entirely by women. Like, if you are a man, you do the cooking and raise the babies, and the women go to work."

"I've heard there's a woman in Djibouti who smokes cigarettes with her ass." Benyam replied, "But we can't believe everything we hear. Pardon my language, Abba" he looked up at Sisay. The Debtera smirked but tried to hide it. "You are forgiven." he said with a quick blessing.

"Lucrecia Calimlim!" The page announced. In came a small woman who looked almost like a teenager, far younger than most public diplomats. She wore a frilly dress of a see-through white material, under which she wore a much shorter and tighter opaque dress. Sahle sat up, and watched her attentively as she bowed.

"I come to you asking for nuts and beans."

"Well..." Sahle began to speak, but Desta cut him off. "You have no concerns about the events on Embassy row? Before we get into anything else."

"No" Lucrecia said, "I trust that I am safe here. I have never felt unsafe in my time in your capital. Though I haven't had the time to explore it. Perhaps his Imperial majesty might find the time."

"So you just came here about nuts?" Desta asked, "You can buy them in the bazaar. We don't sell them here."

"Not all countries are so open about their agriculture. I was asked by my government to procure a few things. Coffee, Cacao..."

"We don't grow Cacao..."

"...Water Buffalo. Or just the sperm..."

"If you are hungry, your excellency, you might try Injera" Benyam quipped. "If you want this stuff in bulk, you are allowed to purchase it from private sellers. We are friendly to foreign enterprise."

"Do you know where best to buy these goods in bulk?"

"I don't do my own purchasing." Benyam said, "I'd have to ask my servants where they buy the choicest Buffalo sperm."

"Send a written list to the Foreign Ministry and they'll get you the information you need." Desta said. The Filipino ambassador left. Sahle watched the subtle sway of her hips as she walked out, and completely forgot about the lion.

"Well, next up is the important one." Benyam said, "The old Ambassador is dead. Long live the Ambassador."

"Evie Stevens" the page announced. In came a broad-shouldered woman in her middle age, dressed curiously more like a soldier than a woman, her skin a creamy latte color. She walked up, bowed manfully, and addressed the Emperor. "Your Imperial Majesty, I've come here to pick up the work the Heaps, God rest their souls, left off."

"We are terribly sorry this crime happened. And on our soil? That is mortifying to us." Benyam said.

"It was a tragedy. But the world was made for the living. We have to move on. The Rhodesian embassy unanimously insists our relationship go on as if nothing happened. Forget the past. Let's make the future of Africa, together."

"Well said." Benyam replied, "Working together I think we can build Africa into a continent that, after a thousand years, will make Europe a mere footnote in the history of civilization."

"And we would like to welcome you to Ethiopia." Sahle added, leaning on the edge of his seat.

(Collab with @SgtEasy)

Adrian Emirolou furiously splashed water over his face, cursing the heat and the sun. Clearly, the heat must be the source of the nerves that plagued him today. The aging man shuffled over to a nearby window, forcing his short, fat fingers under the lip of the portal and lifting with an audible grunt, pryed it over his head as a cool breeze wafted in. The serenity of the alabaster city before him was intoxicating, and he feared if he looked at it any longer, he would get lost in its beauty, and lose sight of what he had been summoned here for today.

The Greek Embassy in Algiers had only been established 5 years ago, yet it was quite successful, to say the least. The secret behind it was none other than the corpulent man who had been with it all this time. Adrian Emirolou had a reputation as something of an Afrophile, a distinction he wore with pride since his childhood in Macedonia. Adrian was a natural choice to head the embassy at Algiers, and it showed in his masterful execution of the trade agreements for the acquisition of Algerian Oil. With a loud cough and an adjustment of his tie, it seemed that he was ready.

Farid Hamidou was known for his vigor and charisma. He oozed confidence and had all the qualities of an inspiring leader. He was also known to brute force his way through problems and was seen as foolhardy, stubborn. But you couldn't tell the man that he was a bad leader of any sort. Evidence has shown that he has led the country into a new golden age. People were wealthier than ever before, more Algerians are attending university than before. Unemployment has decreased due to his pipeline building plans that will boost the country's economy to new heights. Some may point to Farid's inspiring speeches that moved the nation to be greater, others may point to his choice of Secretaries and their help with the urbanisation of Algeria. All would agree that Algeria was on the up and up, despite growing turmoil within the south but they were confident that their President had plans for it. And he had many, many plans indeed, one of them coming into fruition at tis moment. He watched the Greek ambassador enter, hands clasped together.

It had been a long while since Adrian set foot into the office of the Algerian president. He would never be quite used to just how small the meeting place was. Adrian gave a slow, dignified bow, before opening his mouth to send forth his message in perfect French, no sign of his native Greek accent peeking through the words.

"Mr. President, it is an honor to speak with you once again," he spoke as a smile crept across his face.
"I have come to you today with a proposal from my superiors about an issue that affects both of us."

Adrian cleared his throat as he once again spoke strongly and firmly, "As I am sure you are fully aware, the
The Greek nation has long been at odds with our neighbor to the East, the Ottoman Empire," the fat man clasped his
hands together audibly as he continued. "We are no stranger to the military ambitions of the Turks, and it is
only a matter of time before they seek to begin retaking lands that rightfully belong to us." Adrian stood himself up and looked directly at the president. "We are fully aware that you are no friend of the Turk, and we believe that with the conclusion of our military action in Albania, it is the perfect time for us to make a proposal for mutual military support in the event of Ottoman military aggression towards either of our nations."

Adrian stepped back, placing his hands behind his back and clasping them once more, eagerly awaiting the president's response.

The Prsident nodded, keen eyes scanning Adrian's body up and down. He kept his hands clasped and looked into the ambassador's eyes. After a moment, he broke the stare and gestured for the man to sit down. Adrian looked reluctant as he sat down but followed his gesture. The president smiled at him. "I am not surprised about your presence within my office, ambassador Adrian. We Algerians have also taken note of your dislike towards your imperialist neighbours. We hold no love for the former colonial powers and although we tolerate most of them, the Ottomans have proven most difficult to telrate." He paused, standing up to pick up a textbook on his desk and handing it to the ambassador. "All you need to do is pick up a history book and see the actions they took against my people all those years ago. And despite their "liberalisation" since the Great War, I have no doubt that they are sinking back into their warmongering ways. And, as you may know, my people's opinion of Osman IV is not a positive one."

Farid paused again, turning to look back at the paintings of what he saw as greater men than him. He smiled. He would ascend higher than these men and make his mark in history. "Our obvious differences would make an alliance, even a purely military one would be difficult." A communist government and a democracy working together in harmony? Even he wasn't so foolishly optimistic. But he could see an opportunity when it was presented and who knows? Maybe something greater could become of this. He turned and looked at the ambassador with a serious expression on his face, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Is Greece and its people ready to rid themselves of the old ties, Ambassador Adrian?"

Adrian coughed softly into his hands and returned the look to the President. "President Hamidou, I believe that the safety of our nations is ultimately a more important issue than the minor details of how you and my superiors choose to run our nations."

"I can assure you, however, that the Greek nation is far from a relic of a long since gone past such as our neigbor," Adrian's expression changed from his usual jovial grin to something much more serious, "We are willing to do anything to ensure the survival of our great nation, and to make it more than what it was. And I know that you are a man who is willing to do the same for your nation."

The President smiled back, a proud glint in his eye. "I would do anything for my people, Ambassador Adrian. I agree that despite our differing ideologies, the current situation takes precedence. A defensive military alliance against the Ottomans will be most beneficial for our two nations, especially seeing the tensions flaring over Eastern Thrace." He paused and smiled even wider, showing his pearly white teeth. "You have my word that if any acts of aggression or declarations of war given by the Ottomans are directed towards your state, Algerian and Greek shall stand side by side in war. I will have my secretary look over the details of a pre-prepared document and send it to your embassy. Will you want to announce our alliance, Ambassador?"

Adrian's face once again lit up with his usual cheerful demeanor, "This is most excellent, Mr. President. I will be more than honored to announce this declaration of Greek and Algerian co-operation." As usual, Greece could count on the skill of Adrian in securing an crucial alliance in the defense against Ottoman interests. "This will be a celebrated day in Greece for years to come, and I believe that this shall be the beginning of a powerful force against any ambitions that the Turks may have in the Balkans or Africa." Adrian extended a hand to the President, happy in the success he had on this day.

Farid took the man's hand with curled lips, also happy in his small victory. This was one more step towards his plans. "It will be a glorious day indeed, for both of our nations. And any nation who sees the Ottoman militarism for what it truly is." His face turned mischievous, letting go of the man's hand and showing him to the door.

"Oh and ambassador," the President said with finality in his tone, the ambassador halfway through his doorway "the Mediterranean Defence Coalition has this ring to it that I like, wouldn't you agree?"

Adrian nodded his head, "Yes, I do agree. It's to the point"

"I'm glad we agree then, the document will be at your door as quick as possible." With that, Farid waved a friendly goodbye and Adrian was shown out by two Presidential Guards. They escorted him out of the People's National Assembly., leaving the man to his thoughts.


"Comrade Hoxha, the Council will see you now,"

Officially, Vafeiadism is against imperialism, requesting freedom for all, and the right for nations to determine their own destiny. Albania was, however, the best argument against that. Greek interference in Albanian politics was the nation's worst kept secret. The Greeks liked to assert that their occupation of Epirus was only them acting on the will of the Greek people to be a part of the Greek nation. Their sheltering of a wanted rebel leader and his followers was also justified as protecting the will of the People against a despotic tyrant.

Enver Hoxha had been in Athens for the last 20 years, etching out an existence with what little of his followers had survived King Zog's purges back in the 40s. His request for asylum was granted by the Premier, and the ragtag survivors of the Albanian Socialist Army had taken to living in a government refugee camp. Hoxha knew that the support of a powerful nation was required if his cause was to ever be successful. But a meeting with Markos Vafeiadis was not an easy thing to get, and what little chances he had gotten to meet with him were rarely successful. Greek ambitions for Epirus took precedence over the backing of a coup leader.

Today was, however, no ordinary day. Hoxha was escorted out of the camp by armed guards and brought to the Council house, stood before, arguably, the most powerful man in Greece.

Stephanos Papayannis had eyes and ears all over Greece and beyond. He had been expecting Hoxha today.

"Enver Hoxha, the would-be leader of Albania," Stephanos looked up over the clipboard he was using, addressing him in his own language. "I'm sure you're wondering why I suddenly give a damn about you after leaving you in that refugee camp for almost 2 decades now." Straightening himself out, he continued. "To put it simply, you're actually useful now."

"And how is that?"

Stephanos grinned, "The Kingdom is sick, Comrade. Zog is dead, and his successor is, shall we say, not up to par."

Skander IV was the only surviving son of the old king. Skander was mentally deficient, afflicted by some kind of disability. Every would-be manipulator in Albania who could get close to him sought to use him for their own gains. Albania was heading down the path of turmoil, and now was a perfect time for the Greeks to do with Albania as the pleased.

"Your movement gives us a perfect opportunity to turn Albania from a hostile monarchy into a friendly neighbor. Thus we have a proposition for you, Comrade Hoxha." Hoxha listened intently while Stephanos spoke once again. "Your movement will get the full support of Greece, with as much monetary and military support as you need. Once you capture Albania, you will get our support as an ally."

Hoxha nodded, "So you've finally seen the value in my cause?"

"Something like that," Stephanos spoke as he motioned for the guards to come remove the man and take him back to the camp. "We will begin preparations to train you and your followers tomorrow,"

As Hoxha was escorted out, a voice spoke up,

"So what do we do when he makes it?"

"Enver Hoxha is not to be trusted," Stephanos replied, standing up. "I have details for what to do if he is successful in this. Do not allow him out of your sight, keep tabs on him at all times, and we will deal with him when the times comes."

((Collab Post between Letter Bee and Vilageidiotx))

Lucrecia Calimlim smiled as she got her way. Apparently, Ethiopia thought nothing of the idea that the Philippines would just use her fulfilled requests to imitate Ethiopia's unique products, including Coffee. Coffee from the original source of the plant; it was going to make the Philippines rich and cut into that Desta's profits! Did she just notice the Minister of the Pen being silently furious as she did the equivalent of politely asking: 'Can I cut into your profit margins?'

Well, nevermind. Time to go back to her car and once inside, change into a more conservative long dress of opaque cotton fibre, as well as tie up her long hair into a decent bun. She would then ask her chauffeur to drive her to the Bahr Negus' office in Addis Abbaba; time to conciliate the person giving the Philippines a battleship against his will.

As the car drove to the small, Italian-style manse protected by grey-clad naval personnel, Lucrecia began to clear her head of all thought. She knew she had to convince the Bahr Negus to be friendlier to the Philippines, and to do that, she would have to appeal to his recently-stoked Anti-Desta sympathies. Not that she minded pissing off that snake...

News of the Bahr Negus's recent arrival in the capital had sparked her interest. The Naval leader was a governor as well, given authority over four cities: Assab, Massawa, Djibouti, and Mogadishu. The first two were small port towns, but Djibouti and Mogadishu were thriving cities, the pearls of East Africa, and control over them made the office of Bahr Negus a formidable one. Hamere Noh Dagna was an infamously prickly man, but his importance made suffering his personality worth the effort.

The Admiralty Building had once been a house, this was apparent in its layout, but it was converted to allow a small number of offices. The front room had a sofa, a few decorated wooden chairs, and a handful of paintings; two in the Ethiopian style, and a third that was a plain European style painting of a dreadnought at sea. Lucrecia didn't have to wait. She was ushered into the Bahr Negus's office. He was an ugly man with a pinched face. He greeted her coldly.

"So. It's your people who are absconding with one of my ships."

Lucrecia nodded. "Yes. While we won't lie; we need ships, we would have preferred it if the battleship was freely given instead of wrenched from your hand by someone who cares only for his coffers. So I came here on my own initiative to see if anything can be done to mend relations; far better a Bahr Negus who is open with his loyalties and resentments than a slippery Minister of the Pen."

She pursed her lips. "Especially a Minister of the Pen whose products push out my own nation's. Thankfully, he has no legal recourse to prevent me from acquiring his cherished coffee beans and cuttings and marrying them to the Philippines' own plants, allowing us to sell the same products he does to the American market. Not that it would push him out of the business entirely, but the competition should sting a little bit. Point is, despite your resentment for us due to the forced gift of a ship, we have the same snake to deal with - Desta."

The old bulldog laughed. "I would call that treachery. But the Minister of the Pen has not been my friend, so I will not be his. We'll keep what you said between us, eh? Want some coffee?"

A smile from Lucrecia. "I would be honored to have some in your presence."

Hamere Noh rose like a mountain shaking of its roots and went do the door, opening it a crack. "Coffee!" he shouted, shutting the door and going back to his seat. "You seem to have a vendetta against our Minister of the Pen. Why's that?"

Lucrecia explained as concisely as he could, "Because he lacks loyalty to anyone but himself. I won't lie; I am a woman and that has been a source of suspicion since Eve. But if I am like Eve, Desta fits the role of The Serpent. Our country has many enemies and many weaknesses, but it tries to make something of itself anyway. And for that, we need serious allies who would not melt away when the sun grows too hot. A person who helps us only because of greed and convinience is not the friend my nation needs."

They coffee came in two small cups and was served black. Hamere Noh took a sip. "You wish to reform the world, Ms Lucrecia?"

A warm chuckle as Lucrecia sipped her coffee. "Please, the world is too big to reform, even for one modern-day Eve. But to make a small slice of it better and defend it like a shieldbearer, that's what we want. And my country, it is crawling up from the muck and onto a worthy place in the world ladder." She purses her lips. "Much like yours, by the way, and I mean that as a compliment. And I think that we can both help each other."

A question. "Most of Ethiopia's foriegn trade - both imports and exports - come through your territory, right?"

"Yes."

Lucrecia answered, "Well, the Philippines has just approved a bill establishing 'Special Economic Zones' where trade is more...free. Some are concerned that this would give too much 'privilege' to the cities, but our redistributive mechanisms ought to make up for that for a generation or two. But enough tangents; name something that your four cities produce, and I can promote its importation into the Philippines. Name a good that your cities need that the Philippines has in abundance - we produce fish, dried fish, dried tropical fruits, coconut oil, coconut milk, coconut and pineapple fibre, and a lot of alcoholic products - and we will export it at below-market rates. Your prosperity is Desta's jealousy, and also, in time, our prosperity."

Hamere Noh laughed a big bullish laugh. "You're a merchant? I thought Communists don't like that. Here is the thing; probably the biggest export out of Djibouti is coffee. Desta's coffee. I get enough of a cut from revenues to live well, but I am no merchant. I'm a soldier. I don't want pineapple fibres. I was boats, and good men to man them. If your people want to sell things in my ports, I'll welcome the customs duties. If they don't, well, they don't. But I'm not Desta. I'm not interested in what floats in and out of... what is the port of the Philippines, something Spanish probably? The only thing floating into your harbor that I've ever cared about is gonna be that ship. That's why I'm here. I don't want to see it go."

Lucrecia nodded, "Priscilline Conclliarist, actually; we're much more lenient." A sigh. "I do not wish to alienate someone more dependable in his own way than Desta is. But my country is under an invasion threat right now. Your ship gives us a fighting chance of victory when before, our best hope was to hit-and-run and hide from the shadows. So in the absence of any way to make good the debt...all I have are sentiments and empty words."

Disappointment was evident in her voice.

"There is not much I can do for you" he said, "But we aren't enemies. Your feelings about our Minister of the Pen has made my day."

Lucrecia then finished her coffee and got up. "Thank you. Your non-enmity is all I can ask for."

A deep bow of respect before she turned to leave.

Kaiser Wilhelm walked through the halls of Foreign Embassy as the light of a rare, sunny morning flooded in through the windows, giving the white walls a warm, yellow glow. Behind him were a handful of advisors, as well as his son and heir, Wilhelm V, all talking his ear off, giving their own bits of advice on the meeting that was about to happen. The more they talked, the more red Wilhelm's face turned, until he could take it no more and turned to them.

“Yes, yes, I know!” the Kaiser snapped. “Thank you for all the advice, but do you think I do not know how to talk to a German noble? I do it every day, for Christ's sake! Yes, he has been in Afrika for years, but he is still German, damnit! I'll take my son, but the rest of you, leave us. I need to regain my damn composure before I enter the room, and there's no way I can do that with you all squawking in my ears!”

At a loss for words, the trail of advisors slowly trickled off, stopping and turning around. As the largest herd of them broke away, he could hear them immediately start to talk about what just happened among themselves. Taking a deep breath, he looked towards his son, who was staring back at him with dark, inquisitive eyes.

“That... That is not how a King should act.” He said under his breath. “However, that is sometimes the only proper response when people treat a King like a child who can't go out into the world on their own.”

“I know, father.” Replied Prinz Wilhelm, eyes still scanning over his father. “Now, about this meeting. I just want to ask... Is this man truly a Duke? I understand the history behind his title, but when it comes down to it, he seems to just be a governor who was granted an inflated ego. After all -”

“He is a nobleman of our country, my son.” Kaiser Wilhelm interjected. “He stayed with the Empire when Lettow-Vorbeck and the rest of the traitors declared their petty kingdoms in their jungles. He fought for the empire for years, without aid. If that does not earn the man his title, then you may as well strip me of the title of Kaiser right now.”

“Yes... Father.” Replied Prinz Wilhelm, albeit begrudgingly.

With that, Kaiser Wilhelm flung the doors to the annex where Duke Hurst was staying open, and marched into the sunroom where they were going to have their meeting. The table was already lined with food prepared earlier that morning, as well as a variety of drinks on a cart off to the side. Finally, the Kaiser's eyes locked on the man already sitting at the table.

“Duke Hurst, I presume. I hope your flight here was a good one, and I hope your night in Berlin was even better. To be away from home for so long... I cannot even fathom how it must feel to be back. Wilkommen, meine freunde." the Kaiser said with a smile.

The Duke had currently been rather enarmored with the various treats - but most importantly the sunrise of the Fatherland. When he had received the request from the Kaiser himself - he had ordered his plane to prepared post-haste and hopped as quickly as he could. Sadly it had arrived late at night, and he couldn't enjoy the streets of Berlin - as he had been very tired after the flight and had to be presentable to the Kaiser.

'A tired mind, is a weak mind'. As they would have said - back in the Prussian War College. All of the entourage and servants had been mostly a formality - he had grown accustomed to using his own hands. A soldier set his own uniform after all - even an officer.

He had just been getting dressed by the light of the gas-lamp, when the sunrise had come. It looked almost as beautiful - as in the trenches, in France. The notion that the long-night had been over and today they could march to victory.

The rank and title, the name sewn perfectly - even the buttons had all been presentable. It was something ironic to see, Oberst Jaeger Hurst here. When he had been given the task initially - it had been to get away the 'loose-cannon' of an officer, whom was a good tactician but rubbed many of the Old Prussian Nobilty wrongly.

Yet here he stood - a position that many would have expected Lettow-Vorbeck, a war-hero back then to be. But he proved false - and history would have it be, that the man whom many expected little - would raise the then declared Duchy of German West Afrika - to be a jewel to rival British India. A state - he would use to constantly improve German relationships in Afrika and whenever possible - always see to it, that the homeland did better. Already Algerian products were cheaper for them - than to the Italians or French.

Duke Hurst soon heard his voice being spoken, and he soon turned about. Rather professionally - as he turned around on his boot. Glomped it against the side of his other boot, in traditional military formation and saluted the Kaiser. "Glad to be back home, mein Kaiser..." he spoke - wearing the same uniform he had been sent to West Afrika that thirty years ago - still kept pristine. From the young idealist who left, he had become a rather wisened and old man now - his appearance and posture, being more presentable and befitting a German noble. His eyes still full of age and life, yet also a sense of softness was in them - as the sight of a man whom had been on a journey for so long and finally arrived back home.

"Wonderful, isn't it?" Wilhelm said, taking in the view from Duke Hurst's window. "Truly, this room has the best view of them all. I always say, if only my study had one so nice, I would probably get more work done, rather than taking walks every evening!"

Letting out a mighty chuckle, Wilhelm finally took his seat, reaching over and grabbing a small tart and a napkin from the table. "However, I am sure you would like to get this started. I can only imagine how long you have been waiting for this moment. There will be time to enjoy Berlin personally later."

Taking a bite of the tart, the Kaiser looked into the Duke's eyes.

"So, tell me, Hurst. How fares the kolonie? What has happened since my father was forced to declare the state unable to assist?"

The Duke thought about his reply and then, quickly rose up from his seat and grabbed a small chest that was around the size of his elbow.

"Instead of telling. How about I show you instead?" he offered, as he soon opened it and revealed the gift that he brought for the Kaiser.

He soon brought out a state of an elephant - one that was made of pure gold. It's eyes were that of finely made diamond. It's tusks were carved rubies - it stood on a pedestal made of ivory and in it's trunk was held the German flag, with the head of an elephant in the center - now considered the flag of the Duchy.

"My gift to you. My Kaiser," explained Hurst - a gift that was worth a treasure itself to make. "The Duchy has done well - many of the colonials have prospered."

"We pull black gold right from under the ground. Including the gas as well - while metal comes anywhere we strike a pickaxe..." he spoke. "It has done well - and I have many other plans in mind to improve the colony further."

Kaiser Wilhelm gently took the statue in his hands, looking it over, marvelling at each and every little intricate detail. When he fianlly set it down, Hurst had finished speaking.

"That is wonderful to hear, my friend. I am glad you have done so well on your own. That is no small feat, I assure you. There are plenty of governors here in the Fatherland who could learn a thing or two from your industrious attitude!" Letting out another chuckle, albeit not nearly as loud as the last, the Kaiser leaned forward some.

"Duke Hurst." he said, strained slightly. "Before we move on, I must ask. Do you ever wish to return to the Fatherland? I am glad to hear you have done so well, but... Well... West Afrika us just that. Afrika. No matter how much you polish it, surely it does not compare to your home, yes? If you say the word, I can set you up with a grand property, right here in Berlin, where you could live out the rest of your days surrounded by your own. Now that we are reconnecting, it would be simple enough to make the switch. If you are not ready to retire, i'm sure I could even find a government position for you, even. I just... I cannot imagine how horrible it has to be, surrounded by none of your own. Of course, I have not personally seen the kolonie myself, so if I am wrong, by all means, correct me. It's just that, were I in your shoes, I would return to the Fatherland and never set foot on that continent again."

The Duke for all of his age gave a warm chuckle in reply, although not to seem disrespectful. "I will admit, Kaiser - when I first came there, I had expected to simply serve my Empire. I was a bit of a glory-hound and a bit bitter. How such old geezers with their medals and age could think themselves better than me. Me? Whom had beat the French numerous times in the Great War - while their plans would have lead to unnecessary deaths on the field..."

"Then sadly I got my wish. When I had to make a choice - when the Governor wanted to rebel. I shot him and I was forced to shoot and kill any and all traitors of my homeland that tried to forge their false Empires..."

"I will admit it was a heavy task. But I have always had an open-mind, even during my youth I studied with many fine professors," he said. "I know it might be hard to say it - but I have grown accustomed to Afrika..."

"Don't get me wrong, I do would like to visit my homeland more often. Yet as the years passed, it grew on me. Don't worry - I did bend Afrika to my will and not let it bend me," he explained. "See along the coastal regions and you will find a beauty that I have tried to built in likeness of Berlin."

"I met my wife there, and even had a son who has grown into a fine man," explained Hurst. "While the offer is comforting - it is unnecessary, I am content where I am..."

Duke Hurst figure soon shifted and the tone of a politician instead emerged. "Although that doesn't mean I don't wish to improve upon it. Chief among them - is our political status. The British have kept poking at us occasionally - always seeking to find any legality to exploit...."

"Speak no more, my friend." Wilhelm replied with a smile. "I had only assumed that was the true reason for this visit. I only needed to make sure I was not mistsken. I have had my secretary draw up all the paperwork needed to make your title, country, and claims official parts of the Empire. No longer a simple Kolonie. If the Brits try to interfere with you anymore, they can come here and say it to my face!"

Reaching into the folder before him, Wilhelm took out a handful of papers, ranging from legal documents, to certificates denoting the Dukes rank and position within the Empire.

"I have already signed my name. So let me say once more, Duke Hurst." The Kaiser said, handing a pen to Hurst. "Welcome home."

"Happy to be home," replied Jaegar Hurst, shaking hands with the Kaiser - giving a deep bow to the man, whom likely had not seen what he had - but nevertheless he was happy to make it official.

"Well - that will leave us with the second issue," he spoke - gently placing the documents back onto the the table, as he soon took a more relaxed posture in the seat. "The fact is - despite my policies - the white population has remained small in the Duchy. Compared to in Rhodesia, South Afrika...or....Tanganyika. I was curious - if we could discuss something of an 'ease up of immigration to the Duchy?"

Namely he tried to word it gently as possible - as much as the current system was stable, it was still mostly a system on relying and balancing black favors. Namely he wanted settlers to the Duchy - he didn't care even if they were from the lower class. He wanted to be more self-reliant and not be too over-reliant on the Dualas and Yorubas. As it was - talks from a position of strength were always more productive than a weak one.

"I shall have my people work up drafts for advertisements later this evening, for you to look over. If the coast of Afrika is as you say, surely you can entice a large percentage of the lower class, by promising theme 'luxurious, exotic properties' for a price similar to what they pay for their current housing. I'm sure many upper class folks will also take the leap for a tropical vacation home, especially with the colder months coming soon."

"Don't worry - we have plenty of those in the coastal region. You should visit the Royal Palace in West Afrika. It can't match the Imperial Palace in Berlin - but it has that Neo-Baroque appearance, that makes one feel simply at home..." he explained.

"Anywho - let us talk shop. How goes Germany in the most basic terms?" asked the Duke. As despite his duties and being away - his oath to the Kaiser, had still been that of 'serving the Empire, wherever I may be'. As it was - he had gathered a rather nice surplus, in the Duchy' coffers - and with the lowering of gas and oil to the Empire, he was certain that the Imperial Treasury would have some coin left over for something else.

Namely he was asking, if the Empire would be in need of something - that he could provide.

"Ah, well..." started the Kaiser. "That, honestly, is not truly my area of expertise. When you return, however, I will be sending an entourage of diplomats, businessmen, engineer's... Generally the top of the Fatherland's highest sectors. They'll tour the country with you, and figure out the specific's of 'what the Fatherland needs' from Kam-, sorry, from Deutsches West-Afrika."

Finishing off another tart, Wilhelm took a long look out the window beside them.

"However, I'm sure whatever their decision is, it will only serve to help the Fatherland. In these times, German Might needs to be known once more, and I will happily accept the aid of those who wish to futher that goal."

"That is what Kamerun was originally meant to be. I shall continue furthering the prosperity and economic dominance of the German Empire in Afrika. I have a bit of a hand and understanding there - compared to the Belgians and British - whose colonies are slowly unraveling before them..." he chuckled. The British always liked to pomper around - as the Great Empire and dictate their policies on everyone, now nearly all of their colonies were being a headache and drain - instead of resource.

"Well" said Wilhelm, rising to his feet. "If that settles everything, then I believe we can call this meeting a success."

Folding the napkin that was in his lap, and placing it on the table gently, Wilhelm extended his arm to shake hands with the Duke one last time.

"It was a pleasure meeting with you, Duke Hurst. I look forward to future meetings between the two of us, and I hope you enjoy the remainder of your stay in the Fatherland. If you would like, I can leave my secretary here with you to serve as your guide to Berlin."

------------------------------------------------------------------------
June 8th: Chew Ber, Begmeder Province, Ethiopia
------------------------------------------------------------------------

The people outside the shoddy rock church crowded Fitawrari Ergete, all of them speaking at the same time. Abba Tofik stood next to him in priestly robes. Ergete fed these people, and clothed them, stealing from the corrupt Neftanya and giving to the common farmers. These would be the voters when Ethiopia threw off the yoke of the obsolete Emperor. His heart swelled with pride at seeing them all around him. They were barefoot, poor, oppressed, but they still loved their country and cared for its future. Their voices clashed, ruling out one another, but there was a theme to the little he could hear. The Abune. The excommunication.

"Fellow citizens!" he called out, his booming voice quieting them somewhat. He smiled and held out his hands, signalling for them to pause. "Am I excommunicated from you? Do you believe this?"

"No!" they roared back.

"I am surrounded by my fellow Christians. Do you welcome me as a fellow?"

"Yes!" they roared again.

"Then I am a member of the true church: the church of believers. What can Addis Ababa do?" The crowd became loud again, but he held his arms out and spoke above them, wresting control of the disorder. "The Abune is an elderly man. He spends his day in holy service and does not understand the den of snakes that surrounds him. The Emperor and his creature Desta whisper lies into the ears of that holy man. They mislead him. If he were to come here, to walk among you, the true people of God, he would not deny you, and with a tear on his cheek he would forgive us. But he cannot do this. He wears chains of pearl. When we liberate our country, we will liberate our church! Do any of you men want to help us? First start by aiding my men. They are trying to divide the herd of cattle down there into lots to give to you. Help them, and maybe you'll find you like the work and want to help some more." The crowd dispersed, most to go see the cattle. Ergete was drunk on their love.

"I tell them every day, 'the shiftas in the hills do good work.' I mean every word of it." the priest said.

"Thank you, Abba. There will one day be statues of you in Addis Ababa."

Abba Tofik blushed. "I do not work for glory, only for God. It is like his prophet said, 'He raises the poor from the dust and lifts the beggar from the ash heap, to set them among princes and make them inherit the throne of glory.'"

"Look, a people rises like a lioness, and lifts itself up like a lion." quoted Ergete. Tofik's eyes lit up, "You are a worthy believer. Lead these people out of the desert and into the promised land."

With that benediction, he left the priest and headed for the herd. The men sung as they worked, children following along them, trying to touch the stocks of their carbines. Mahetsent directed them as they divided the small number of cattle among the villagers. Ergete's horse was tied up near by. He loosed it, mounted, and rode to Mahetsent's side.

"Did you pick some men to ride with us?"

"Yes" Mahetsent said. He didn't look away from his work.

"Good. We will need to ride soon. Meet me at Werke's farm." With his orders conveyed, he rode southwest alone.

He brought his horse to a canter, following the road for a time. This was one of the most well traveled roads in Ethiopia, clinging to the foothills of the Semien mountains in the south. It was popular, but it was still dirt, and the rising use of automobiles, especially by the government, made ruts that'd been filled by muddy water after the first monsoon-season rain. The land bloomed green, and the air was thick with the smell of fresh growth. He rode off the track, into the rising foothills, toward Werke's place.

What he arrived at was a humble series of circular stone huts and mud-packed sheds, with a pen full of goats nearby. Werke came out at the sound of hoofs. She was a woman in her thirties, already a widow, taking care of a number of children. The oldest, eleven, was tending the goats.

"Do you have time?" she asked.

"You have the gold?"

"In the storage hut." she said. "There is coffee on the fire."

"I don't think I'll have time for coffee." he dismounted, and tied his mount to a fence post. She led him to the storage hut. Tools were piled along the walls, and the room smelled thick with dust. She retrieved a woven basket, the kind that might be used to haul eggs to market, and pulled out a bag.

"Your men are not with you. You are not going to go alone, are you Ergete?"

"They are right behind me." he said.

"I do not hear them." she slipped her dress over her shoulder and revealed her breasts, heavy and beautiful. "Real quick. For a lonely widow."

He undid his belt, places a hoe in front of the door to block it, and dropped his pants.

The sound of several dozen horses galloping together told them it was time to finish. He was dressed and fastening his belt before they were in front of the house. When he saw Mahetsent, he lifted the bag of gold in the air and wiggled it, moving to mount his horse. "Are things settled in the village?" he asked.

"Of course." Mahetsent said, "Are things settled here?"

He nodded and looked off to the west. They rode away, passing the widow's huts like a stream around a bed of rocks, shadowing the road from a distance, keeping to the wild country where they had an advantage.

A herd of ibexes dashed up the hill as the shiftas rode by. Ergete and Mahetsent led the party. As they got into the rocky territory on the cliff-lined edge of the mountains, they slowed down and had time to talk. "The men do not approve." Mahetsent whispered.

"Of what?"

"Paying this man. Bribery is unseemly work. It's not what you've preached to them."

"A little bribe will give us breathing room to grow our revolution. It's utilitarianism, good democratic stuff. We pay for a little and gain a lot."

"I see what you are doing. But the men are restless."

"They will see in the end." Ergete said, "Nobody is completely innocent in this world except for Christ."

They arrived in a gully, where a richly dressed man sat on the back of an ass. Several armed retainers stood at his side. Both forces faced one another, all men armed except the man on the ass, two small armies facing off with little love for one another. Ergete rode into the middle. The man on the ass joined.

"Ergete I presume." the man said.

"Fitawrari Ergete."

"Naturally" the man responded, monotoned. "I am Ballabat Bekwere. The Mesfin sent me."

"Did he send his word with you? That my band is not to be harassed by the government of Begmeder, or my supporters oppressed?"

"It will be like you are a ghost." The Ballabat said. Ergete nodded, reached under his shamma, retrieved the bag of gold, and tossed it. The surprised official just barely caught it, and Ergete smiled seeing him struggle. Ballabat Bekwere checked the contents of the bag. When he was satisfied, he looked back up at the shifta lord. "Do you really think Ethiopia will ever be a democracy? Isn't that like expecting the wolf and the baboon to make a pact of friendship?"

"That's why men are men and the animals are animals. We can do great things, but the creatures of the earth must live in the dirt."

Before the official could reply, a single shot rang out, and its ricochet echoed between the rocks for a long ominous moment. It hadn't come from either group, and everybody in the gully ran for cover. A voice called out from the rocks above.

"You have all broken the Emperor's Laws! Surrender now and no blood will be shed!" One of the shiftas took a shot in the direction of the voice. Ergete hid behind the same rock as the Ballabat.

"Neftanya" Bekwere cursed. Of course. They were retired military officers, rewarded by their service by land, a conservative middle class with weapons they knew how to use. They hated the shiftas who put ideas in the peasants heads.

A volley rang out from the Neftanyas side. Everyone was behind cover, armed with rifles and pistols. The horses, in the field of fire, took a few shots from that first volley before getting out of the way. Two horses lay dead, bright red blood pouring out like wine. Ergete thrust his pistol into the Ballabat's hands. "Cover me!" he said, rushing off to flank their attacker before the official had the chance to object.

Bullets whizzed past his head. He dodged from rock to rock, taking shots at the enemy with his carbine when he had the chance. Several other shiftas had the same idea. One tried to charge straight ahead and was pinned down behind the carcass of a horse. A bullet winged through Ergete's afro, creating the smell of singed hair.

In the miniature battle, miniature tactics played out. The neftanya countered the shifta's flanking maneuver with one of their own. On both flanks of what was now a circular fight around the gully, shifta's fought hand to hand with the neftanyas. A middle aged man with a rusty curved sword came at Ergete. He defended himself with the forestock of his carbine, pushed the man back, and shot him. He now had a sword. One by one he took on the enemy, dueling them with the stolen blade, bullets whizzing by. The men still pinned down in the gully charged across. Overtaken, the neftanya retreated. Ergete stood atop boulder in triumph, his men ululating around him, blood dripping from the sword. The battle had taken at best five minutes. "This is the first battle of the great revolution!" he called out, "Let it be called 'The Battle of Ma'aleh Levona', because we are like the Maccabees, driving the oppressors out of our home country!"

They cried out in triumph, joined by a few of the Ballabat's retainers. Ergete came down among them and approached the bruised Ballabat. "We saved your lives. Is that worth a stronger guarantee from you?"

"I have no reason to serve those bastards." Bekwere said, "The Government of Begmeder has no quarrel with you, Fitawrari Ergete. We will not fight for you, but if you don't fight against us, then we will not fight against you either."

-Kharkiv, Disputed Territory, Late May 1960-

Things had not gone well for Khrystyna. At first, she had nimbly avoided the PRU secret police by leaving her rifle and posing as a normal civilian, a decision she somewhat regretted because it would be very useful to her now.

Another bullet cracked past her head, and she hunkered down further, angrily gripping her Tokarev pistol. It was the only thing keeping those Cheka bastards from rushing her position, but it was far too useless for her usual sniper work.

She had hid with some anticommunist sympathizers that she had been relayed information on by her handler for a couple of weeks, but the Cheka was too damn persistent. Ordinarily they would have given up by now, but she imagined someone way up the commie hierarchy had wanted blood.

“Give up, devushka. You’re surrounded. There are only two options remaining for you now. Either you let us execute you the quick and fast way after we get ahold of you, or we shoot you up and let you bleed out real slow. They wanted you alive, but no one has to know.”

“Tch.” Khrystyna let off a couple of rounds at the closest one, and heard a satisfying yelp of pain.

She was hiding behind a tank, not that that was of any use to her because she hadn’t the least idea how to pilot one, and it probably didn’t have any gas anyway. She had chosen this location because the factory had two entrances, but they had gotten to the second entrance before she could leave and she had to lock the rolling metal door. It was only a matter of time before they found something to blow it open with.

“Every one of us you wound means we’ll do something worse to you when we get you. I hope you’re ready.” The taunting call came again, and Khrystyna continued fuming. There was nothing she could do now except wait for the end.

“I can at least say that I gave my life for my country. I hope that whatever they were going to do with that was worth it. That… Ukraine will be free.”

Looking at her pistol, she considered once more. It was a false dilemma they presented to her. In reality, there was a third option. It was disgraceful, it was unholy, but it was the option which offered the least amount of pain and would be most useful to her country.

“They told me I would have a front row spot for this. Liars.” She put the pistol’s muzzle up to her ear, and-

There was a muffled sound, like thunder, but not quite.

“There’s no way…” The pistol’s muzzle fell. “That has to be some storm off in the distance.”

The sound happened again, louder this time, but still not distinct.

And then finally, the sound reached her. The door to her left blew open, fragments of metal mercifully blowing past her harmlessly. Khrystyna raised her gun, ready to engage, but soon realized…

“They’re all dead. This was… artillery fire?” Taking her opportunity, she ran for it. Bullets rang all around her, and just before she reached the door she felt one in her shoulder. She bit her lip from the pain, but she kept going out into the city. Artillery shells started raining from the skies, all around her.

Buildings burst into shrapnel and fire. The city of Kharkiv was beautiful at sunrise, but not only the sky appeared as if in flames. Khrystyna could not mistake it now. The front was already almost here. There was only one thing to do. She took the green flare out of her bag, loaded it into the flare gun, and leaned out of the building she was hiding in to shoot it into the sky.

A couple more shells burst, and then silence.

The Cheka, undeterred, were moving. She could hear them now that the firing had stopped. Picking up a rifle from a nearby commie killed by the artillery, she was now ready.

Khrystyna made her way to the top of a building. “I hate firing on my right shoulder, feels weird,” she muttered to herself. But there was no other way, since her left had been injured.

Peering through the scope, she saw a cluster of them run around a nearby building. Three pops of her rifle, and all laid on the ground in a neat line as they fell. One heard the shots on her side, and tried to sneak towards the building. She fired again, and the Cheka man fell out of the shadows he was attempting to conceal himself in. She heard the rat-tat-tat of machine-gun fire. The front was getting closer.

“Time to change locations.” Khrystyna slung the rifle over her right shoulder slightly awkwardly, and then went to draw her pistol as she turned around-

“Stop right there, assassin.”

She felt the glare of hate even though she hadn’t even seen the man. She lifted her hands as she turned towards him.

“You’re coming with me,” said the man, bedecked in an officer’s hat with the terrible crimson star on its brim that she feared more than all else. It was the same voice that had taunted her the whole standoff in the factory.

“Put down your weapons on the ground. Slowly.”

Khrystyna first pulled the rifle off her shoulder and laid it down, grimacing as her shoulder twinged. She then reached for her pistol, and did the same. If she could just lift the small pistol out of her boot on the way back up-

“Yeah, no.” A shot rang out, and her fingers flinched just away from the gun and the bullet that flew between her and it. The man was looking at her boot. “That one too.”

She cursed under her breath, then placed the tiny gun on the ground. Straightening up, she slipped one of her fingers close to her waist, and then threw a knife from beneath her skirt straight at the man’s throat.

The officer quickly managed to dodge, and fired off two rounds, but by then she was behind an air conditioner unit having picked up the .22 caliber pistol. The man tried to approach, but she shot off a round.

“How many shots can that thing possibly have? You’re certainly good at postponing your demise, but it won’t-“

A shot rang out as a whirring sound came into her hearing range. But this time, it wasn’t hers.

There was no mistaking this sound. It was a helicopter, an Otchestvo Ukrainian variant. That could only mean one thing.

“Chorna, nice to see you in one piece!” The man leaning out of the transport helicopter with a Mosin-Nagant waved.

“Likewise, Colonel. I still see you’re crazy enough to charge into a warzone with a damned transport helicopter!”

Colonel Viktor looked mock offended as the helicopter settled on the roof and several Ukrainian Royal Army troops charged out, Zroya rifles as the ready. “As if I’ve ever done this before.” He stepped onto the roof, smiling.

“Might as well have, sir, considering some of the other things.”

“And you accomplished your mission, didn’t you. Only one question. Why didn’t you take out the whole military leadership as well, then we wouldn’t have taken this long to get to the city?”

Khrystyna cracked a smile for the first time in two weeks, and she felt a tear or two drip down the side of her cheeks. There was a perfect response for this, a word that meant technically “nothing,” but in conventional usage was the usual expression of all of the East Slavic peoples’ hopelessness. In English, the appropriate phrase might be “there is nothing to be done about it.”

But here, crying and smiling, as the soldiers around her began firing at the remains of the Cheka, as artillery shells could be heard in the distance, as the forces of Ukrainian liberation advanced, Khrystyna spoke that word in perfect and complete irony as she winked. “Nichevo.”

-Mariyinsky Palace, Kiev, Ukrainian State, June 24th, 1960-

As the last petitioner left the throne room, bowing, Anastasiya sighed. “Is that all, Yeva?” she asked after her maid had closed the door. “It is.”

Anastasiya quickly dismissed the two royal guards who had been standing on either side, and then spoke up.

“I know I promised to hear petitioners every Sunday, but it gets very tiring very quickly. In principle, it seems like an apt practice. I’m not entirely sure it’s worth the effort, however.”

Yeva nodded. “It’s perhaps not my place to comment, but…”

“I’ve listened to your opinions for what, five years now? You need not mince words now simply because I’m soon to be the Hetman.”

Yeva hesitated for a moment, but then spoke. “The people appreciate when rulers listen to them. They are so used to rulers doing as they wish, and merely surviving under their rule. Your father scorned any appearance of democracy, but… people like when you care.”

Anastasiya carefully leaned back on her throne and lifted her hand to her chin, thinking carefully. “I am certainly not my father.”

Yeva smiled. “You’ve always been much more your mother’s child. You may have the airs and aristocracy of your father, but you have her heart. You love the vitchyzna more than anyone. This is fitting, as you are this land’s mother now. You will have to care for it, to protect it as any mother does her children. That is the best advice an old woman can give.”

Anastasiya smiled broadly and nodded. “Indeed.” But soon the expression on her face grew more wistful. “It’s tomorrow, isn’t it?”

“Indeed it is, your Grace. Are you ready?”

“No. The entire purpose of my education and upbringing up to this point has been to prepare me for this, in case my father did not have a son. I was always trained for this, but I never expected it, but yet here I am. However.”

Anastasiya looked at Yeva, fire blazing her eyes.

“Despite all that, I must.” The smile that never quite disappeared from Yeva’s face returned in full force.

“Do you know why this palace was chosen instead of Klov as the monarch’s residence?”

“I don’t, no,” Yeva replied.

“Because Catherine II stayed here when she visited Kiev. She was the first Russian royal to ever visit the palace. The other one was never visited by a single one.” Anastasiya stood up, and looked out of the window. “Catherine II, though she is not Ukrainian or indeed even Russian, is the woman I aspire most to be like. She ruled because she had to, lest the kingdom fall into peril under her insane husband’s rule, and she ruled justly and for the benefit of the people. I desire to be an enlightened monarch. A monarch ruling on the people’s behalf, not over them.”

“I suspect that you’re overlooking some aspects of her character.”

“Perhaps. But that doesn’t take away from the truthfulness of what I just said.” Anastasiya turned and smiled.

“Have Zoya prepare a bath. I suspect I will retire early today, in preparation.”

“Understood, your Grace.” Yeva bowed, and almost left the room, but then stopped, remembering something.

“The Foreign Minister asked me to give you these two things, a letter and a package.” She pulled both out of a bag, and handed them to the Hetman-in-waiting.

“Oh? Who are they from?”

“The package is from a noble, the Duke Timofij of Poltava, I believe. The letter is from Sultan Osman IV of the Ottoman Empire.”

“Thank you, Yeva.” The maid nodded, bowed, and left the room.

“So the great historical enemy of the Russian and Orthodox people speaks, oh?” Anastasiya opened the letter as she was walking out, and quickly scanned through the contents.

Realizing what an important opportunity this was, Anastasiya resolved at once to attend this conference herself. There could be no important goal than securing the approval and recognition of other European powers. Only that could truly secure Ukraine’s independence, not its own force of arms against the German hegemony.

As she walked back into her room, Anastasiya’s cat Arya brushed up against the side of her dress affectionately. Anastasiya smiled and knelt to pet her. “Hello, dear. How have you been?” Arya rubbed her head on her hand. Anastasiya sat down at her ornate wooden desk and proceeded to open the second package.

Arya leaped up onto the desk and looked at her expectantly. “What, do you smell something, dear?” Anastasiya opened up the embossed tin container inside the package, and was delighted to see Ukrainian cherry bars. “Chereshnyanyk! My favourite! I really must thank the Duke the next time I see him for this.” She lifted up one and was about to carefully bite into it, avoiding her dress, when Arya jumped and snatched it out of her hand and started eating it.

“Arya! You’re such a naughty girl. It’s a good thing nothing in those is poisonous for cats. If it was choco-“ Anastasiya paused mid-sentence in horror.

The cat lay on the floor, convulsing, seemingly having some kind of stroke. Images flashed back to her, of her father doing the same thing, of people rushing about, of him being carried off to the hospital for it to do no good. It was then that she knew what happened. All of what happened.

“Zoya!” Anastasiya screamed towards the next room in sadness and anger intertwined all in one.

-St. Sophia’s Cathedral, Kiev, Ukrainian State-
June 25th, 1960

“We aren’t going to let any of this out, understand? I want the person who did this, alive, and then we can tell people what happened.”

“Understood, your Grace.” The SZR (Foreign Intelligence Service) minister, Valentyn Vasylovych Vashchenko (the alliteration was amusing to Anastasiya upon meeting him, despite the circumstances) nodded. “We can be reasonably sure it wasn’t a retaliatory strike from the Communists. Though Duke Timofij had no knowledge of the package and it appears nothing actually originated from his office at all, the attack seems to be from someone inside the country, likely amongst the high nobility.” “Whoever it is, the poisoning of the Hetman-in-waiting the day before her coronation deserves the greatest punishment imaginable.” Valentyn shook his head disapprovingly. “I can’t even imagine what they were trying to accomplish, unless they were some sort of radical.”

Anastasiya looked dark. “I can begin to imagine.” Valentyn looked questioning, but she waved him away. “We will discuss at the Secretariat of Ministers meeting.” Valentyn bowed, and then backed away. “Good luck.”

“Thank you, Valentyn Vasylovych.”

With that, she looked one final time at the crowds that surrounded the cathedral, cheering. It seemed all of Kiev had come out on this summer day. Huge Ukrainian flags and flags bearing the coat of arms of the Solovski house were waved, and she could almost hear her name being called by a thousand voices.

She looked at her two maids, Yeva and Zoya, who looked sympathetic for what had happened yesterday but also excited. They dipped their heads slightly at her glance.

“Let us begin,” she pronounced.

The Metropolitan Bishop of Kiev, Joasaph II, met her at the door. He offered her a cross, which she kissed, as another bishop sprinkled her with holy water.

With that finished, the doors were opened, and in full royal dress, Anastasiya Solovski, the heir to the throne of the Kingdom of Ukraine, began to stride down the hallway toward the iconostasis. She felt a thousand stares from inside this cathedral, but these were… different. These stares were not those of approval, but those of judgment. The nobility, the members of the Verkhovna Rada parliament, the upper echelons of industry and finance, and finally her family, the remaining members of the Solovski dynasty. Among these, the reception was most varied. Some, like her cousins, did look at her with love and approval, but some looked at her jealously, as if they wished to be in her place. Was her potential assassin amongst these people?

Anastasiya cleared her head, blinked, and continued on. Now was not the time to think of such things. Now was the time to show these people who looked on at her in judgment that she was everything she claimed to be.

The crown princess, as she remained for a little while longer, proceeded with the ceremony that her father had laid out before her, which imitated those of the ancient Grand Princes of Kiev and the Tsar of Russia alike. She venerated the cathedral icons three times, then proceeded to sit in the throne set in the cathedral dais.

First there was singing, and then she rose to recite the Eastern Orthodox Nicene Creed, as she did robotically as it had been drilled into her in every religious class since she was five years old. The prayers continued, but Anastasiya fell into almost a supernatural daze at her situation. The time had come at last, for the fate of a nation – a people – to fall upon her.

“"O Lord our God, King of Kings and Lord of Lords, who through Samuel the prophet didst choose…”

Her eyes rose to heaven. She was never the most devout of Christians, but now she asked God for one thing, if nothing else. She desired the strength to carry out her mission. To carry the weight of Ukraine itself on her shoulders. To save her people from oppression and injustice, and to preserve their dreams. Noticing the time approached, she bowed her head once more.

"To Thee alone, King of Mankind, has she to whom Thou hast entrusted the earthly kingdom bowed her neck with us. And we pray Thee, Lord of All, keep her under Thine own shadow; strengthen her kingdom; grant that she may do continually those things which are pleasing to Thee; make to arise in her days righteousness and abundance of peace; that in her tranquility we may lead a tranquil and quiet life in all godliness and gravity. For Thou art the King of peace and the Saviour of our souls and bodies and to Thee we ascribe glory: to the Father and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever, and unto the ages of ages. Amen."

With that, the prayers were finished. Anastasiya looked up, and at the Metropolitan, who looked at her with quiet approval. “Grant me the crown.”

The Metropolitan delivered it to her hands, and so she, with no more hesitation, placed it down upon her head.

"Most God-fearing, absolute, and mighty Lady, Hetman of all Ukraine, this visible and tangible adornment of thy head is an eloquent symbol that thou, as the head of the whole Ukrainian people, art invisibly crowned by the King of Kings, Christ, with a most ample blessing, seeing that He bestows upon thee entire authority over His people."

And so Her Majesty, Hetman and Queen of Ukraine, Anastasiya Artemivna Solovski, rose.

“I humbly accept.”

The coronation continued according to plan, with the investiture of the regalia, the Divine Liturgy, the coronation oath, and finally, the presentation of communion. This final thing was the most amazing for Anastasiya. She paused at the Royal Doors of the cathedral, the boundary none but anointed clergy were allowed to cross… except for monarchs on the day of their coronation. The Metropolitan nodded at her, in approval, and so she crossed the threshold. She was amazed at the art adorning the walls, of angels climbing up to heaven, and couldn’t help but look before proceeding to the Metropolitan, fully conscious that only a handful of people had witnessed before what she was seeing now. After the communion, the service was finally over, and an era of Anastasiya’s life with it.

---

After the assembled congregation had followed her out of the cathedral, they assembled before her in front of the doors, where she was scheduled to make her coronation speech. One could almost be forgiven for thinking she had just underwent a medieval coronation, except for the camera flashes and television camera lights in the crowd. She walked up to the podium, almost more terrified than she was walking into her coronation. This thought amused her enough to make her loosen up a little. She took a deep breath, raised her head, and began.

“To all gathered here today, to those watching and listening around the world, I present to you myself: the Hetman of all Ukraine. To those of you who are Ukrainians, wherever you may be, and to those who live in my country, regardless of whether you be Russian, Byelorussian, Tatar, Pole, or anything else: I present to you your monarch, Anastasiya the First.”

“My father’s death and my coronation have come at a troubling time for the people of Ukraine. We are beset by enemies, rivals and crises on all sides. The reanimated corpse of the empire that once oppressed the people of this land rears its head in the north. A refugee crisis floods this nation with Russians and some of even our dispossessed people from the east, and even Austrian humanitarian aid combined with our own has not proven enough to feed, clothe and shelter all of them. As my reign begins, I intend to address these issues and preserve the security and safety of not just the Ukrainians, but all those who desire to live within our borders. It is our responsibility, as the first and most secure of the post-Imperial nations, to light the way to the future of all East Slavic people in this time of troubles.”

“The last and greatest issue is the war between us and the fragmentary remnants of a revolution that failed, the People’s Republic of Ukraine.

Some are concerned that the war began opportunistically after the assassination of the General Secretary, and believe that we are responsible for this. The truth of the matter is that we are. I did not order the attack, but I do not believe it was wrong. With this, the bandits in red clothing who have stolen our people’s spirit have been shattered, and Ukraine will be free from their oppression just as they have become free from the oppression of the Russian Empire before them.”

With that, the Hetman gestured to a secretary, who began rolling a film reel. The film cut through pictures of conflict: old Russian tanks commandeered by the Ukrainians rolling through Kharkiv, soldiers loading artillery, and finally soldiers raising an Ukrainian flag above the Politburo building. The crowds could not help but cheer at that, and the film ended.

“As of two days ago, Kharkiv, the capital of the so-called People’s Republic, was captured by Ukrainian Royal Army forces. The remaining forces in the east have moved their provisional capital to Donetsk and dug in, but victory is assured within the next month.

With this effort, the specter of communism will be driven from Ukraine for good and the country will be reunited in peace and prosperity. Now I speak to the forces of communism and of imperialism alike: Ukraine is not yours to take! We will stand proud and independent… until there is no longer anyone who calls this land their home. I myself will stand as its shield against all enemies, so long as I still live. I look forward to the task before me, and I intend to take it on with every skill I possess.”

“Long live the Hetmanate! Long live its people! Long live Ukraine!”

The crowd cheered again, two more times, and with that, Anastasiya waved her hand in farewell.

In the front row of the crowd, Khrystyna, shoulder bandaged, was cheering alongside everyone else.

---

Constantine. The City of Liquid Gold. The vast network of oil pipelines, connected to countless oil digs and refineries, all lead to Constantine. Several more were in construction with plans for more pipelines in the works, natural gas pipes also joining in the vast web (although some of the natural gas was directly sent to the port cities themselves). It is said that the hydrocarbon industry is the lifeline of Algeria and most would agree. The lack of diversity within the country's exports have been raised as an issue numerous times within both the executive and provincial branches of government. Crop growing in the hamadas of Béchar was going well, agriculture was growing and being tended to carefully by the government. They hired the best agriculturalists, farmers and scientists to fix the dry hamadas to make Béchar the food supplier of the entire country. They were all aware how much food they imported and how vulnerable their people was to famine. Without food, their armies would run dry, their people would riot and their enemies would feed on Algeria's corpse. Without their imported foods, the most optimistic prediction for their survival was only a little over a week. Even now, the government continued to search for sustainable ways to feed their populations with fishing boat armadas being set out into the Mediterranean. Agriculture majors in universities were given interest free student loans and farmers themselves were paid through the "Feed the People" program.

Samia Lellouche, the Secretary of Resources, had the unenviable job of overseeing all of these projects plus the current construction of oil pipelines. It was also her job to look after the state-owned Petroleum company Constantine Petroleum. She had control over all oil digs, refineries, offshore oil platforms and the transport of all barrels of oil in the country. She was the lifeline of this country and some would say that she worked harder than anyone else in the executive branch even over the President. She secretly agreed, especially as she looked at the large stack of papers she had to sign. It was a mixed stack, from the approval of construction for one more oil platform to the contracts of private fishermen hired by the government. She put her head down on her desk and groaned out loud. Migraines was a constant in her life and she thought about resigning right now and then. The amazing pay was nothing compared to the amount of work she had to do. She was unsure why the President chose her to be the Secretary of Resources but she cursed his name under her breath. Some people heard her whenever she did but as the second most powerful person in the country, no one dared to question her loyalty. She was also the President's childhood best friend which gave her an "untouchable" status during his term.

As she rested her forehead on her desk and closed her eyes, Samia pondered as to why she was given the ass-end job of government. She was supposed to be a millionaire CEO of an international corporation right now, not drowning in paperwork. It came to her as clear as day. Farid's earnest, smiling face stared back in her mind's eye, holding her hands as he talked in that suave voice of his. Her face heated up and she sat up, shaking the images from her head. He was too charming for his own good even when he was a little boy. Forgotten childhood promises slipped into her mind and as quick as they came, she banished them from her mind and cursed her stupidity. She knew he wouldn't refuse her if she brought it up but his ambition would just make her a background character in her life. She was one of the few people on the planet to hear his mutterings during his sleep. That man held an uncountable amount of plans and was far too busy for a relationship. She propped her head up and her gaze returned to the pile of paperwork, groaning again. Far too busy.

It was best not to unravel that pile of rumours and gossip. The rumour mills were going crazy when she had last met the President for a private meeting in his office. They had talked about the status and rights of illegal fishermen beyond Algeria's ocean borders. It was nothing as scandalous as the gossipers thought it was, just a simple meeting. Her "childhood best friend" status always helped to fuel the fires of gossip. Her parent's immigrant status as Persians brought more fuel into the fire. The entire country's population of gossipers constantly chattered about her "foreign beauty" and the President's "exotic taste". It was all bullshit, his Presidency had no interest in women or men currently, no matter how beautiful.

The most overworked woman in Algeria flicked her eyes to the clock on her desk. 0700 exactly. It was actually time to work. A headache grew in her head and Samia knocked her head on the desk, the impact making a dull thud. A small chuckle was heard in far corner in her room and she sat up, looking for the offending voice with annoyance clear on her face. The Presidential Guard personally assigned to her kept stoic, the MAS-36 leaning against his shoulder as stiff as possible. She studied his face and found the small curl of his lips. She sent a very unladylike gesture to her guard of three years and his lips curled even more. He had saved her from Traditionalist ambushes and attacks more than she could count but he could be a right bastard at times.

Samia looked back down at her desk and found something missing. Her lifeline, the thing that kept her alive. "Amir! Where's my fucking coffee?!"

She really shouldn't be so harsh towards her secretary. She often dumped unnecessary amounts of her own work on his desk and he was in office before she started waking up. Samia never understood how a human being could function like her secretary did. It confused her and should have made her respect him. Instead she despised the young man even further because of his usual morning cheeriness and punctuality. She could barely drag her ass out of bed and she had woken up in an especially angry mood. She growled and shouted again "Amir! I swear by Allah, if you don't come in here with a hot cup of Ethiopian coffee, I will fire you!" This was a heavy promise that she made often, fully aware that the severity of the promise would hurry her secretary. There was commotion behind the door. With a few yelps and a muffled shout of indignation later, her secretary entered with a mug of coffee in hand and a manila folder in the other. His hair was neat and tidy, suit as immaculate as possible. She wished she could wipe that stupid grin of his from his face but just sighed as he came up to her desk and placed both items down.

Samia took the mug in both her hands and took a sniff. She sighed pleasantly at the aroma filling her senses. Those Ethiopians sure knew how to grow their coffee beans. This delectable liquid was rare within the country and most of the coffee imported came through the Suez from Latin American country. She got her Ethiopian beans personally shipped to her every month and it was one of the few luxuries she had. Who could blame her for wanting more energy while she was drowning in paperwork. She took sips of it, making sure she swirled it in her mouth before swallowing it. She repeated this a few more times, savouring the taste. At times like these, she loved her apprentice. His dedication and perfectionism made sure that her coffee was how she wanted it every morning. She closed her eyes and smiled, feeling the heat of the coffee mug heating her hands. She sat there, contemplating whether she was a coffee addict or not, which she most definitely was, before someone cleared their throat. The sound broke her euphoria and her eyes flew open.

Amir stood in front of her desk, pointing at the folder while looking at her with amused eyes. "Ma'am, you should probably look at that before you go into your coffee state." he said, mirth in his tone.

Samia looked at the offending piece of what was most likely paperwork. She let go of the mug of godliness with one hand and placed the folder on top of her pile. She went back to grabbing on to her mug with a smile on her face, taking more sips. "I don't think it's that important over coffee Amir. Be a darling and leave my room please." This coffee seemed especially delicious today.

"Ma'am," Amir started, grabbing the folder and placing it in front of her once more "this is very important. Your eyes only, came from the President himself." He stared at her with a serious look. Samia glanced at the coffee mug in her hands and back at the folder. She sighed and gulped the whole coffee down and placed the depressingly empty mug down. She took the folder and analysed the seal on the front. The red crescent with a white rose in the background. That was the presidential seal alright. She looked back at her secretary and pointedly made a gesture towards the empty mug before dismissing him with a wave. The eager man smiled at her and walked away triumphantly, mug in hand.

The doors closed and Samia was left alone with her guard and paperwork. The sour look on her face was wiped away. It was unusual for the President himself to send anything to anyone personally. The presidential seal was a rare sight and she only saw it once before. This was much more important than coffee, she grudgingly admitted. She opened the folder and read the contents. And read it again. And again. And once more. Her eyes scanned up and down the page, reading each word carefully. He came with her with good news. The alliance with the Duchy had been successful and that the only sacrifice to be made was selling oil and natural gas to Germany. That was a deficit that could be easily dealt with so she dismissed it. It was more important that Algeria would be able to continue and that her peoples will be safe from famine. The oil was under her direct control and she could always threaten the natural gas companies with treachery if they didn't follow Presidential orders. It was in the fine print in the contracts they signed after all.

This brought her relief but as she read on, her mood was brought down. There was a siege on Tindouf. An unprecedented amount of Traditionalists overwhelmed the sentries and the town was now under siege. It was completely surrounded with every road going in and out blocked by insurgents. The elements of the 4^th Army of Algeria was split up throughout Tindouf and was being overwhelmed with surprising firepower. Elements of the 2^nd Army and an entire air fleet was being mobilised but problems arose with the Moroccans. They built their own forces around the borders as they felt threatened by the Traditionalist forces and the conflict. They were also worried by the military buildup and extensive recruitment within Algeria. They claimed the military buildup was "threatening to Morocco and her people". The President was worried that it was just an excuse for the Moroccans to bring up problems with the Western Saharan border which they had presumably resolved years prior. All in all, it was delaying the deployment of Armed Forces and he speculated that the Moroccans were funding the Traditionalists. Most importantly, their brave boys and girls in Tindouf, Outpost X-ray and Garet Djebilet were separated and were currently under fierce attack. Farid included that elements of the Algerian Special Forces were deployed within all three locations. She repeatedly read that sentence.

Her little brother. He was in Tindouf, fighting for his life. This was why the President sent this to her. Samia finished reading the letter for fifth time and sat up. "Bernard." She addressed her guard. The Frenchman stood into attention, gripping his rifle and turning towards her. "Tell Amir to bring that coffee pronto and to contact Sir Gerald. He is flying to Rabat tonight." The special soldier nodded and exited the room, truly leaving her alone. She slumped in her chair and sighed. This was going to be a pain and give her headaches by the dozens but she steeled her resolve. This was for her brother.

She couldn't lose him like she did Farid.

-------------------------------------------------
June 9th: Mogadishu, Medri Bahri
-------------------------------------------------

Azima walked through the market, a quarter staff in her hand doubling as a walking stick, her dress girded around her loins. She stood out. Many knew who she was. She could see it in their eyes. Though Mogadishu wasn't part of the Somalian Emirate, it was none the less part of the Somalian world, and everybody knew about Emir Hassan's daughter-heir and her masculine hobbies. They stared at her, knowing, judging.

Mogadishu was the second biggest city in the Ethiopian Empire after Djibouti, made cosmopolitan by its thriving ports, and the presence of Ethiopia's biggest naval base. It was a city of white arabesque buildings, bazaars, palm trees, and minarets. European cars crawled down pedestrian-choked roads. Most people here were native Somalis, but Ethiopians and foreign sailors were a common enough sight.

"So you can fight?" three young men stepped away from a fruit stall, stopping Azima in her tracks. The business of the market went on around them. "I don't believe it."

"I'm not here to fight."

"Then don't carry yourself like a fighter." a second man said, his smile visible under his beard.

"Let me through."

"Don't give us orders." the first man spat. They moved toward her now. "Do we look weak?"

"Let me through."

The first man lunged at her. She moved back and smashed his nose with her staff. As he nursed his wound, the other two went at her at once. She moved back quickly to throw them off balance, then she came in swinging her staff in a loop, smashing one in the chest and the other in the crotch. She backed away again. The first man, nose bleeding, started at her again.

A gunshot rang out. A circle of people had stopped to watch the fight, but the shot sent them scrambling. Three men in grey naval uniforms sat mounted on camels. She recognized the young man with the smoking gun in his hand.

"Harassing women in the street. That's one hundred lashes. Were they harassing you, Azima al-Himyari?" He put emphasis on her famous surname as if it would multiply the punishment.

"It was a friendly sparring match, Bahere Kristos."

"Good." Bahere Kristos signaled for the bullies to go, and they made their getaway without hesitation. Bahere Kristos had the elocution of a boy who'd spent his childhood in grammar school. He probably had. As the eldest son of Hamere Noh Dagna, his father had dynastic ambitions for him. "What brings you to Mogadishu? Are you buying oranges?"

"My father sent me. To talk to your father."

"Oh?"

"We heard about the Battleship."

"Oh. Yes. We'll find a comfortable place to talk. Come." he snapped. One of his companions dismounted and offered his camel to her, "We'll go back to the Grand Admiralty. I'm sure you'll enjoy giving your feet a rest." She obliged him and mounted.

"When was the last time you visited Mogadishu?" he asked.

"Several years ago I think. I mostly stay in the area near Hargeisa."

"Beating up the boys, I imagine? Your skill in a fight is impressive."

"Not much else to do in Hargeisa."

He sniffed. "A Sparta, I know. I've visited. I don't expect anything classy in this country, outside of the city at least, but I can find pleasure in the rugged pursuits, like boating and what not. But I don't take pleasure in the amusements of the high deserts. It's all the sand I think. It’s coarse and rough and irritating, and gets everywhere..."

"Why are you telling me all this?" she asked.

He looked around them, down at the people walking past. "We'll be home any moment. Then we can talk."

The further they went into the city, the tighter it got. Houses came closer and closer until they were stacked on one another. They were near the old city now, the area nearest the port, its commerce favoring the seedy pursuits of sailors. Crumbling walls and ancient mosques were crammed next to brothels and drug dens. But the harbor was split between commercial and naval use. The naval side held the breathtaking view of many cruisers and a handful of battleships moored nearby each other. Above the wharves and warehouses was a great big mansion raised up above the wharf, shaped like a giant letter C reaching out to hug a battleship.

"Home again, finally." Bahere Kristos said. She knew that only the eastern wing housed the Bahr Negus, the west wing serving as offices for the Admiralty. It was in the Italian style, colonnades surrounding it, walls as white as the beaches beyond the harbor. She felt jealous. It was petty, she knew that, but she couldn't help it. Her father was frugal when it came to his personal life. He hardly had a personal life at all. The world she'd grown up in was one of Spartan trappings and military order. In front of her was the palace of a man that could be King and knew it. A man who's title had the word King in it.

A beautiful German car, a black 1951 Kuchenfahrt with golden trim, waited up front. They dismounted the camels, allowing them to be lead to nearby stables. "Follow me. We'll talk on the veranda. Maybe have some lunch. I'm sure you're starving, since those ruffians accosted you in the market before you could get your fruit."

They went through rooms where every piece of furniture was more expensive than everything in Hassan's home combined. It was all imported from Europe and kept immaculate by a household of servants. It also looked hardly used. There was something of a showpiece to the whole thing.

The veranda looked out at the Naval yard. A cool breeze blew off the jade-colored sea. Bahere Kristos leaned against the stone balustrade. "There she goes, the ENS Yohannes IV. My father couldn't be here to see her off." She saw the ship, a massive battleship with a wooden deck but steel everything else. It bristled with guns, a floating fortress, terrifying and awesome to imagine in the heat of battle. An American flag flew from it as it went out to sea. "He couldn't bring himself to be here." Bahere Kristos added.

"Surely he's not in love with the ship."

Bahere Kristos stood up. "It's a stab in the back. Or perhaps the front." he turned to face her. All this times, his face and manner had been playful, but now he looked dead serious. "You and your father surely knows the state of things in Addis Ababa? Iyasu V honored his country and the brave men who fight for it. Sahle doesn't care. His court honors profiteers and politicians. My father can live with the loss of a ship, even a battleship. What he can't live with is losing it to a man like Desta Getachew."

It was all there, put in her lap, everything her father wanted, but it left her feeling like Tantalus, seeing the fruit just out of reach, unsure how to pluck it. "I didn't know it was that bad. But we have never been close to the government in Addis."

"I know your father feels usurped by us, governing the greatest city in Somalia instead of him, but there is no reason why Mogadishu and Somalia must be opposed to one another. Have you or your father reconsidered our proposal? That you marry me and we join the coasts of our country into the hands of one political family."

"Did you bring me out her to get me out of my clothes."

Bahere Kristos chuckled. "There are one hundred thousand women in this city, Azima al-Himyari. They all have the same thing under their dresses that you do, and I could get to most of them by asking. What you have that is precious isn't your skin. It's your birthright."

"It's not your birthright though. The office of Bahr Negus isn't hereditary."

"Maybe not, but his ability to make the careers of his officers is. I'm Vice-Admiral, certainly the most qualified person to head the navy after my own father."

"Politics doesn't always work that way. Suppose after your father dies the office is filled by one of the Emperor's creatures."

"That's part of the problem." He looked out to sea. The Battleship was pointed toward the horizon, into the Indian ocean and away from Africa. "The Empire has fallen apart before because Emperors didn't know how to rule. We may be heading into another Zemene Mesafint." The word conjured images of shifta bands and thundering Oromo cavalry charges. It described Ethiopia's warring states period, lasting from the troubled 18th century Emperors until the restoration of a unified Ethiopia by Tewodros II in the 1850s. Could the Desta Getachew's of the Empire survive something like that? It'd be an era for men like her own father: warriors, not bankers.

"If Ethiopia collapsed, we wouldn't be doomed to be enemies." She said, "You and I don't have to be married to make that true. We have goals in common. If it came to war, we would be natural allies." She didn't know if that was true or not, but it sounded right.

Bahere Kristos lit up. "I think so too. So does my father. It is good to hear you say it. What does Emir Hassan think?"

"He sent me here."

Bahere Kristos smiled. Then he noticed something behind her. "Ah! Lunch is on!" The servants passed by them and put their plates on the table.

It is no secret that in the past half-century a dynamic shift has been undertaken in China greater than any mass movement or revolution in at least Asia. With the changing of the eras the once great Qing found themselves out of touch and out of power. And with the passing of the eras so too did the people of China find themselves captured by the movement of consciousness and foreign ideology which not only shone a light on the inability of the Qing to rule, but on the modernity of its dynasty and its institutions.

Conspiring powers ultimately brought to the Qing its autumn period, which rapidly accelerating came upon its early winter days with the the revolution in Wuchang. The assumption to power of Sun Yat-sen as president of the nascent Republic of China in Nanjing marked what many believed at the time to be a course set to modernity and westernization under the new Republic. To the intellectual and the traveled the hopes of the Republic was that it would become a bend in the river of history, steering the waters of China from stagnant archaic antiquity to the fresh clean streams and bends of the modern world with modern government.

But principally at the completion of the Revolution and the abolition of the monarchy in 1912 the conditions in China did not change for the better as the nation divided and peeled back at the seams. The nation no longer came to resemble a cohesive whole but a broken house with each room a feuding member of the same family. With a house divided, the Chinese Nation came to question its course and its self. Was modernity fundamental to Chinese sovereignty in the 20th century, or did our futures lie in the past, with monarchy? As the century wore on and as the Japanese invaded our homeland we as a people grappled with this question, seeking to answer it until we got our final question in its latest revolution.

The breaking of aristocratic and bourgeoisie power in China by Communist Revolution has thus far shown and created the single strongest and single most stable government in the Chinese nation since the abolition of the monarchy in 1912. Infusing the state with the sort of stability and peace of mind it has not had in over half a century it has conducted itself with grand shifts in power to bring formally to an end the warlords, the emperors, the viceroys, and the banker which had so far lorded over the Chinese state with hungry eyes. But how is this so? What change has there been in the national fabric of the nation for there to be so? Has there been something for once with so much power that it able to impress itself over the heads of dynasty seekers, or could there be said to be something more subtle woven into the social fabric of the state?

To understand this history of stability so far, the principles of power must be understood. For it is in power and its use and its distribution that determines the success of a state and the revolutionary character on which it rides. What structure does power manifest itself in? What physical material and in what way is material used to benefit and shape the structure and the power? And of the amorphic, abstract state? The law? The Ideology? These facets of power can be defined simply into three categories, the Three Material Facets: the state's capital, the national structure and the state's ideology.

To further break down the definitions the state's capital is inclusive of those resources which it needs to survive; its water, its food, its industrial and raw materials, and its capacity to manufacture commodities with these resources and the means by which it operates it. The ideology is its politics, its religion, and its structure, simply the way in which the physical resources of the realm are ordered and structured. And then how it is all packaged and structured. If the material conditions are the locations, the cities and villages in a country side than the ideology is the road, and the structure the placement.

To understand this flow of power is however not as simple as simply knowing its definitions. For it is in its use that can be truly understood.

In the antiquated time of man power was thought to have been derived from gods, or a singular god. To trespass against the will of the gods was to trespass against the law, and the gods being all powerful their impressive power could smite any who would do ill against them. In political structure, the relation of man to god was manifested in the King or the Emperor, who being the divinely appointed servant of the gods on Earth or in that part of the world carried out his or her actions as divine law. To transgress against the king was to transgress against the gods.

As befitting of a man who is a god on Earth, it was to him all the things in the kingdom or the Empire belonged to. All was his property, and with all of his property was all of its power. The material flow of power can thus be explained simply in the relationship of a single man owning the vast majority of property in a region to call it a state, and all those hangers on dependent on the property directly or indirectly were his subjects. Their existence became central to the use of and allocation of the royal property, and through the royal property they offer him their patronage and loyalty.

As through history the growth in scale and complexity of this model clearly lends itself to the demands of change and reform from within. But the keystone at the top of the structure is and has always been the king or emperor; or whoever has had the most power over them. To the people of any rank their privileges and freedom has come with the attitudes and position of the dynasty or figure in power.

Through the greater part of Qing rule, the Qing great house had sought to expropriate the powers and privileges of rival groups and individuals within the power structure of China to ensure their dominion. Whether in the granting of land rights or licenses to sell or in use of the Great Canal the powerful hand of the Qing sought to exercise its power in the only manner its system permitted: the distribution of and rights to use or distribute the material wealth and commodities of the Empire. For this meddling the Chinese state was weakened as the stately princes and capitalists of Europe came to overwhelm and dominate China's weakness under Qing mismanagement.

But as it was the immeasurable power of the Qing dynasty had meant that for many of the Chinese who might have been able to resist, the possibility of revolt was a narrow thread to walk, at either end the armies and magistrates of the Qing dynasty stood poised to slay the man seeking freedom from within the antiquated Chinese state-structure. This relationship between man and the Qing court was no worse shown than in the decrees it issued it towards the dress and manner the Chinese people were deemed to display themselves. Forced to wear their clothes and hair slavishly in submission to the Qing way the long braids we wore in our hair was much a bond as the chain around the people's neck.

But if there was any morality or mind to freedom within the Qing court it was their isolation that prevented them from realizing it. For in the structure of a kingdom it is the imposed isolation of its rulers that best maintain it, lest they are caught and killed or morality grips their heart. Buried behind the Confucian bureaucracy and within the cloistered confines of the Inner Court the Qing nobles presided over a country their own while pretending it to be so. They were blind to the progress of the world, and it was in their high tower that they realized too late the spears raised to them in anger were far too near, and the end far too close.







The conference hall in the National Congressional complex was again being put to use. In the soft yellow glow of chandeliers guests – various representatives or officers in the departments of state, congressmen, and a few military representatives – were already filing into the chambers as the last touches were given before the staff of the congressional hall could give it their approval. Starting softly the amiable and floating strings of conversation rose into the air and began to weave into the grand fabric of conversation among large crowds. The tall ceilings of the conference hall began to echo with a hundred voices and the echo grew more as parties of one or two filed in.

“I told him that if he wanted to actually go anywhere he might as well go to the universities.” a thin bureaucrat said, leaning back in a chair at the head of the room. He spun his fingers through his long messy white beard that lay across his red vest shirt. His sleeves rolled up to let his hands free, and the underlying fabric forming a white cuff, “But he's a stubborn and stupid kid, he wanted to travel the country, said he wanted to go to Shanghai before going to college. I told him: you're nearly as dumb as his uncle if he didn't try to improve himself first before life.”

“What happened to his uncle?” Hou asked, seated next to him, his longer fingers resting on a tall, half-full glass of Huangju, a dark colored fermented drink derived from rice and grains. Ironically its name meant Yellow Wine.

“He went ahead and joined the army. The Republican army! He died in some sorry skirmish with the Japanese later that year.” the other bureaucrat said.

“I'm sorry.” Hou remarked.

“No reason to.” the older man said with a groan.

“No, I mean it.”

“Why so? He fought for Chiang Kai-Shek.”

“Wasn't people like him that banned us as a party from the Republic. I don't fault him.”

The older man shrugged indifferently and muttered to the effect of dismissal. “So, what do you know about this Yaqob man we're supposed to be greeting today?” the older man asked.

“Hebei needs to know?” Hou asked the man, a congressman.

He bowed his head, “He may not mean much to me, to us. But if the Committee on the International is going to throw this spectacle I might as well see what the fuss is about.”

“Before you go asking, I can't give you details.”

“Shame, what for? We're going to see him here today. Why don't we get to know now?”

“Because I don't want any rumors or gossip.” Hou said sternly.

“He's bringing a prince.” a woman's voice said from behind Hou. The chairman jumped, nearly knocking over his glass of wine as he turned. Hou Ju stood behind Hou, bowing courtly to the congressman who shot from his seat. “And the Ambassador's name is Akale.”

“Ms. Ju.” the congressman remarked in a low voice, “Why don't you keep her at home?” he asked Hou directly.

“I couldn't if I tried.” Hou said with a sigh, looking up at his wife as she slid over to them.

“And how are you?” she asked, she didn't pretend to hide her offense at the earlier remark. The congressman only scoffed and turned his attention back to Hou.

“So our ambassador brings royalty. I suppose the secret's out.” he said, “You going to try to turn him into a communist then?”

“I don't think that would be appropriate.” Hou answered him. His voice was tense and bitter, “I leave his personal opinions up to him.”

“Well maybe then when he goes home he'll change something. A communist king, who would have ever thought.”

“Yes,” Hou began, sipping from his drink. He began to wish he could change the discussion. He caught Ju looking at him from the corner of his vision. “That would be strange.”

“So, Ju... How did you learn about this?” the congressman asked.

“A wise woman's intuition.” she answered cryptically, “Now can you excuse me, I need to speak to my husband before it begins.”

The congressman looked between them and rose to his feet begrudgingly. “Very well.” he conceded, leaving the two to themselves.

“You want to go for a walk?” Hou Ju asked.

“Why?” Hou sharply asked.

“That's why.” Ju said, hearing the subdued sharpness in his voice. She held a hand and rose him to his feet, “I doubt it's the drink, but you've been on edge all morning.” she observed in a soft tone of voice, leading him out the back.

“So many state dinners, official meetings, congressional disputes, politburo meetings, a civil war with who knows how many friends and family killed; you're not going to break here are you?” she asked as they headed through a back door into a secondary hallway around the back. A few people walked about it, but the pace of their step and dead-set expressions made it known they were only intent on the rolls they had to do. She lead him around to a back room and opening the door lead him in and closed the door behind them.

It was little larger than a closet. In fact from what was collected in the room it might have been. Wayward filing cabinets, wooden crates and cardboard boxes. Even the interior was unfinished compared to the red carpets and wood paneled walls of the rest of the assembly building. “You've been a little off since this morning too. I think something's on your nerves.” she said, sitting on a stack of crates, pulling up her cheongsam just enough she could bend her knees enough to be comfortable.

Hou looked down at her as she up at him. There wasn't any sweetness in her expression and in fact her demeanor was sharp and investigating. The lines and wrinkles of her face looked deeper as she frowned up at him. “I'm sure you know better than me on this, Tsai-Tang. But I get the impression you're putting principles before reality.”

He lowered his head, and nodded, “It's silly, I know.” he said.

“Now, I wasn't there for that particular day you must have discussed this with the rest of the cohorts. So I don't know if you know anything I don't know.” she said as she rose. Disarmingly she grabbed both of Hou's hands in her own and began to dance. Without music she lead the chairman of the Party, and the Grand Secretary of the Politburo about in a slow confined waltz in the center of the room.

“You heard of Mombassa?”

Hou Ju shook her head. Hou continued, “It's a city on the coast. It was put to siege and the intelligence we've picked up is that the city was put to the torch. It was a massacre.”

“I don't see how that applies to Ethiopia.” Hou Ju responded.

“It does because the people who took the city are closely related to the Ethiopia government. The Swahili are in a special relationship to the Ethiopian crown.”

“So you're worried about what it means to be associated with them knowing what happened?”

Hou was silent for a long moment as the two swayed and turned to nonexistent music. “When the topic was first raised among Politburo we didn't have a complete picture.” he said in a low tone, “We figured it was pretty straight forward. But in the days leading after I kept receiving reports and revisions as the information we have available changes and is updated.”

“Well this is diplomacy, I'm sure the issue can be straightened out.”

Hou looked troubled. He didn't buy the reasoning. But the conversation was helping to take the weight off his shoulders and he felt certainly more relaxed. “Besides, if you were thinking you had to bring it up tonight then you don't have to, I'm sure of that much.

“You feeling better now?” she asked.

Hou pretended not to hear the question at first, looking away. Looking back he said, “What about revolutionaries acknowledging royalty?” he smiled coyly, Ju rolled her eyes.

“You're acting like a Unionist.” she remarked, stopping the dance and letting go of his hands. “We have a dinner to go back to.” she said.

Heading back into the conference hall they were greeted by a uniformed soldier. Bowing low for the two he said quickly and succinctly, “The delegation landed at the airport five minutes ago. They're on their way.”

---

Beijing was the grandest city Yaqob had ever seen. It dwarfed Addis Ababa in both size and population, its smallest suburbs as big as the provincial capitals of the Ethiopian Empire. They passed by ancient neighborhoods of weathered stonework and slanting roofs, crammed into small spaces like the slums that surrounded the Ethiopian capital. As they entered further into the city, its heart glowing with electric light so the night sky was painted a dull pink-orange, the environment changed. It became fresh and new. Instead of an ancient city, it had the heart of a space colony. Row houses with new coats of paint lined perfectly square streets. Walls were painted with images of powerful revolutionaries, square-jawed men and happy women, marching with the tools of industry and peace held aloft like weapons. Buildings for public business looked like nothing he'd ever imagined, great bricks of stucco and glass, the signature slanted roofs of Asian crowning shapes with European flavors. There were cars, people, light! The activity and modernity of Beijing touched his young heart. It did more than touch, it grabbed it, squeezed it, set his breast ablaze. How lucky was he to live here! Not in some stuffy dormitory beneath the castles of dusty European aristocrats. He was in the middle of it all! On the precipice of the future!

The Chinese driver said something, but Yaqob didn't understand a word. Akale Tebebe, his legs crossed beneath his flashy giraffe-studded caftan robe, squawked a little Chinese back. Akale translated it for Yaqob. "He says the city was burned during the war. It all had to be rebuilt."

They drove into a plaza flanked on three sides by a monstrous building. It was two stories except for in its dominant center, built of stone and brick, its windows narrow, with the swooping sort of shingled roof traditional to Asia. Men in pine-green uniforms, either soldiers or police, lined the plaza. The two Africans were greeted at the door by men in suits, who spoke Chinese to Akale and led them both inside. They passed by the colorful columns of the hall, footsteps echoing on the stone floor. Yaqob felt like he'd entered the palace of a God. They passed through the doors and into the reception hall. A page announced something in Chinese, but Yaqob only heard his own name and that of Akale. They were greeted by a sea of Chinese officials. Yaqob recognized the diminutive form of Hou Sai Tang at a table in the middle of the room. He was star struck, but he tried not to show it, standing next to the confident looking Akale, feeling like he was the older man's consort rather than heir to the seat of Solomon.

---

Hou rose on seeing the ambassador. With one hand on the back of his chair he scanned the crowd, in one part he was searching the heads of state to see their reactions to the black men now standing center in the banquet hall. On the other hand he was searching for his wife. It appeared Ju had left him out to handle this alone. Though to his relief, the expressions and outward reaction of the delegates, ministers, and officers here today showed less an apprehension to the noble, but more a curiosity to his race. It was for the room, perhaps everyone, perhaps all but one or two, that this was the first time they had seen a black man.

And turning to look back on the new ambassador – or rather, his attache - he began to wonder: how had he been so anxious? Why so afraid. The man was young. Still a boy even, he possibly had to still be receiving an education and this left Hou feeling more afraid for him, then he was for himself. The young prince, to Hou looked bewildered and awestruck at his new surroundings. His attire and demeanor struck the Chinese statesman as surreal, with what could have been the ancient attire of his own people, something Hou had no trouble being worn when the Han dynasty ruled China. He was tall, dark, but with a youthful spring and an astounding ball of curly hair on his head.

As the youthful prince and Akale approached Tsai Tang he bowed tensely, "Welcome to China.” Nearby a man with a camera took a quick picture of the first meeting. Looking from Akale to his companion he hoped one or the other, hopefully both could speak Chinese.

"Mister Chairman, I'm Ambassador Akale Tebebe" the companion said, "This is Le'ul Yaqob Yohannes Iyasu, heir to the throne of Solomon." Akale said something to the prince in their African language. Yaqob smiled shyly. "Hello" he said in awkwardly pronounced Chinese.

Hou smiled invitingly and returned the favor, returning the favor. But he could not help but feel the clear language barrier between he and the young ambassador would be a considerable obstacle. Yaqob's clear inability to speak the language further underscored what was becoming his doubt in the new mission. Looking to the side he noticed the same apprehensions hidden behind the practiced mask of politics in many of the people present.

"But come, sit." Hou invited, motioning to the ambassador and his aide to take a seat at the table. Waiters were beginning to appear at the edge of the room, testing the waters to determine if it was time to serve the dinner of the evening. Yaqob sat down first. Ambassador Akale sat down next, taking the place across from Hou.

With the two men seated at the table the mood in the room began to gradually shift, marked by the delivery of that night's meal. Weaving between the tables to set down bottles of Kaoliang - sorghum - wine and small bowls of soup at each of the tables. As the dishes were laid out, Hou set out conversationally, "Akale, so where did you study for this post?"

"The University of Lisbon." Akale said, taking a drink of wine. Yaqob followed his move like a shadow. "Graduated 1949. Back then there wasn't a lot of European universities open to foreign students. Half of them were burned down." the Ambassador took another drink, "I learned Chinese over the spring. We have a tutor, man who fled to Europe after your war, makes his money teaching your language to foreigners. Yaqob here didn't have time to learn. We'll get him taught. Until then, I'm afraid he'll be a little quiet."

Hou looked between Akale and Yaqob, "Perhaps we can talk in something he may know?" Hou asked in English. It was tense, measured, and unsure. He spoke slowly, carefully measuring and considering the words. But despite the rigors, the accent; it was passably organic to say the least.

"Ah! I understand!" Yaqob exclaimed, beaming with delight. Akale laughed. "Very well done, Mr Chairman." he said.

"You can thank the yankees." Hou smiled weakly, taking a sip of his soup. "So Yaqob, what puts you in China?"

"The instistance of my brother, the Emperor." Yaqob said, "Do not get me wrong though, I love that I get to be here. The work you are doing is important. I'd rather be here than Europe."

And there is no place I'd rather be but here, at home." Hou remarked, sipping his soup.

"I can't blame you." Yaqob said, "You have done so much to improve it. I hope I can learn from China, and take my lessons home to improve Africa." Akale said nothing, watching the other two, sipping at his Sorghum wine.

"If that is what you want, I am sure plenty of accommodations can be made." Hou said with a wide smile. Yaqob reminded him of a man, a companion back during the revolution. Full of fire and energy. He had great respect for that and he found himself leaning in, subconsciously pushing aside the bowl of soup. "In China, we have a great respect for people who seek to learn. Those who wish to master their own education are thought highly of."

"I would love that." Yaqob said. Akale shot a quick glance. He tried to play it off as mild surprise, but for a single second, his expression was telling.

Hou caught Akale's expression, laughing he leaned back. "Putting this together will need both sides." he said, almost turning to Akale as if to accommodate his feelings, "In the mean time you will need to work on your Chinese, Prince Yaqob."





Nestor Yanikovich walked up stone steps scaling the embankment of a low hill. Guided alongside by the aged Tsu Ju-Long. The old general hobbled forward with surprising energy and vigor on a cane ahead of the Russian exile as they made their way up the embankment. Behind them on the gravel road a military car sat idling, attended to by a well kept officer who crossed his legs and leaned against the hood of the vehicle as the two superior officers crossed up and out of view.

Conquering the steps they stood up in a wide open yard. The grass was only a heavy outline for a vast sand and gravel field where soldiers in uniform performed drills as a unit or exercised in the yard. At a distance on the far side a grove of trees shaded officers who lounged in the cool grass watching their juniors train in the early June sun. Winter had left in full in the northern corner of the country, and the afternoon was warm and bright with only a few faint specters of clouds in the skies. The air was clear to out beyond the garages and barracks of the fort and the hills of northern Heilongjiang rolled in the distance, carpeted in spruce and evergreens.

Several of the exercising soldiers had noticed them come up the hill, and dropped what they were doing to stand at attention for the elderly superior officer. Casually he returned their attentions with a light wave and turned to Nestor, “We'll go around the edge.” he beckoned, and lead the Russian along the edge of the yard. Distantly the officers were beginning to notice the appearance of the commander and were rising from their lazy, placid rest and standing at attention for him. Noticing their change in disposition the rest of the unit slowly took notice and faced the commanding officer and his guest.

“Sir, we didn't know you would be here.” a young officer said stiffly, standing at attention with his chin raised. His hat was off and was slung under his arm while the other hung stiff like a plank at his side.

“At ease lieutenant.” Tsu Ju-Long bid, “and order the others to return to their drills.” he bid in a soft, quiet voice. The regular enlistedmen still stood at attention, facing the side he and Nestor had walked by; towards their left.

The lieutenant relaxed and turned towards the others, “At ease, back to work.” he ordered in a loud rolling voice. Turning back to Ju-Long he asked, “What can I help you with?”

“I'm looking for General Aiwen Wu. Do you know where he is? He's not in command.”

“He's sparring with some of the senior officers. I can can take you to him.” A rather short, round lieutenant offered. Ju-Long smiled and nodded.

“Can you take us to him?” he asked.

“Certainly.” said the officer. He turned towards the garages, “He's over here.”

From the grass several yards from the training yard they stepped onto asphalt. They rounded the corner of one of the garages, brushing passed soldiers doing maintenance on the various equipment of the unit - trucks, tanks, armored cars – in the open sun. As soon as they noticed them, the maintenance teams rose to attention, but were as courteously as before bought out with a gentle raise of the commander's hand.

Inside the garage a rough arena had been set out on the concrete floor. A piece of floor was covered thick with loose cardboard. Already on it two men were fighting, exchanging quick short jabs with their hands and elbows, parrying and dodging exchanges as a loose circle gathered around, either involved in the contest or taking a brief reprieve from their duties.

At the center, two men dressed in right circled each other with hands raised. Dark bruises had already been planted under their skin and the darkening patches spoke of their freshness. With a quick jab one thrust forward only to be batted away with the wrist of another. A leg was swept up and the other's head ducked. Dropping below the high swinging leg the man dove forward with arms out stretched and planting one low on the thigh, just above the knee and the other high on the hip. In a single motion as the leg came down to be trapped the combatant was lifted and turned about. Astonished cheers echoed in the garage as the one went high and was thrown down to the ground. The thrown fighter had just enough time in turning to raise his hands, and landed with a sudden hard thud on the cardboard mats and slid. He had touched the ground, he lost. Applause and cheers echoed in the garage.

“Comrade Aiwen Wu, you have a visitor.” the lieutenant shouted over the din. It quickly quieted as everyone turned, and saw the commander. He gave them terse nods as the crowd parted to make way for the man who had won.

Dressed in white pants and a white tank top soaked with sweat the general was a thinly cut figure, sinewy in build but firm in his arm. He rose his hand to his high brow. “Ju-Longzi.” he said.

“Wu.” the commander said with a short bow, “An unorthodox place to fight.” he observed.

“We agreed he'd set the place to spar. He wanted it here.” he said, looking back to his competitor who being lifted back to his feet turned and bowed low to his superior officer. “I would have wanted it elsewhere, but he wanted to give his boys something to watch.”

Tsu Ju-Long nodded indifferently, “You weren't in your office, and we have some official business to discuss with you.” he said, “We came to look for you.”

“Do we? No letters or brief then?” the general asked.

“We're on a time table.” Tsu Ju-Long informed him, “As soon as we made the decision we didn't think it would be best to go through the motions.”

Aiwen Wu looked between them with a quizzical expression. “Well you can tell me on the way to the command center.” he said, heading out to a waiting car. As they approached a soldier produced a folded coat from the back seat. A hat was laid on top.

“As it would appear someone in Congress wants a war, but not next year but in the next couple months.” Tsu Ju-Long spoke as they walked towards the car. His step punctuated by the firm click of the cane. “As such we're assuming we can get away with trimming some of the bureaucratic procedure.”

“So we've accelerated something?” Wu asked as he took the uniform from the waiting soldier, who bowed as soon as his arms were relieved.

“We are.” Ju-Long confirmed, “Lou Shan Yuang has already been coerced to go along with it. So whatever's going on is in the confidence of the leading congressman to see this done.”

“Have we heard anything from Politburo?” Wu asked as he threw on the general's coat, a long heavy green great coat that trailed down to just above his ankles. Large pockets covered the breast and emblems of rank decorated the shoulders, red epaulets with yellow diamond, yellow sash over the shoulder.

“Politburo has been tacitly silent. I think they're willing to see this head into Congress before issuing their critique.”

“I see.” Wu said in a softened voice, putting the cap on his head. With the white fighting clothes covered by coat and rank the man looked more the general he had before. The attending soldier reached over and opened the door of the car for the officers, and from the back bench seat he removed his final symbol of rank, that which many officers carried: the Jian sword. “Your friend will need to ride in front.” he added.

“I do not mind.” said Nestor.

“Where are we going with this war? Japan?” Wu asked as they sat in the car and the engine was started. “Very quick to plan and prepare a war with them.”

“No, we're going to get involved in Russia.” Tsu-Long informed him. The car began to move and Wu turned to look at him, surprised.

“All the way to Moscow?”

“I'm not sure yet. The current plan as I've only got it was that we're going to occupy Siberia.”

“That's a lot of land.” Tsu-Long pointed out, “Obviously, and it's none the lesser task in the Russian East. What makes you think we can do it.”

“Because we may have allies.” Ju-Long nodded to Nestor, “This is Nestor Yanikovich. He's an aid to our ally moving ahead in Russia.”

“Nice to meet you.” Wu greeted, tipping his cap. Nestor returned the favor with the slightest of salutes with his finger.

“I hope we will work successfully together.” he said.

“Well tell me then, what do you expect to accomplish with us?” the general asked.

“We'll have to see.” Nestor said back, “For now I'm interested in your cavalry. How is it? What are we using, riding?”

“Particulars.” Wu smiled, “We'll go over the details in my office.”

(A collaboration post between @Shyri, @Wilted Rose, @Mihndar, @Pepperm1nts and I.

God rest your souls)

Berlin, German Empire

As the sun began to lower in the sky, the Royal German Zeppelin, the Fischadler, readied to take its place. The black balloons began to fill with helium as the last of the foreign envoys boarded, leaving only Kaiser Wilhelm, who was having his ear chewed out by his foreign affairs advisor.

"Remember, these are high, if not the highest, ranking officials of potential allies. Germany could use those in the world right now, so try to be the Kaiser, not Wilhelm. We don't need another Belgium in our hands. Small country does not mean talking down to them, and-"

"Yes, yes, I understand. That was a one time occurrence. Besides, it's not my fault the Belgian had an inflated ego. Now, I really must go. It would not do for the Fischadler to take to the sky without it's host, correct?"

With a nod of understanding, the Kaiser's advisor split away from him, heading back indoors, as the Kaiser headed for the Zeppelin, trailing two guards.

Once inside, one of the guards broke off to let the captain know the Kaiser was on board, while Wilhelm made his way to the lounge where his guests were waiting, making sure he looked his best before entering.

"Good evening, ladies, gentlemen, friends, and welcome to Berlin. I hope those of you who arrived last night and earlier today enjoyed your day in the city. Now, before we begin, if you need any refreshments, simply wave down Andrea." He said, motioning to a young woman with curly blonde hair. "She will be happy to retrieve anything you require. She also speaks both German and Russian, so, for my Russian guests, you can freely make requests in your own tongue."

Taking his own seat at the head of the long table, Wilhelm put on a pair of glasses, and opened the file that had been left there for him, glancing over it.

"Now, seeing as how The Ottomans called us all together, I think it only fitting that Herr Pasha gets this meeting started."

Erdem Mehmedoglo Pasha, the Ottoman plenipotentiary, nodded, his almost comically small fez almost falling from his head. "Thank you, your Grace" he replied in heavily accented German, adjusting his fez somewhat before returning to Turkish. "The Sublime Porte's interests in European affairs have been marked with concern following events in the last few years. It seems the age of the European Empires has faltered, leaving a power vacuum that will be filled by vile and evil characters. As you have all no doubt read in my Sultans letter, the growth of ideologies such as Marxism and liberalism in Europe are extremely worrying. What we are proposing is a strong alliance of European powers, an enlarged Quadruple Alliance if you will, to combat violent revolutionary governments in Europe and return the continent to the peace we saw prior to the Great War. We are not proposing a return to the chaos of the Great War but instead a new order of states to guide the misguided of our continent"

Erdem paused as translators whispered into the ears of the other representatives before continuing.

"The first motion we would like to propose is a return to the Concert system of the last century in order to nurture the fragile peace that Europe currently lays in. All nations represented here today would be allowed to call a Concert of the recognised European powers in order to find diplomatic solutions to disputes between legitimate governments and if the situation calls for it, military intervention that also respects the sovereignty of each member nation. Each of the permanent members have veto powers and only recognised Great Powers may join this permanent council.

Secondly, we would like to propose a motion of support of the preservation of monarchies and empires of Europe and condemnation of communist, socialist and extreme nationalist movements. The Sublime Porte are concerned by the rapid growth in power of Greek and French communist governments but believes that diplomatic solutions can be achieved.

Finally, we would like to propose the drawing up of spheres of influence in Europe, the Middle East and Africa. In order to preserve European hegemony, we believe that a return to colonialism in Africa is paramount to counter the growth of the so-called East African Confederation. In order to maintain a lasting peace in Europe, we believe the divisions of states among borders guaranteeing peace and not nationalism must, once again, become the norm. Thank you"

"There are some immediate concerns." Aleksei Burov, the Russian envoy, began. "The proposal, as it stands, or at least as presented just now, requires that the member states of this hypothetical organization be recognized sovereign entities." He glanced toward the Ukrainian Hetman. "The proposal also speaks of the destabilization of Europe brought about by the fervent nationalism that has manifested in our nations in the past decade or more, and yet, we are sitting here today with the representative of one such nationalist front - a territory not recognized by most major European powers. This very same proposal then calls for the preservation and support of European monarchies in the face of nationalist and communist aggression. The inclusion of Ukraine and other rebelling territories of the Russian Empire in the organization proposed today are directly contrary to the aforementioned points, and I see no way for this organization to take form in a manner that is true to the founding principles presented by the Ottoman plenipotentiary if Ukraine and other rebel states are welcomed at the table as legitimate political entities."

Anastasiya Solovski, the Ukrainian monarch, was quickly asking the waitress, Andrea, for some more wine in Russian when she heard Burov begin, and her eyes snapped back towards the conversation at hand. "This matter is only truly a concern if the fading afterglow of a lost empire insists upon the control over all of the lands which it once held sway. It would be one thing if your nation actually even controlled the majority of Russia, but you're rather just some sort of Baltic state now, no?" Anastasiya took a sip from her glass and continued. "I and therefore Ukraine have come here in the spirit of peace and cooperation, as we face rather severe threats to the stability of Europe, if not the world. Our traditions and way of life are being challenged and we perhaps stand on the verge of a new dark age if we cannot find a way out. And you have evidently come here to stir up conflict over territory you can't even begin to reach? This infighting serves no purpose except that of the communists, liberals and nationalists within my fellow monarchies. Are we a national state, which has become independent from the Russian Empire of more than a half decade past? Yes. But the ideal of this conference is to preserve the status quo of European hegemony. The Russian Empire's age is past. We are here now, and we are committed to the struggle, as shown even know with our war with communists in Eastern Ukraine. It does not do for us European nations to fight each other over past claims. If we must indeed resort to that, I would point out that there was a Kievan Russia well before the Muscovy from which your empire descends ever came to exist. It is not as if I do not support Russia's right to reclaim its ancestral lands. There is a considerable proportion of Russia which still lies in the control of criminals, warlords, and other undesirable elements. These areas can and should be retaken by the "Russian Empire," and perhaps they should concentrate on them first before picking figh
ts with one of the few stable countries to emerge from the mess which they allowed to happen in the first place."

"Imperialism is a natural right of any monarchy. It is indeed the duty of a civilized European state to bring civilization to the barbarous masses of Asia and Africa, and Ukraine fully supports the Ottomans' effort to do so. But it is patently ridiculous to support conflicts between civilized, stable European states when threats loom on the horizon. We are not nationalist radicals who intend to liberate each and every one of your tiny minorities. We are a traditional monarchy just like yours of some forty million people which stands as a stable borderland against the anarchy and subversion to the east which threatens to spill over into your nations. I humbly ask that all of you consider supporting us in that effort rather than fanning the flames of what is now Russia further."

"Now then, let's not get rash and over to top." Spoke up a rather old man, clutching his cane as he stepped forward. His grizzled face covered with an eye-patch over his left eye and a comically large handlebar mustache. Count Maximillian von Mannheimer, the Federation's Chief Diplomat. Most likely one of the few people in this room to not only remember the Great War, but to have fought in it too.

"Need I remind you all that the Danubian Federation has offered official diplomatic recognition to the Ukrainian State? Indeed, Anastasiya's words do hold merit. That does not mean she had to speak the way she did, but it has been said. Our old political fueds should be put aside for the moment to focus on the rising tide of the far-left within all of Europe. While I do not condone rampant Imperialism as if it is our 'god-given right', I do condone the destruction of Communist Regimes wherever they may prop up. Be it in Europe, Africa, or Asia. On to the condition of… Nationalism, sometimes it would be better to bend then to break. The Austro-Hungarian Empire bended, and the Russian Empire broke."

A hand would move up to rest on Mannheimer's shoulder, gently moving him to bow as a woman took the spotlight from him. Archduchess Seraphina, Heiress of the Habsburg Throne bowed her head ever so slightly to the assembled room of Diplomats and Nobility.

"It would do little good to simply mimic what von Mannheimer said, but do know that I share his sentiments. We have gathered here, all of us, on the agreement to rekindle the fire of Europe and the crush the rising tide of Communism, Syndicalism, and Socialism. Yet we have barely begun, and already squabbles break out between us. Let it be proclaimed then, that the Danubian Federation will claim the responsability of resisting the rise of Communism within the Balkan States, with or without this Congress."

Kaiser Wilhelm, who had been stroking his beard while listening up to this point, finally stood, commanding attention to him.

“If the notion of this meeting is as Herr Pasha has said, then it can only be concluded that the Turkish state does not view the Ukrainian independent state as an 'extreme nationalist movement', seeing as Miss Solovski is sitting at this table. If that is true, then I am sure that the Turks also fully recognize the legitimacy of the Armenian people's government, and also intend to allow them to hold their independence. Unless I have misunderstood the intentions...” he said with a slightly accusatory tone. “Then I feel we can consider this matter settled, and move on to more pressing matters.

"We feel a recognition of Armenian independence would be disruptive to European trade in the Middle East, Kaiser" replied Erdem cooly. "We in the Ottoman Empire do not condone the existance of breakaway states. However, the invitation of the Hetman comes from a place of pragmatism and in no way signifies Ottoman recognition of the regime over that of the Tsar. But the Red threat is a concern to Istanbul, owing to its proximity to the Caucasus and Eastern Europe and from what we see, the Ukrainian national state has been the only nation in Europe successfully fighting communism".

"Your hypocrisy astounds me, Herr Pasha." Wilhelm replied sharply. "If all it takes for Turkey to recognize such a state is fighting a common foe, your people must truly be backed against the wall. It makes me question whether you are capable of helping anyone, or if the old man of Europe simply called us all here to help him fix his problems."

Taking a drink of water, the Kaiser took on a formal pose, arms behind his back. “We are not here to debate legitimacy. We are not here to squabble minor details. We are here to find a fix to the threat which plagues us all. The threat that lead to the strife currently besetting the mighty Russian Empire. The threat that we see taking control of various states more and more often these days. Ladies and gentlemen. We are here to find a way to destroy the communist threat. Paris. Moscow. Athens. Beijing. It spreads like wildfire across the globe, destroying all it comes in contact with. The options are fight, or fall. I don't know about you, but the German's do not intend to fall. I could care less about the Afrikan's, especially those in Ethiopia. They stood by us in the Great War, and have communists within their borders as well. They should be an ally, not an enemy.”

Sighing, Kaiser Wilhelm took a slow look around the table.

“So far, all I have heard is personal agenda's, and all I have seen is hungry eyes looking for support. If that is what you want from this alliance, then by all means, hold a second meeting in Constan-” he heald up a hand, signaling his translator to not finish the last part. “A second meeting in Istanbul. However, if all you want from this alliance is furthering of your personal issues, and not a stop to the red menace, then you can consider Germany not interested.”

With that, Wilhelm basically fell to his seat, the wood of the chair creaking as he landed. “I am here because I want to save Europe from itself. If this conflicts with your interests, please, take a stand now. If I am in the minority, I shall take my leave to the back room. However, if I lead the majority, then we can begin talking seriously.”

Anastasiya nodded emphatically when the Kaiser had finished his speech. "It is very true that the issues of legitimacy and nationalism are far removed from what we are here to discuss, and I would have preferred to not see it brought up. Even now, Ukrainian troops are engaged in battle with communist insurgents in the east. There are other Bolshevik remnants in the rest of Russia which need to be dealt with. It is not the time to hash out these issues."

"It is the belief of the Sultan that an alliance with the Hetmanate to fight the Eastern Communists is attainable, in order to prevent the further spread of the red plague into our nations. While we respect the Tsar's claims to his rightful empire, we will ask the table to look at the situation. The Tsar has lost control of much of His empire and now controls, de facto, the immediate area of St. Petersburg and the city itself. He cannot be at the forefront of fighting our common enemies without huge support from His allies, which would be a threat to Russian sovereignty. It is desirable to all of us that a powerful Russian state be reinstated, with or without Ukraine, but at a later date," said Erdem, looking around at the table.

"If we are ready to continue on with the conference, I'd ask the table to vote on our first proposal. We can all value from co-operation and it is clear from the meeting today that many of our nations have grievances that can be discussed and sorted, diplomatically. The establishment of a European Concert can see us unite our resources, with the goal of maintaining a peaceful and free Europe while respecting the sovereignty of the Great Powers."

"Russia will not be signing an agreement to assemble or take part in a concert of nations that recognizes Ukraine and other rightful territories of the Russian Empire as independent member states." The Russian diplomat said bluntly.

After a long, whispered conversation with his advisor and translator, Kaiser Wilhelm stood once more.

"I have already sworn German might to the Russian cause. The true Russian cause. And seeing as this meeting has devolved into a plea for a welfare payment on behalf of the Turks, I fail to see how this will truly move forward. Every proposal so far is only beneficial to Turkey. The inclusion of Ukraine is justified on a petty clause, only because it aids the Turks. I defended Miss Solovski's presence, because I had hoped this meeting would be something worthwhile. That the presence of a pretender state might be justifiable, because it was backed by a strong proposal. But I see now that this meeting is simply a plea for aid from the sick old man, that would benefit only him, and the Ukrainians by extension. Germany is fully capable of combatting the Red Threat of it's own. Clearly, I had assumed the Ottomans stronger than they truly are. I will not stand in attendence for a meeting led by the spectre of a country that no longer exists."

Without another word, Kaiser Wilhelm turned, motioning for his entourage to follow, and left the meeting room.

The Archduchess would rise from her seat as well, Mannheimer quickly rising to follow her example. "I see this is pointless then. The German Empire only came here to project it's own influence over the decadant remains of the lost Russian Empire. That's why the Russians were invited, after all. Clearly, this entire meeting remained nothing but another powerplay between the powers here to carve out spheres on influence in the "attempt" to destroy communism. The Danubian Federation does not need this alliance, and it does not need the petty squabbles of a destroyed Empire dividing Europe's attention. We will deal with our own communist threats, and handle our own problems." She said, bowing her head slightly and motioning for Mannheimer to follow her away from the table.

Yet he stayed for a moment, and spoke up himself; "Europe has done nothing but fight and destroy itself for the past two centuries. From Napoleon, to Crimea, to the Great War. We have learned nothing from these events. The German Empire only cares about making sure it remains the sole power in Europe. The Russian "Empire" cares only that it gets the help and money it so desperatly needs so it can maintain some shred of legitimacy with an Empire they destroyed themselves. The Ottomans want help fighting enemies it itself can not fight alone. We, the Danubian Federation, have fought and bled to keep our nation and people safe. We can not in good conscious waste our resources and efforts helping you in doing nothing but assisting in your own goals. We withdraw from this meeting."

With that, Mannheimer turned on his heel and walked away with the Archduchess.

Erdem jumped to his feet. "Y-yeah? K-keep walking, fuckers!" he screeched. "We don't need you fags anyway!"
/s

Wilhelm then orders his Secret Service agents to throw Erdem and Solovski off the back of the blimp. "I told you we would win this meeting." he said to Burov, smiling.

Erdem smiled as he flew through the air and tipped his fez over his fringe. "It's most unkind to be rude to a lady, m'Kaiser" he muttered, landing on his heelie skates. "I'll be back - and so will the Janissaries". With that, Erdem skated off towards Istanbul, leaving only a dust shaped cloud of a Turkish diplomat in his wake.

Erdem loudly sighed and sat back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. He glanced at his translator and at the two envoys still sat in front of him. The Hetman herself and the Russian ambassador. "You speak Ukranian?" he asked his translator quietly. The woman nodded, a polite smile plastered to her face. "Good. Tell the Hetman we will be in contact shortly. This meeting went as planned." He pulled out a cigarette and stood to his feet. While walking away, a match quivering in his fingers, he paused. "Don't tell her that last part".

The translator nodded again.

The Turkish diplomat swung the doors out to the small balcony open and stepped out into warm, May evening, smoke streaming from his nostrils. The Sublime Porte would have be happy with this. He leaned heavily on the railing and stared at the city below him, rubbing his eyes again.

"Sick Man of Europe...fucking infidels" he growled. He spat the cigarette out into the night and it was swallowed by the darkness in seconds.