The heat was almost unbearable, the sun's piercing rays bearing down on their backs. 4^th Company, 2^nd Battalion, 1^st Regiment of the 1^st Army suffered under this intense onslaught. They had just come from fierce fighting in Tindouf and were ragged, dirty looking even. The dirt and sand covered their uniforms, unpolished boots laying discarded in the sands. Barren hamadas surrounded them and from their weary gazes, approaching trucks and armour could be seen from the distance. They kicked up dust and dirt, barreling towards the tent encampment they set up in the middle of nowhere. It was tiring work and many of the men were getting quite antsy. Several men and women decided to play cards to distract themselves from their burning skins - one Private, a Muhammad Hakim, paused to look at the oncoming convoy. "Fuckin' Germans," he started, peering into the distance "why do we even need to be here? We don't need training from some colonial bastards."

Sergeant Francoise raised an eyebrow under his brown sesh. He shuffled the cards in his hand, looking at the young soldier. "You're gonna need all the training you can get Private, you're the greenest motherfucker in this whole company." He pointed towards the vehicles edging closer and closer. "Those nice group of sobs offered to train us in real warfare, not the anti-insurgency bullcrap we've been taught in training. Those are some A-class soldiers right there, not desert rats like us."

The Private turned towards the Frenchman with an annoyed look under his wide brim hat. "We ain't desert rats and we don't need help from colonials. We have enough Frenchies like you in our company and you're native. These are some inbred monarchistic colonials right here. We've never needed them before and we don't need em now Sarge."

Sergeant Francoise glared at the Private and the offending man received a few punches and kicks from the soldiers next to him. Racism and divide wasn't going to go away in just a few decades after all. Although, Hakim was the local greenie and the idiot of the entire company. The convoy was approaching fast and soon enough, halted in front of the card playing group of soldiers. It was headed by a Renault M35 straight from France painted in a tan brown to suit the environments. It turned out of the way to reveal the trucks full of German soldiers. The sergeant stood and walked up to greet the lead truck. "Sabaah al-khayr."

"Sabaah al-khayr....al-salaamu ‘alaykum," replied a rather finely-dressed German Captain - his tag-name stating his last-name was Brandher. While whose accent was heavy, said their reply in kind - and added 'peace be upon you' as an additive. Namely already appearing the more cultured one - since he added the second line, which was usually customary for meeting a person, that you wanted to befriend. While going with simply 'sabaah al-khayr' without saying 'al-salaamu' - left one appearing...ill-mannered. It spoke something of the colonial Germans to learn such a fine distinction.

He soon shouted some words in German, and soon enough the squad of men soon came out of the truck. Together the colonial Germans looked more fancier than the entire Company of Algerians here. Surprisingly enough, they even had a few black ones with them.

They didn't waste time with formality after that - simply addressing Sergeant Francoise to the nearest obstacle course. Namely the course - that had been set up and dug by the men and women of the Algerian Army - so they could be taught modern warfare. Although, doing that had been a long pain - since nobody had the drive to do so, in this scorching heat.

"What is the time?" he asked, switching to broken-French with Francoise. The Germans themselves were dressed in some more summer-variants of their usual gray uniforms. Despite that and the scorching heat - none of them were complaining much.

As namely Captain Brandher wanted to know how fast the Algerians had completed this obstacle - before the Germans came.

Francoise looked back at the company tents and back at the Captain. "About two to three hours or so? These men and women ain't used to this type of warfare, I'm afraid." He could appreciate the captain's use of French, his native language and Algeria's unofficial business language, when speaking to him. As he looked out on to the obstacle course, he picture the slow process of getting over all these entrenched positions under fire. It was painstakingly slow and there were minor injuries but the NCO wasn't about to admit that his people were bad at their jobs. Just unused to conventional warfare.

Defecting to the Algerian side during the War of Independence was the best decision he could have made but unlike the French, the Algerians used very underhand tactics. Although they have since gotten rid of suicide bombers and child soldiers, it still acted very much like an irregular force. Compared to the Germans, their military doctrine was completely different. Years of fighting insurgents had also sharpened the army in counter-terrorism and assymetric warfare but did no help with conventional warfare. They fought like insurgents themselves, loyal and cunning but not as disciplined as the normal soldier. It was up to these Germans to make 4^th Company into a conventional force. High command were planning to siege Assekrem in the upcoming months after all.

Captain Brandher soon had everything brought out and set up. Namely as he deployed one machine gun to the second trench and a second machine gun into the third trench. In addition with crates of ammunition. It looked like, compared to what they had done - the Germans planned on doing it with blanks to simulate actual battle-field conditions.

While everybody in the Company was called to watch on the battlements how the 'inbred colonials' would do.

As they watched the colonial Germans soon take their position in the first trench. Then with a loud blow from Captain Brandher' whistle - the course started, with Sergeant Francoise holding the stop-watch. The machine gun in the second trench soon started firing - and the Germans in the first trench took cover. As the sand behind them soon blew up in pockmarks. The Germans were crazy all-right - they were using live-ammunition for this course.

Then once it stopped the 'gunner' took cover - as the Germans returned fire. Hitting the targets set up in the second trench. While this happened Captain Brandher yelled next to Sergeant Francoise - loud enough to make one deaf at this close. Although - despite usually having a Captain also be in a trench - he had enough power in his wind-pipes to reach even down to the obstacle course. "BAYONET!"

Soon enough, they fixed bayonets and charged at the second trench. Just as the gunner fled to the third trench. The roar that accompanied the bayonet charge - loud and fierce to even shake fear into a Great War veteran. As the colonials charged - stabbing the dummies, hard enough to draw cotton from their insides. Some colonials even bashed the dummies hard enough to break their leather covering.

Then came the charge to the third trench - which was across a large expanse. While also having the machine gunner. This time around, they used the radio given to them for this mission. Captain Brandher answering like he was actually in a trench in the Great War. As quick commands later - he brandished a grenade launcher and fired into the second and third trench expanse. Namely tear gas to stimulate actual chemical warfare.

It didn't take a lot - before the Germans pulled out their gas-masks and put them on. Despite it being a training and in the scorching heat. As soon Captain Brandher blew his whistle as hard as possible. As the colonials soon charged ahead - straight through the tear gas, wearing masks and into the third trench at a running pace; bayonets fixed.

"Time..." replied Brandher, after his men - took the last trench; having shown the Algerians a mere taste of actual warfare.

The company stood slack-jawed at the display of sheer ferocity and efficiency the Germans demostrated. One tick for German efficiency. They were awed at the display, the cards falling out of Private Hakim's hand. The Sergeant whistled at the time on his stopwatch, the only one who wasn't frozen to a standstill by the display. "Under ten minutes, Captain Brandher. Impressive display." He looked back at his surprised company with an annoyed look, pointing towards the victorious German soldiers. He switched to Arabic, preparing for some classic NCO disciplining

"This is how real soldiers play in battle, you pieces of shit! This is how you play war! This is how you fuck the enemy and their mothers without taking a single casualty! They just made fools of this damn company! You're supposed to be fucking veterans, you just cycled out of shithole that's Garet Djibelet and you've just made the Algerian Army look like a bunch of amatures. How dare you call yourselves soldiers, you undisciplined, pathetic excuses for a company? Shut your mouths and learn or I swear by Allah if you make our company look like fools again, we're going to run back to Oran!" Francoise's face was furious under his sesh and his eyes promised pain. The company stood straighter and clenched their jaws, standing stiff at attention under the intense berating of their sergeant.

The shouting man turned towards Brandher and sighed, cooling down. He switched back to French, nodding his head in apology. "I am sorry, Captain. I had to instill some discipline in them but truly, commendable work by your soldiers. I must applaud their efficiency and prowess in conventional warfare. We are slightly lacking in that regard." He wiped the shaming amount of time his company took to clear the trenches from his mind. He had fought with them in the underground tunnels and the door-to-door of the villages. He had faith in his men and women, they just needed more training in this regard.

The German Captain nodded in reply - and soon recalled his men, so the Algerians could get their first lessons in discipline kicked into them.

---

Namely it started with likely three things nobody wanted doing - cleaning their uniforms, cleaning their rifles and cleaning their act up.

First was eliminating any of their 'fun-housing' - which Sergeant Francoise had the honor of enforcing and collecting. Any back-talk or hiding and he'd have to punish the entire Company for that.

Secondly, they had to get their dusted uniforms into a more decent shape and also make sure they looked like soldiers and not some desert raiders, that hadn't seen a shower in a week. They enforced strict hygiene and baring some cultural differences - most had to trim their hair into managable size. Even the women, needed to braid and hide it and not let it flow around.

Thirdly - Captain Brandher, had the Company strip all their rifles open and he inspected every rifle and gun. He wasn't satisfied - and had them start cleaning almost immediately.

If the Germans were disliked before - they likely were hated now, as they enforced group punishments. One screwd up then the whole Company suffered. Although, despite that Captain Brandher had his men and himself do all the things with the Algerians. Plus he explained all three reasons to them, as they worked.

As firstly - they needed to keep a certain degree of professionalism and discipline. Fun-housing was all well and good - on their own free-time, but open displays invited rule-breaking and such a thing lowered their discipline and thus their readiness.

Secondly, hygiene was most important. As he keenly explained all the medical reasons for it. Rash, itchiness, sores, uncomfort and namely lice. They did a very dirty job, and unless they kept themselves clean - they'd get sick and reduce morale and effectiveness. As for the uniforms - if they looked like soldiers, then they'd feel like soldiers as well.

Thirdly - as Captain Brandher explained. "Your gun is your life in the Army. Only you may hold it, care for it and watch over it. That ends only when you die or retire. Your responsible for this. Mistreat it, and it will not save you," he explained. As it was the duty of every soldier to care for his gun - thus constant cleaning was required. Especially in the desert, where sand could jam their rifles at a crucial moment.

As for the group punishment - it was an old tactic. Since the basic idea was to be able to work as a cohesent unit - and nothing built team-work better than a common enemy. Or in this case, a German. While the first day was a nightmare, one could say - the Algerian Army, looked a ten-time deal better than before they arrived. Even the Algerians could feel, a bit better - since they didn't look like a bunch of rebels anymore. They looked like actual men and women of an Algerian nation.

Sergeant Francoise grinned under his sesh, looking upon his company with pride. They had been turned from battle-worn, dirty fighters into polished soldiers. It almost brought a tear in his eye, if he wasn't such a strict man. He had lined them up in neat rows. They weren't perfect but looked a whole lot better than last time. He had asked Brandher to keep his men to the side. The sergeant started to walk back and forth in front of his comades, hands clasped behind his back. "Now, you look like soldiers!" He spoke in French, pride evident in his voice. "Now you look like Algerians, actual veterans!"

"However, this is not the end." He allowed the company limited praise and turned back to that serious, almost condescending tone he commonly had. "We are to be trained by these German's for the remainder of this week, shown how to fight in their wars. We are the pussies, the greenies for this week and we need to learn our place. I don't want this grumbling and complaining anymore. Sharpen up! You are in the presence of real soldiers!" Some of them flinched at the harshness in his tone but kept still otherwise.

"We're going to meet their standards and prove that we aren't a bunch of bandits with guns! We're better than those Tradies, aren't we? We better shape up or we'll be as bad as those traitors! Do you want to be a bunch of traitors, 4^th Company?!"

"NO SERGEANT!" Francoise simply nodded at them and strode off, inviting Brandher to take the stage and debrief the company. The Algerians immediately stood a little straighter than before, setting their eyes forward and heels together in attention. The conditioning was already starting to take a hold.

Captain Brandher soon walked up and next to Sergeant Francoise - letting him translate into Arabic for the others. "Algerians....your the worst bunch of soldiers I have ever seen. I have seen fresh Cadets with better discipline. But is a beat better than drunk idiots of morning," he spoke. "There will be changes coming. And as Sergeant Francoise said. Shape up, or be shipped out - your choice either head low or in a wooden casket..."

---

In the coming days and week to come - the Algerian Army would get a feeling of the training of a true conscript army. Although it meant that Sergeant Francoise needed to take a more firm hand in the dictation of his men.

The usual hygiene, inspections and group punishments were enforced. The Germans were harsh but fair. Mostly mild physical exercises, push-ups in the sand - that in time, would build-up. The Sergeant would know himself - that as this continued, their discipline would grow better. It would mean they'd complain less, be more effective, able to absorb shock better and any rewards they got would be much sweeter.

Hard in training, easier in war - as the saying went. The days to come - it was a shock course, in actual combat. The Germans had the men form-up into squads of their own - while Francoise had to assign certain Corporals to those squads. The understrength company was absent of an officer attachment so the non-commisioned officers had to take up slack. A chain of command needed to be established - as well as, it created a rivalry and effort to out-do the others - thus improving overall quality of them all.

They also learned some actual battle tactics - as the Germans, had them practice flanking. Shown their firing, taught how to operate the radio and read a map. Simple things - but as explained, in war could mean the difference between life and death.

As also they learned basic medical aid, in case one of them was shot or hit by debris. How to identify such wounds and how to triage for the medical personnel back at base camp.

Since the Algerians didn't have much time for a decent training regime - the Germans improved on what they called 'force multipliers' or namely things that would improve lethality no matter what happened.

Several crackshots got training in special squads and trained to be either marksman or actual snipers. The German even provided the best even German rifles with decent scopes and range although some kept to their Kar98s and MAS-36 Variants. Extra training for these unofficial crackshots was useful, especially under ruthless German standards. It offered a mighty challenge for the men and women who called themselves "sharpshooters".

They also focused heavily on getting the mortar and howitzer into some kind of usage. Namely combining it with on the ground information from soldiers. It was a difficulty - since soldiers needed to pass on information to their Sergeant, then the Artillery Unit had to read coordinates and open fire.

It was a headache itself - but Captain Brandher wanted the Algerians to have the basic of artillery support. If they sucked anyway - then Traditionalists could still be blown away with the Artillery.

By the end of it, the Algerians had been shaped up into as best a conventional force as they could in the time span given. There were plans for further training with the Germans later but due to the mobilisation of the 3^rd Army and tensions heating up with the Moroccans, the training camp was to be split. Now, on their last day of German training, the company was lined up within the first trench from a week before. Sergeant Francoise nodded at the Germans who stood on standby while the company gripped their weapons in focus. Brandher nodded back and started the timer.

Rounds pelted the Algerian positions but the soldiers kept calm under fire, loading their MAS-36s & 39s as the bullets kicked up sand and dust into the air. They let the gunner run out of ammunition before Sergeant whistled, the company rising as one to fire. The sharp cracks of their French 36's resounded through the air while a few people with FM 24/29 suppressed the opposition trench positions. Dummies were downed and the gunner cowed slightly under the onslaught.

Francoise blew hard through his whistle, unsheathing an Algerian M50 Nimcha before shouting "Bayonets! 39ers to the front!" Those with 39s, a CQC sub machine gun, fixed bayonets and charged out of the trench first with a loud warcry. They were often the crazier ones in the company, preferring the close range supremacy of the sub machine fun over normal rifles. They yelled until their throats went dry, crashing into the line with bayonets and close fire. After "eliminating" dummies with an initial charge, they utilised dangerously close but accurate short round bursts to neaby "enemies", used to the danger of such close combat. The 36ers and LMG users followed close to their CQC counterparts, finishing off any enemies left over with bayonet stabs or blunt trauma to the face.

Wiltering gunfire peppered the second trench from the third, soldiers hitting the dirt as it started. The Sergeant knew they couldn't utilise the grenade launcher trick that the Germans used but he had a more primitive, cheaper solution. "Slings on the ready!"

The Algerians knew how to improvise in combat and often copied some tactics used by their enemies to be used against them. They also loved their explosives and each soldier had at least two grenades each, explosive experts could have as much as six. Several of these specialist soldiers took out slings from their pockets and placed impact grenades. They slammed the bottom of the tube shaped grenade to activate them before readying to throw.

"FIRE!" Rounds pelted the third trench as the enemy gunner reloaded, the specialists spinning up their slings before throwing them out into the air. Some of them landed short but many met its mark near or in the trench. They were fragmentary impact grenades, sending shrapnel everywhere in the trench. The gunner hid from the explosions as a hot piece of metal cut across his cheek. It was like a makeshift artillery barrage.

With another whistle, the 39ers charged at a running pace as specialists continued their barrage, overshooting the third trench to prevent any friendly injuries from flying shrapnel. To the observers, it was quite the sight and was confusing to watch. They were using slings, for Christ's sake! It went against everything strict military doctrine had taught them. But as the 39ers entered the trench, guns blazing and bayonets through their enemy's skulls, it at least proved effective this time.

Captain Brandher watched it happen, then with a wide grin - he pulled his usual grenade launcher and fired. Namely tear gas as usual - but to stimulate the worst aspects that the Traditionalists might use. Now it was up to Sergeant Francoise to alert his men to the danger - that was every bit real and a possibility.

The Sergeant had kept back, behind each charge. Although he would love to be with the gloryhounding 39ers, he had a job to do as the acting leader of 4^th Company - to watch out for German bullshit.

And the bullshit did come and Francoise wished he could swear at the Captain right now. "Gas! Masks on you buncha greenies!" The soldiers nearest to him, namely the second wave and some lagging 39ers, floored it to avoid fire before reaching for their masks. The ones clearing the trenches finished their bursts of fire before grabbing for their masks with frantic speed, trying to find cover while doing so. A few struggled to put their masks on but they eventually continued. With fast beating hearts, the tear gas spread across the obstacle course as the rest of the company ran to the final trench. They cleaned up and helped the surrending gunner out of the trench.

As the tear gas dissapated and the soldiers cleaned up, Sergeant Francoise called the all-clear and removed his mask. He called back to the Captain, a little annoyance in his voice. "Time, Captain Brandher?!"

"Ten minutes..." he spoke, although without his usual arrogance or pride. "Not bad. For a week of practice that is very good."

"You might not thing this is equal to our performance, but we're all old veterans. We lack the youth you possess. Your young, eager and full of spunk."

"If given a choice, I would share a trench with you. Better than what you were a week ago," he spoke, and considering the difference between them - that was likely the best 'well-done' that they might get.

"Now. Your final lesson," he spoke, pulling out his Luger, pointed it at their Sergeant and pulled the trigger. Nothing. Although it likely gave everyone a good scare. Private Hakim jumped at the gesture, the gas mask that hung from his neck smacking him in the face.

"War. War is cruel. When you engage in trench warfare, you will see the worst aspects of the human psyche. Like now, your friend, lover or officer might be taken away with a snap," he explained - the most serious he had ever been.

"I may look gruff and arrogant. I was once in the trenches of the Great War. I watched real horror unfold before my eyes. You have likely seen it too. Trench warfare gives you no option of running - simply begging to your God for salvation. Remember this, remember your duty and kill the bastards before they kill you," he spoke - with that notion, he gave the likely surprised Sergeant his side-arm. An old 1914 model - a symbol of times once happened. Then he left them to enjoy their victory, once the shock wore off.

There was somber silence as the Captain left with his men back into the encampment. The Sergeant stared at the old pistol in his hand before looking back at his soldiers. The men and women of 4^th company looked worn and ragged but victory was in their eyes. They burned with a youthful fire and their stances were filled with confidence. Private Hakim shook with barely contained excitement before raising his fist. "We survived Kraut Week!"

Cheers erupted from the company as firearms were raised, some shooting into the air in their euphoria. They hugged and kissed, jumped and cried. They survived their first camp in conventional warfare and they had come out as the first soldiers in the entire Algerian army with trench warfare training. This understrength company, battered and worn from battles past, had become something special. Francoise smiled at his men and women as they celebrated before looking back at the retreating back of Captain Brandher. The man and his soldiers had tortured his company and taught them a good lesson.

His smile turned into a full grin. It was their turn to teach them a lesson. He returned his gaze towards the celebrating infantry and raised his hand, 1914 in hand before firing into the air with a full clip. The energy stopped suddenly and his subordinates halted almost comically, Hakim was halfway through firing his 39 before he dropped it.

Francoise glared at them. "You should be ashamed of yourselves, acting like this in front of your superior officer." The wiltering gaze was powerful, landing on each man and woman. His face and demeanour instantly changed into pride as he felt the mood dampen. "This celebration is for Oran, not some shithole in the desert! Ready the trucks, and change into your civvies, we're going fun-housing you miserable sobs!"

The crowd cheered and ran to the tents, overtaking the German soldiers with their hurried pace. Francoise lagged behind and jogged up next to Captain Brandher, winking at the man. "Time for some RnR in the city, isn't it Captain?" he suggested before running off to catch up to the rest of his company.

The Captain merely shook his head and continued his slow pace to his own tent. Hoping that this training would save some of them from death and lead them to victory.

“Don't tell me you're afraid of fighting “savages”, as you call them”

Yiannis rarely looked this pale. Thaimes was his usual apathetic self. Maybe his friend had something he was worried about losing, but Thaimes was waiting for this day straight from enlistment. There was nothing left for him back in Sparta, and it was obvious to everyone that another war was right around the corner. Whether Albania or Turkey, there was no way that he could lose in the military. Either he came back a hero, and was able to make something of himself, or he would up in a ditch with a bullet wound in the head, free from whatever was waiting for him back in Greece. Yiannis never actually expected to see action. He was happy to be dealing with trouble makers in Epirus, but actually marching into a foreign country. That was crazy.

“Don't be such a pussy, we're just back up anyways,”

Before he could retort, the commander of the army had spoken up.

“Listen closely men. Today we will move on from simply patrolling cities, to playing our part in the spread of the revolution. The brave men of the Albanian Socialists have already begun the push against tyranny started by the so-called King Zog, continued in the inept rule of his unfit son, Skander. We owe it to our brothers to stand side by side with them and spill our blood to help them in the liberation of their people from the clutches of monarchy. So, we shall begin the glorious march into Albania, and in time they will be free to make their own destiny.”

Yiannis looked as if he was about to pass out, with Thaimes just boredly looking ahead as he internally mocked the commander. He knew this was all just an attempt to get control over a previously hostile nation, bring them into their fold and eliminate enemies. No one gave a damn about the Hoxhaists before now, now that it was convenient for them. Zog dies and his retarded son takes the throne? Perfect timing to back and hopeless mess like the Hoxhaists.

But that was none of his concern. So long as he could personally benefit from this, it was all that mattered.

“Don't be so afraid, Yiannis. We're gonna kill Shiptars, like you always wanted to do.”

Yiannis swallowed hard and winced as if in pain before responding,

“Yeah...Yeah...It's going to be fine, we can do this. What's the worse they can do anyways?”


June was an ideal time to be returning home.

Hikmet Toskaj had spent the last 20 years of his life squatting in Athens along with many of the Hoxhaists. Who had once been an idealistic 16 year old boy who left home to fight for socialism alongside his brothers in Hoxha's graces, he was now a bitter man in his 30s, with nothing left to lose. Albania was almost as rough as the camp, the mountains, angry and jagged, almost mocked his return. Many of the men had come to Greece as children or young men, and now returned in the middle of their lives, angry and hateful. Though they were not alone.
Seated beside him was 16 year old Evangelos Tzanavaras, a boy from a small village outside of Athens. Evangelos, or Evangjel in proper Albanian, was one of the few Arvanites left in Attica. Furiously proud of his heritage, he was an active campaigner for the recognition of the Hoxhaist movement in Athens, and for Arvanite support of the group, and had run away from home to join the Hoxhaists when he found out they were going to be returning to Albania to bring socialism to the Kingdom.

The pair found themselves pinned down by gunmen hiding in the mountains. Greeks would be arriving soon to provide back up, but for now, the Hoxhaists were left to fend for themselves. Between shots, Hikmet would return to cover to allow Evangjel to fire into the mountains, and so the pair alternated.

Night was falling and it was becoming clear that the Greeks would not be reaching this destination until later.

“Damn them, how can they just leave us here?” Evangjel shouted as he took another shot into the mountains, aiming at a nearby Monarchist sniper.

“Don't know what to tell ya, kid” Hikmet replied, quickly changing out the magazine on his rife, a French rifle the Greeks had supplied to the Hoxhaists before they marched into the mountains. “We can't be relying on them too much, we gotta take care of ourselves.”

Evangjel ducked down as Hikmet stood up to take a shot, firing into the nearby hill, chuckling a bit as he saw the limp body of a gunman fall from the cliff onto the ground below, dust thrown up as he hit the ground.

“Got one”, which was Evangjels queue to take over shooting.

Hikmet had become something like a father figure to Evangjel, for as long as they had journed together, it seemed like the two had something of a bond that could not be broken.

Perhaps that’s why the next few seconds would be forever burned into Evangjel's brain for the remainder of his life.

As the boy ducked under the stone wall of the house they were taking cover in, Hikmet stood up, only to fall right back. Evangjel's attention was caught only to see his fellow soldier laying on his back on the dirt floor of the little stone house, blood gushing out of his throat in pulsating bursts.

If he screamed, it wouldn't be obvious to himself. What he could remember was throwing himself onto the older man, forcing his hands over the other's throat and pressing down, futilely hoping to stop the bleeding as red liquid simply poured through his fingers with every beat of the dying man's heart. The shock was overwhelming, so much so he had not even noticed the arrival of reinforcements outside, as Greek artillerymen began firing off into the distance, raining death upon the marksmen in the mountain pass.

In the coming moments when Greek and Hoxhaists began to advance into the pass, driving the Monarchist forces away, Evangjel just lay in the house, hands sticky with cold, clotting blood, as Hikmet lay dying.

Voices could be heard outside of the door,

“The fuck happened in here?”

Evangjel's head darted to the left, seeing two Greek soldiers standing in the doorway of the house, the soft lights they held giving an orangish glow to their face as the setting sun turned from orange int its own right to a cool blue.

“He's dead, he died waiting for you to come and help us!” the child shouted, furious at these Greeks, how they seemed so uninterested in the condition of his friend.

“It's war, get over it, Kid” one of the Greeks spoke up. “Just be glad we came at all, so you didn't end up like him too.”

With that, the Greek left, though the other lingered a bit, seemingly horrified as he watched the younger soldier sob softly over his fallen comrade.

“Yiannis, what the fuck is holding you, hurry up,”

“Ye-yeah,” Yiannis said, as he slipped out of the building unnoticed

--------------------------------------------
June 8th, 1960: Paris, France
--------------------------------------------

All seemed well in Paris, it was a lovely June evening and many Parisians were enjoying themselves, wining and dining, going on cute dates with their loved ones or just enjoying the scenery. However, while they went about their evening they'd have no idea of the turmoil that was rapidly approaching them and their nation in the coming days. Days in which the new heroes of the republic would rise and their place in history secured.

A thunder of footsteps and yelling broke out in the meeting room as a multitude of suit clad men briskly left the room without looking back, leaving nothing but shocked expressions and anger in their wake. President Villeneuve was immobilized with rage. Face taut with anger, he took a deep breath and recomposed himself, turning to another member of the assembly that hadn't walked out.

"What the fuck do they think they're doing?" He asked in a scarily authoritative tone no one had ever heard him speak in.

"I-I don't know sir.." Stammered the young assemblyman.

"Find out what they're doing then. I don't know who they think they are, but there will be severe repercussions for leaving the most important assembly of the year," said Villeneuve as irritated as can be. The poor assemblyman went on his way to fetch those who left, yet he returned unsuccessful several minutes later. They were nowhere to be found within the assembly building. The President ultimately called the meeting back into order. Decisions needed to be made, and if those men wished not to participate over some petty political agenda, who was he to stop them? The meeting continued for just a mere hour longer with hardly any debate, the majority of those who remained were highly in favor of the proposals that the Anarchiste and Travailleurs Avant parties were so adamantly against.

Villeneuve and his allies in the Parti Socialiste, as well as the Fête Populaire Révolutionnaire would not stand for such disrespect and insubordination from supposed statesmen. The protectors of the future. As the meeting came to a close, the president addressed the assemblymen:

"Comrades, today has been simultaneously a success and a tragedy. A success because we all share a vision for a France that serves not only it's own people, but all people across the world. We shall become a shining beacon of freedom for the rest of the world! However, before we can accomplish such a great task we must deal with the cowardly assemblymen who today have done their nation a great disservice. Unwilling to communicate or cooperate, these are not men fit to make decisions for their country. It is with great regret that I must suggest to you all that we either see these men in another meeting in two days time, or we relieve them of their post and hold elections for their assembly seats in three weeks time. That is all, now go enjoy your evening for there is great work to do in the coming days."

Jacques, very satisfied with his little speech, got up and walked towards the exit of the room whilst being applauded by the representatives. He had managed to compose himself enough to speak but he knew he needed to get some fresh air and quickly. Those damn anarchists and moderates were really being a thorn in his side. He was quite sick of it. He spent about twenty minutes outside, and returned to his office.

He returned to his office with a surprise. Prime Minister Ferdinand Girard was waiting for him, comfortably seated outside the room and lost in a newspaper as he usually was. Jacques was late, but he didn't know that. Without so much as looking up, Ferdinand began speaking.

"How was your emergency meeting?"

"It was awful," began Jacques in a saddened tone. "The anarchists and moderates walked out, they refuse to work with us."

"How unfortunate. They should know by now that they can't stop us from giving the people what they want. They wouldn't compromise at all you said?"

"Not at all," the President said as he walked into his office and took his seat behind his desk. He suddenly remembered he needed to ask for a more comfortable chair and a larger desk. Well, that's neither here nor there. "They've refused our proposals for the past two months and they won't budge no matter how many times we change them." He continued as he lightly puffed on a cigar.

Ferdinand had taken the seat in front of Jacques and listened intently. "I assume they still take the most issue with our emergency war plans for Belgium and the general rearmament, right?" Asked Ferdinand knowingly.

"Correct. We've made our case many times. Yet, they can't seem to put the interests of our people, and our brothers and sisters across the border over their own petty agenda. Quite honestly, it sickens me. Those people need our help."

"I know. The age of monarchs has long passed if you ask me," said the PM smugly. "How do you intend to deal with this situation?"

"I told the assemblymen of my intentions to host elections in the coming weeks if the anarchists and moderates don't sign our proposals. I also think that we need to amend the rules as well. Unanimous votes are impossible to achieve, you know."

"I agree wholeheartedly. It's rules like those that'll keep us from doing our jobs. This republic's founders definitely missed the mark on several ideas. Rectifying them won't be an issue though."

"Agreed. In the mean time, I need to continue drafting our ultimatum for the Belgian king. I'm sure he'll be wise enough to understand what's at stake; although we may need to actually fight," Jacques stated in an ever so slightly concerned tone.

"Don't worry about it. We'll defeat the monarchists if we must. They can't stand against their own people."

"You're right. There's no reason to lack any confidence here..."

"Precisely. Everything will be fine. Now, if you'll excuse me; I have a family and some cognac to go back to for the rest of the evening," Ferdinand said as he ascended from his seat and left the office to a simple "Take care," from the President.

Jacques knew he that he ought to call it a day soon, although he figured he could at least continue looking over his draft for the ultimatum to the Belgians. Feeling satisfied with his authoring thus far, he severely doubted that there would be much need for any revision to the letter, which reads as follows:

"Dear Baudouin, your Excellency and King of the Belgians; it was has come to the French people's attention that in recent times your policies have left your own people suffering, disenfranchised and feeling defeated and powerless. However, that is not the case for much longer. It is with this letter that the French nation declares its intention to come to the aid of the oppressed all over the world. As such, we hereby offer you a choice. Acquiesce to not only your own people's demands, but also our own which are listed simply as seen here:

1. Repeal the national ban on trade unions and worker's organizations.

2. Release all political prisoners associated with said ban.

3. Abdicate the throne and form a Belgian republic with free elections that all parties may participate in.

If these conditions are not met within a week's time after receiving them then the French Republic has no choice but to forcefully come to the aid of our Belgian brothers and sisters who tireless work under your abusive regime. Of course, we hope that such an event will not come to pass. However, if it must then we will have no choice but to declare a state of war between our nations. We eagerly await your most Excellent response and hope that your wise judgement shall lead your people to prosperity and safety as well as liberation.

Still feeling incredibly confident in his authorship, he finally decided to call it a day. It's best to turn in early he thought. The coming days are incredibly important and a strong leader needs to well, maintain his strength. Especially in the face of imminent danger.

The night of the European Conference

As his father took to the skies for his "European Concert", prince Friederich took to the streets of Berlin in his black Königswahl Gepard. As the sports car glided effortlessly through the streets, Freddy occasionally caught camera flashes out of the corner of his eye. Stifling a laugh, he shook his head.
'Not even five minutes out and they've already noticed me. Oh well. I'll lose them after the next alley.'

With a quick, precise turn that only a Gepard is capable of, Freddy glided down the alleyway, hearing the screech of the paparazzi's tires followed by the telltale thud of a collision, and finally, angry Italian yelling. Smiling to himself, he flicked on the radio, to finish his drive in peace.

"That was Damen von Swing with their hit song, 'Am die Steilabfall.' Next up on Schwingradio Deutschland is Spinnende Netze by your favorite young man out of Switzerland, Julien Schmidt!"

As the voice faded and the upbeat swing music started, Freddy lost himself in the music, time speeding along with the fast beats, until he finally arrived at a small pub off the beaten path; The Dicke Frau. It was out of the way enough that the paparazzi never found it, yet easy enough to get to that Freddy could enjoy a drink with his less than noble friends.

"Are ye serious?" Came a voice from behind him speaking English. "Me mates back home won't believe it!"

When Freddy turned around, he saw a dark haired Scottish man, kilt and all, fumbling to pull out a camera.

"Oy, you there!" He said in German, oblivious to who he was talking to. "Can you get a picture of me under the sign?"

Smiling, Freddy obliged, taking the small camera from the Scots hands, and snapping a couple pictures of him making lewd gestures underneath the sign, as well as a more proper one, supposedly for his family scrapbook.

"Thanks, I owe you one! In fact, first ones on me!" Said the jovial man, slapping his arm around Freddy's back. "Who, may I inquire, am I buying for?"

"Friederich." Replied Freddy, trying to keep casual. "And who is purchasing for me?"

"My name's Lewis! Lewis MacLean!" Replied the Scots as they marched inside.

"MEINE PRINZ!" Shouted the patrons the second they saw Freddy walk in.

"MEINE LEUTE!" Came Freddy's bombastic reply, as the bar spring to life, almost as if it had been waiting silently for him to come along. Within seconds, the rusty jukebox began to play the same radio Freddy had running in his car, and people began to get up and dance.

Navigating through the crowd, Freddy and Lewis made their way to the bar itself.

"Meine Prinz! Good to see you again! Who's your friend?" Asked the fat, balding old man standing behind the counter.

"Ah! This is Lewis! He'll be treating me, so… Bring a couple bottles of Rote Hütte for us!"

" Sure thing!" replied the bartender, retreating into a back room.

"Rote Hütte? What's that?" Asked Lewis.

"What's Rote Hütte?" Freddy asked incredulously. "Only the best beer you'll find in all of Deutschland, No, in all of Europe!"

"Well, I guess I'll be the judge of that!" Lewis snapped sarcastically. "There's some stuff back home that I'd bet my mother's couch on!"

"Is that so?" Freddy said with a smile. "We'll, Sigmund here carried drinks from all around the world, so let's see about that, why don't we? In fact, why don't we make it a challenge?"

With a wry smile, the Scots jutted his hand out toward Freddy, who met it with a hearty shake. Just then, Sigmund came back out, bottles in hand, and smiled.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it looks like the Prinz has a new challenger!"

A cheer from half the patrons followed, and people began to line up at the counter, rifling through their wallets, as Sigmund grabbed an old, ratty hat from a nearby doorknob, and a pencil and pad of paper.

"Get your bets in before it's too late!"

-----------------


Prinz Wilhelm sat in a recliner, reading a book titled "The Art of Manipulation." As his dark eyes glided over the pages, his lips donned a smile that would look innocent on anybody else, but made him look like a villain out of a horror film.

"Interesting." He muttered to himself, writing a small note in an even smaller journal at his side.

Just as he went to turn the page, the phone next to him began to ring. Normally, he would wait for a maid to get it, but this time, he decided to pick it up personally.

"Hello, Wilhelm speaking." He said into the reciever.

"… Yes. Okay. Yes, I understand. Yes, thank you." He said, before putting the phone down with a sigh.

"And the younger brother ruins a pleasant evening once again. I swear, if we were not family..."

Putting his book aside, Wilhelm stood up, and made his way to the door of his study, opening it.

"Dear, I'm going out for a while." He shouted into the empty hallway.

"Alright, don't get into trouble!" Came a reply from somewhere else in the house.

"You know me, darling. I'm only ever the one fixing trouble…" Wilhelm numbed, as he out his shoes on, and made his way to hair garage.

Inside sat a Falke, by Handwerker. A sportscar made by a rival company to Köningswahl, that supposedly controls better than the Gepard, and is after, to boot.

Wilhelm pressed a button next to the door, and within seconds, a pair of agents came from inside the house, ready to escort the German heir wherever he was going. As they all piled into the car, one of them asked the most obvious question first.

"Freddy?"

Nodding, Wilhelm brought them up to speed about how his younger brother drank too much, and got into a fistfight with some drunkard named Louise. Freddy, if course, was fine, but the other man was carried out on a stretcher. The only reason Wilhelm was sbihered at all was because Freddy passed out immediately after, and nobody was able to get him to move.

Upon arriving at the bar, gaudily named "The Dicke Frau", which Wilhelm was sure was a joke in English disguised as a play on words in German, the eldest prince swing open the doors, secret service agents in tow. Sure enough, the first thing they saw upon walking in was the massive form of Freddy sprawled on the floor, with some blood on his shirt and a bottle of Röte Hutte in the other.

"You" Wilhelm said to the bartender. "Help me get him upright. I'll take his left, you take his right."

Nodding, the ugly, balding man waddled over to the princes, and did as Wilhelm instructed. With a great effort, they got Freddy propped upright against a table, his eyes slowly opening.

"Hey, look at me." Demanded Wilhelm. "And let go of that shit beer, for God's sake."

Freddy, who's eyes still were barely open, growled, and threw out an arm towards his older brother, hitting him square in the chest. Wilhelm, not expecting this response, fell backwards, putting an arm out to catch himself, only to have it catch a table, and bend backwards. The elder prince let out a hell of pain, and immediately cradled the injured arm with his good one.

"You fucking idiot! I think you broke my arm, you fucking giant idiot!" Spat Wilhelm angrily. "Get up, you imbecile. I need to get to a hospital, and I can't leave you here, as much as I want to!"

"Mmmhm." Replied Freddy, as he stumbled to his feet, while Wilhelm's guards helped him to his.

"You, take the idiots car, and get him home. The last thing Father will need is a scandal on his hands." Hissed Wilhelm. "Again."

Nodding, the agent moved away, steering Freddy to the car while also grabbing the princes keys from. His pocket. Once the younger prince was in, they drove off into the night, to the sound of loud swing.

Gritting his teeth, Wilhelm got into the back seat of his son vehicle, as the calming sounds of classical music came on. Without a second to lose, the white sportscar pulled out of the bar, and headed back into the busy night in Berlin, as a cigarette butt fell from the sky, landing in the garbage behind the Dicke Frau.

Mr. Smith stood before an older building near the waterfront in Odessa eyeing the Rhodesian flag that had been hung from just above the doorway. The building was an older one, though like every other building in this part of the city, it had suffered damage from fighting over the years. The area in which he stood had once been a thriving tourist destination but now, with the war and regional instability, it was over run with Russian Refugees. Where some saw chaos, Smith had seen opportunity, an opportunity that had not presented itself in his lifetime with the Foreign Office. He had been directed to find white folk to settle in Rhodesia and while the Russians were hardly of Anglo-Saxon stock, they could certainly make a big difference. It was an opportunity it would be a shame to miss.

The windows next to the door had been partially covered in placards that showed rolling Savannah, beautiful mountainscapes, rolling fields, and ocean vistas. Each sign read, "Peace, Stability, Life, Rhodesia", in big bold font, alternating between Russian, Ukrainian and English. It was early, the sun barely touching the tops of the surrounding buildings but already a small line had formed.

Desperate people in desperate times made for interesting applicants and though not a single one had actually been seen by the staff inside, Smith already knew which would be rejected. There were young, old, male, female, injured, infirm, strong and bright eyed. With hundreds of thousands displaced and pouring into the Ukraine, the Rhodesians would be able to take their pick of the best and brightest. They would take no more than 10,000, all of them under the age of 30 unless they had badly needed skills. Those like Doctors, Engineers, or others with valuable skills, would be welcome if they were not over 50.

Smith excused himself past the slowly growing crowd and stepped into the cool interior of the building. The huge windows that faced the street were allowing light to stream in to the mostly empty space. Six desks had been arranged in a line near the back wall with expectant looking clerks behind them, half of them black. Part of the application would be seeing how the applicants responded to having to deal with a black person. Rhodesia, despite its policies, did not want people who could not get along with the majority of the population.

Behind each desk stood two men or women in Rhodesian uniform, though they were not armed, that would hardly fly on foreign soil, and one Ukrainian police officer, lured in by the promise of double wages for a days work during their time off. Several others were out on the street to maintain order if required. Smith did not believe there would be trouble, but then again, he was always prepared. The local Police Commander had been given a "gift" to ensure there would be no issues and the city permit people had quickly cut through any red tape for the building when offered a hundred pound.

"Everyone ready?" He asked the assembled group. The Ukrainians nodded, as did the Rhodesian soldiers. The clerks, their desks piled high with applications for the hopeful refugees gave a thumbs up and grinned. "Good. Here we go."

He turned back to the doors and pushed them open, taking a moment to prop them open on either side, allowing the fresh spring air to flow into the musty building interior. The line, doubled in size since he had gone inside, took a shuddering pace forward, and he smiled, waving the first ones inside.

"Welcome! Welcome!" He repeated the phrase over and over again in his broken Russian as people streamed past him. They queued up quietly enough in small groups or with their families, the look of hope on their face almost pathetic to behold. Many had everything they owned with them, which was not much.

Slowly the lines moved forward, each individual completing their document with the assistance of the Ukrainian translators, or the two Rhodesians who knew Russian from their overseas studies. Once the document was completed it was carefully filed into a manila envelope which went into a brown box to be carried away by one of the Rhodesian soldiers behind the desk.

Those forms, two pages in total, asked for basic information such as age, sex, weight, height, occupation, education, family, etc. Each box ticked was worth a certain number of points, or in some cases, immediate disqualification from the process, though the applicant would not know it yet. Smith would have had to have a heart of stone not to feel for the old couples that shuffled forward together to fill out the paperwork, the glimmer of hope in their eyes hopeless before they even arrived. They would leave with many a "thank you" and a bow, chatting amiably, not knowing that they had already been rejected.

The day ground on as hundreds of hopefuls made their way down to the building, flowing in and out again like the tide. Smith watched it all happen from a corner of the big room where he had his own desk. Only the very skilled immigrants were sent to him and, at this point, only a half dozen had been worth the time he needed to invest in them. Still, plenty of young folks had come through and that was worth something.

He stretched his long legs under the desk and beckoned the next man forward, his wife and two kids in tow.

San Francisco

“Our political systems have become corrupted. Capitalism and its greed has led to desperate economic times across the world, and capitalism continues to taint our democracy. Look no further than the election of last year.”

The guest speaker continued on about all that crony capitalism had done to get Al Smith elected, but Laura wasn’t listening. Instead, she stared at the newcomer sitting across the room. It wasn’t strange to see new faces at the meeting. In the three years she’d been coming, the attendance of the California Worker’s Party steadily climbed as the Depression dragged on and showed the follies of the current economic system. There were a half dozen people when Laura first started, that number had tripled until they had to rent bigger and bigger spaces for their weekly meetings.

No, it wasn’t that the man in the chair was new; it was that he was entirely out of place. His black pinstripe suit and fedora were new, whereas many of the people in the room had clothing that was clearly old and worn. He sat in his wooden chair stretched out like he owned the place, a soft smile on his handsome olive face. He didn’t at all look like a man who had any interest in radical ideas, but yet here he was.

After the meeting, Laura found him chatting with another man who was new.

“Hi,” she said to the two of them. “I’m Laura Patterson. Party secretary.”

“Anthony Jordan,” the other newcomer said with a smile.

“I’m Vic,” the swarthy man replied.

“What brings the two of you here?” she asked as politely as she could.

“I got laid off from PC Bell,” said Jordan. “Been struggling for months. I just… I’m looking for answers.”

“Yeah, what he said,” said Vic. “Answers.”

The three made idle chit chat before Jordan excused himself. Laura looked at Vic and smiled.

“So, what did you think of Mister Bromowitz?” asked Laura.

“He had a lot of ideas,” replied Vic. “Not much in the way of answers.”

She gave him a forced little smile. “Well, we have to educate people on the problems with the system before solutions can be reached.”

Vic laughed. “Yeah and while you talk until you’re blue in the face, the enemy is out there winning the war. While you’re enlightening, they’re buying politicians. While you debate, they conquer. Comes a time when you put the talk away and get to work.”

“You sound like you have all the big ideas,” Laura said coolly. “You talk tough, but you dress like a banker.”

“Yeah,” Vic said with a grin. “I dress like one, but I'm about as far from a banker as you can get. Here—“

He reached into his jacket pocket and passed an envelope to Laura. It was heavy and when she opened it up, she saw a fat stack of hundred dollar bills.

“What in the—“

“It’s a gift,” he said softly. “Give it to the party treasurer. Use it for bail money when protesters get locked up, pay for whatever the party needs, buy guns for all I care. It’s yours. Do with it what you will.”

Laura looked at Vic with uncertainty. He kept flashing that toothy smile. Plenty of people wanted to help, but very few could contribute like this. The party attracted the poor and downtrodden, not men in flashy suits who carried large bankrolls. People like that had no need for radical ideas.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“A friend of the cause,” he said with a wink. “Someone who wants to make a difference. Let’s leave it at that, comrade secretary.”

---


Brentwood
3:31 AM

Jessica Hyatt was in heaven. Over a dozen people talked amongst themselves in the den that was lushly decorated with plump, crimson settees and chintz chairs. Penelope talked nonstop about politics with one of the men that had escorted her to the Harvey Edwards show. Up close, Jessica recognized him as Raymond Hollister, the movie star.

The introductions had been fast and furious. Everyone in the little coterie was someone that had influence in LA. Lawyers, entertainment people, and even a few doctors were among those chatting about socialism and the Lost Cause of the West. They all had been at the concert earlier in the evening and broke out in applause when Jessica entered the house in Penelope’s wake.

Currently, Jessica stood on the edges of the group with a drink in one hand and a soft smile on her face as she watched the goings on.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

She turned around and saw a man watching her. He was on the shorter side, just a few inches taller than her, and heavyset with prematurely gray hair. Even in the dim lighting he wore a pair of dark sunglasses. He cradled a pipe in his large hands.

“Just admiring from a distance,” she said with the same smile on her face. “I admire their passion and their insights.”

“It’s quicksilver,” the man said after a puff on his pipe. “Or perhaps, quicksand. What they’re talking about, I mean. Lamenting the poor socialists republics, weeping for the cause that never stood a chance.”

Jessica raised an eyebrow. “You’re not a fan, mister…”

“Roy Abercrombie,” he said gruffly. “And I was a fan, missy. A whole hearted supporter, as much as a man who is 4F can be. But I saw the in-fighting and the squabbling over men and material. Meanwhile, MacArthur – and Long, to a lesser extent -- could run roughshod because they didn’t give a damn about things like sovereignty or rule of law. The thing that will always separate the dreamers from the doers is that basic human respect.”

“I think that’s horribly cynical,” replied Jessica. “You’re suggesting the only way for the west to have won was to install a dictator like MacArthur, when MacArthur is exactly what they were fighting against. Then they lose the war if they do that.”

“Another thing separating the dreamers from the doers,” Abercrombie said smugly. “While the dreamers settle for moral victories, the doers settle for real victories.”

Jessica was about to interject when she was stopped short by a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“I see you’ve met Roy,” Penelope said with a smile. “Proof that even groups like this have contrarians in their midst.”

Abercrombie shrugged. “I’m sorry, Pen. The deification of the west is a bugaboo with me. I’m just letting some of our younger friends know the truth.”

“Thank you for your service, Roy.”

Penelope placed her hand on Jessica’s elbow and slowly led her away. She navigated them through the party and towards a staircase at the
back of the den.

“Roy directs films,” said Penelope. “So, naturally he thinks his opinions and insights are solid gold.”

“I recognize the name,” Jessica said once they were on the stairs. “He does westerns.”

“So clearly he is the authority on politics and government.”

Penelope led them to a bedroom. Jessica figured it had to be the master bedroom of the house. Like the furniture in the den, everything here was crimson. Crimson sheets on the bed, crimson curtains in the window, a plush crimson carpet underfoot. On the wall were pictures of a woman with short hair. Not exactly pictures, but more like stills from a movie.

“La Passion de Jeanne d'Arc,” Jessica said in perfect French. “The Passion of Joan of Arc.”

Penelope’s eyes brightened. “You know it?”

“Of course,” she said softly. “It was my mother’s favorite movie.”

“It’s funny,” Penelope said with a chuckle. “The movie was made to rally French nationalism after the Great War, but then it eventually becomes co-opted by the leftists. The great subversive movie that is still banned in America to this day.”
Jessica looked from the still to Penelope. The short hair she wore was a perfect match for the actress playing Joan.

“It’s a film about a martyr,” said Jessica. “For a cause where everyone is a would-be martyr, it’s powerful stuff.”

She flashed a smile. It was a warm thing that made Jessica’s back tingle.“You sound as cynical as old Roy downstairs.”

“Just an insight, devoid of bias.”

Penelope inched closer. “Well, what else can you tell me, Jessica? What about me?”

Jessica paused. She was unsure, but Penelope nodded and gave her a reassuring smile.

“I think there’s a reason you model your hair after Joan of Arc, the same reason you host Hollywood elite in secret parties that are filled with subversive thoughts, the same reason you go to a concert being watched by the Pinkertons and happily get your picture taken.”
Penelope leaned in. They were so close, Jessica could feel the woman’s breath on her face. It was sweet, the same scent as her perfume.
“You’re a provocateur. Agitation is your identity. Whoever, whatever you were before the cause is gone. You live, breath, and sleep the cause because it is your identity. If you’re not causing trouble, then you’re not the person you want to be. If you’re not hosting these meetings, then you’re left alone with just yourself, stripped away from that identity. Whoever that person inside of you is, you can’t stand her so you fight for an unwinnable cause to avoid thinking about her, to avoid becoming her again. Because, if you do become that horrible, selfish person again, you couldn’t live.”

Jessica could see tears forming in her eyes. They threatened to spill out.

“How do you know me so well?”

Jessica leaned in, her lips parted and her eyes closed.

“Because I’m the same damn person.”

They kissed, long and hard. When they were finished, Penelope took Jessica by the hand and led the two of them to her big bed with the crimson sheets.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
June 12th: The Nabakazi River Bottoms, Swahili People's Republic
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

James Lutalo sat stonily in the passenger's seat of an open top Landrover, his sunglasses making the surrounding swampland look shadowed as if by an eclipse. A convoy of the same vehicles followed, loaded with Communist warriors, their firearms in hand or hanging about their bodies by the straps. It'd taken some time for Lutalo to get home from Addis Ababa and put Kampala back together after the horseback raid by their enemies. Only now could he respond in kind with furious retribution.

The roads were muddy, slowing them down. Rain washed away the enemy's trail, but Lutalo knew who had attacked his people. The King of Buganda was not so bold, and the Freedom Army of God were far to the north lighting their crosses and killing so-called deviants. A raid so daring was the mark of Marcel Hondo-Demissie, who lorded over his Watu wa Uhuru, self described Anarchists, from Fort Portal.

There were no such thing as anarchists. He didn't know what Marx had to say, or any other Communist writer, but he knew that people respected power. Maybe someday there would be a socialist utopia, but in the modern world somebody had to wield the mighty power of the state in the name of the people. Wasn't that Hou's essential philosophy? So what was an Anarchist but a usurper, a modern-day pretender to the throne, wielding a subtle claim to sway the desperate? For the sake of peace and prosperity, Marcel had to be crushed.

But to catch a trickster hare would be easier.

The mere mention of the name "Marcel Hondo-Demissie" made soldiers nervous. They called him a ghost, or a sorcerer, imagining his tricks as supernatural acts. A few miles back, a nervous soldier had taken a random shot at a tree, convinced it had blinked at him, as if Marcel could command the very foliage.

Smoke rose above the forest somewhere in front. Another trick? His driver slowed down, looking at him for answers, visibly afraid. Lutalo held his hand out, "No No, keep going". They did, but everybody was visibly on edge, their rifles ready to fire.

They came around a bend where the dirt road angled down the bluff to a ford on the river, the turn masked by thick swamp growth. Breaks rasped as they slowed down their descent, moving at a creep. The smoke was coming from the ford. Everybody knew to expect something. But what?

Three open Landrovers blocked the road. The bed of the one in the middle held a roaring fire, whatever had fed it already blackened past recognizability. They stopped, just for a moment. Lutalo felt the fear. He jumped out, took out his pistol, and prepared to face that fear, but behind his sunglasses his eyes were wide.

The Anarchists popped up, only three or four men hiding behind the trucks, and opened fire with Tommy Guns. The Communists cleared into the bushes for cover. A firefight ensued. He'd seen the Anarchists wearing faded blue. They were Force Socialiste. Marcel was originally from the Congo, an Askari who lead a rebellion against the Belgians and fled into the jungles. The Force Socialiste were the men who came with him. They were hardened soldiers, but a small handful couldn't take on all the men Lutalo brought with him. This wasn't a trick. It was a stalling tactic.

Lutalo moved forward through the brush. Bullets sliced through green undergrowth. One struck the shoulder piece of his breastplate. He felt it like a punch, but it did not penetrate, and he recovered. "Get back!" he heard someone in his ear. "We need you! Get back!" He would not be a coward. He emptied a magazine and slammed in another. "Retreat" he heard one of his people calling. Were they that easily spooked? He wouldn't have it said that so few men had sent him running. He turned to rally his men, and was confused to see one of his Communist warriors attacking a shrub.

He was stunned when he saw that the shrub fighting back. Gunfire was coming from all over. Lutalo aimed at the warrior plant and shot it. Bright red blood exploded across its leaves. Even Supernatural trees don't bleed blood. Lutalo sprinted over to the collapsed shrub and saw that it had the face of a man. Leafy branches were tied to his body, and his face was smeared with green paste.

An Anarchist Tree-man charged at him with a machete, ululating a bloodcurdling cry as the leaves tied to him rustled like paper. Lutalo shot him point-blank, hitting him in the stomach, causing him to fall over bleeding into the mud. Lutalo picked up the man's machete and drove it into the cleft in the back of his skull. Blood dripped from the weapon like syrup.

"We need to go!" His driver came to him. The man was caked in mud and blood. "We don't know how many there are!" Somewhere in the back of the caravan, communists piled into the back of a Landrover and sped off, abandoning their comrades. This wasn't a battle anymore, it was a brawl. The Force Socialiste were still pouring lead across the road, but slower now that their camouflaged allies had closed in. Trees fired rifles from the bushes.

Lutalo nodded. His driver loaded him into back of a gore drenched landrover. The engine turned, and a tree started toward them. Lutalo shot it. A spatter of automatic fire shattered the windshield. The vehicle struggled to get traction, but one tire was on the dry ground above the road, and the car jerked that direction into the foliage. They barreled down the road, away from the fighting. A communist warrior jumped on board. The battle had devolved into a rout. Gunfire continued behind them like a foreboding thunder.

Florence had left the city just before dawn, the early morning air sharp and cool as she drove her Royal Enfield Bullet motorcycle down the tree lined avenues of the Rhodesian capital. The sweet smells of fragrant Indian Bauhinias, the wide spreading Croton, the Giant Eucalyptus, vivid red Flamboyants, and the magnificent Jacaranda trees were thick at this hour and she gloried in them. She wore a black leather jacket, tight blue jeans, and faceless motorbike helmet. On her back she carried a small backpack with her camera, a notebook, a couple of chocolate bars, and a change of clothes.

Even at that early hour the city was alive with people and vehicles as delivery drivers, newspaper boys, police cruisers, buses, and taxis hurried about the neatly maintained streets. City workers moved about purposefully, emptying garbage and recycling bins, working diligently to tidy up small parks and, in one case, replacing a large power transformer.

It took her nearly thirty minutes of traffic lights, dodging pedlars with their wares, and zipping through the increasingly heavy traffic, to reach the edge of the city as houses gave way to rural acreages and farmland. Traffic lightened up even more out here and Florence brought her bike up in speed, racing along the highway, properly paved within the last ten years.

Her destination was an hour outside the city and she heard it long before she saw it as a pair of Submarine Spitfire's roared overhead, their massive Rolls Royce engines drowning out the sound of the bike beneath her. She watched them as they climbed away to the north east, racing into the early morning sunrise until she could see them no longer. Part of her wished she had become a pilot. To be able to travel at more than 500 kilometres an hour would be an incredible rush.

A guard tower appeared on her left, standing at the corner of a tall barbed wire fence that ran West and South, mostly hidden by small shrubs that attempted to make the place look less like a military base. Buildings began to appear as well, she could just make out the curved roof of hangers and the more blocky outline of barracks. Again she was struck by how African everything looked. Many places, like German Cameroon, had done their level best to maintain their colonial roots with building styles and art. The Rhodesians on the other hand considered themselves African and showed it in their choice of local style.

She turned into the entrance of the Salisbury Airforce Base, a sign next to the roadway proclaiming that it had been established in 1921. A gate, as well as a pop up barricade, blocked the road, small glass enclosed guardhouses on either side manned by RSF soldiers. She drew up next to one just as a gust of wind brought the reek of gasoline to her nose from the airfield beyond.

"Hello!" She said with a large smile, pulling off her helmet so that the man could see her face. He brightened visibly when she did so, few men could resist a pretty girl. "I am here to meet with Major Redeker. The name is Florence Chideya, from National Geographic Magazine."

The soldier glanced down at the paper in front of him and then returned her smile. "Yep, you're the only Journalist expected on the base today. Here," He handed her a small green badge with a "P" on it. "That will get your access to the base, just make sure you don't leave the green zone without an escort." He gestured to the tarmac where she could see a green line painted on the pavement. "If you do, you'll be shot." He said the words without any implied threat, which made them all that more sincere.

She thanked him, clipped the badge onto her jacket lapel and waited while the security barriers were moved. The soldier waved her through, pointing her towards a two story building with a pair of Rhodesian flags out front flapping lazily in the light wind. White Security Forces Land Rovers were parked neatly nearby and, as she drove slowly toward the building, she could see a row of Spitfires parked across the runway. Closer to her, their long cigar shaped bodies swarming with mechanics, were a half dozen transport aircraft painted a drab green. The hangers behind them appeared to be busy with movement but she could not make out what was happening from this distance.

A single Mosquito fighter bomber was idling nearby as she drew up to the command building and shut down her motorcycle. As she swung out of the seat a figure dropped from the wing of the Mosquito and jogged across the tarmac toward her. Major Frazer Redeker was dressed in a standard blue jumpsuit and brown flying hood, pockets bulging with various items, a semi-automatic pistol on his hip. He smiled as she walked towards him.

"Hello Florence! Right on time. Are you ready to go? Need some water? Quick bathroom break? We'll be up for the better part of an hour." He shook her hand, gesturing to the command building.

"Thanks for having me, and no, thank you. I should be okay for an hour." She laughed, the excitement building in her as she walked toward the aircraft. The two big twin engines were turning slowly, the rumble of them evident as the air vibrated around her. She was admiring the craft, looking it over, when it occurred to her that it had no guns on it. "Don't these usually have cannons or something on them?"

"They do." Redeker said with a nod. "But this is a reconnaissance plane. All we have onboard today are cameras." He showed her the large camera built into the nose, and the two in the wings, ensuring they kept a wide berth of the still turning propeller blades. "It allows us to carry more fuel if we want, and fly faster." He had to shout to be heard over the engines now.

A ground crewman had carried a short step ladder forward and Florence thanked him as she climbed up onto the wing of the aircraft with Redeker. The cockpit was a tight space and she put her bag behind the seat as she climbed across the pilots chair and dropped into the second seat. Redeker climbed in after her and slid into his own seat with practiced ease. Florence was immediately conscious of his leg pressed against hers. It might have made her uncomfortable but he did not seem to notice and she was determined not to make things weird.

"Ready to roll?" He shouted, his teeth flashing into the dazzling smile she had seen three months before.

She nodded as she pulled on the flying helmet that sat in front of her. It did very little to dampen the sound of the twin engines but she suddenly she could hear his voice over the radio.

"Tower this is Redeker. I have one Journalist on board. Looking to blow this popsicle stand, over."

"Redeker this is tower. Reading you five by five Major. You are cleared for take off. Stay safe out there, over."

"Roger that tower, Redeker out."

He glanced at her and she flashed him a smile and a thumbs up. She could feel her gut churning a bit as she looked down the long run way. It had been a while since she'd been any airplane this small and the whole plane seemed to be vibrating with the power of the engines, almost as if it was as excited to get going as she was.

Redeker pushed the throttles forward slowly and she felt, as much as heard, the huge engines begin to claw at the air. They began to pick up speed and the aircraft nose dropped so that she had an inhibited view of the long runway. Trees and fence flashed by on the left, hangers and lines of aircraft to her right. The big cargo planes she had seen were now idling as well and she could see lines of soldiers beginning to board each of them. That was when she realized where she had seen them before. They were carrying paratroopers. A sudden reminder that the Bush War was not over and men still fought and died in the jungles to the north.

Redeker began to pull back on the control column and the Mosquito leapt into the sky as he worked the landing gear pump until she could feel a thud as they slammed home into the fuselage of the aircraft. The feeling in her stomach was replaced by joy as the world feel away beneath them and she could see all of Rhodesia spreading out beneath her. The highway she had come in on was steadily getting busier and in the distance she could see the light flashing off the sky scrapers of Salisbury as the sun cleared the low hanging morning clouds to the East.

She gave Redeker another thumbs up and he winked as he banked the Mosquito to the north.

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June 12th: Mek'ele, Tigray Province
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Ras Wolde Petros Mikael sat in the back of a staff car as it climbed the switch-backs up Mount Choma'a on the east side of Tigray's provincial capital. They passed men making the same painful route on foot, and on the back of mules. Mount Choma'a was a plateau, its elevation mostly in the steep rise facing the city. On top was a festival ground used on religious holidays. Behind that was Choma'a Airforce Base. Wolde Petros remained stiff and silent, draped in the robes and shamma of an Ethiopian nobleman.

The car struggled up the hill. It was an Austrian model, a 1945 Straßenmeister. It was made for city driving, not climbing up mountains, and the engine howled with all its strength until it reached the top.

Choma'a airforce base appeared from far away like a collection of large hangers and warehouses cut out of the shallow rise to the pinnacle of the mountain. A swinging gate blocked the way in, watched by a guardhouse. The driver flashed their credentials and they were let in. From here Ras Wolde Petros saw his first airplane of the day; a British made Sopwith Goat, a bulky fighter with a pinched nose that looked like the radiator on an old car. It was painted in the fashion of the Ethiopian airforce, which is to say it was painted artfully, with the colors of a jungle at sun set covering most of the plane, and a pouncing leopard filling both sides of the fuselage, though the paint on this plane had faded and was beginning to peal.

He was greeted in front of a closed Hangar by Meridazmach Zekiros Argaw. The Meridazmach was Defense Minister and marshal of Ethiopia's standing military. He was a middle aged man who'd been a teenage volunteer during the waning days of the Great War. Now he represented the new order; a non-noble, career soldier, paid in wages rather then land.

"Ras Wolde Petros" Zekiros shook his hand. He wore a military dress uniform. "We're only waiting on Ras Giyorgis now."

"He's late."

"We'll give him a moment."

"How bad is this thing in the Semien?"

"Confusing." Zekiros shrugged, "The government there is being quiet. I've heard this group had declared themselves democrats. I know there has been some cattle rustling. Not much more then that."

"The Mesfin isn't cooperating?"

"If he was cooperating, this thing would have been over now. I tell you, I do not know what Issayas Seme has to gain from being stubborn, but it makes me wonder."

"Me too." Wolde Petros said. Both men saw another car enter the gate and assumed it was the Tigray Mekonnen. They saw there were right when a familiar middle aged man with a greying chinstrap beard hobbled out of the car and came to greet them. The Tigray Mekonnen was the historical title of the rulers of Tigray, the most ancient province of Ethiopia and homeland of classical Aksum. He was Ras Giyorgis Temare Mengesha, one of the last feudal rulers in Ethiopia along with Wolde Petros, his family having vacillated during the 1916 war until it was clear who was going to win, joining the side of the winners during the mop up. Ras Giyorgis's aristocratic credentials included his great grandfather on the male line, the Emperor Yohannes IV, who died in battle fighting the Muslims a century before.

The three men greeted each other. Wolde Petros was the youngest, Zekiros the oldest. They went together around the the hangers and onto the Tarmac, where the patch-work Ethiopian air force was on full display. Zekiros knew where to go, and the two noblemen followed.

They met under the wing of a KK Zorya Polunoshnaya, a sleek Russian fighter constructed by Khil-Kobets. The artwork on this one was different from the others, showing a skull blooming from a flower in a colorful mix of flames and plants. The entire plane was painted this way except for the cockpit glass and the propellers. The man that greeted them wore a leather pilots jacket and a close cut mustache. They greeted each other with niceties and handshakes.

"Have you met Ras Wolde Petros?" Zekiros asked.

"Of course." the pilot said in heavily accented Amharic, "Many times. What can I do for you all?" This was Hector Santareál, born in Cuba, who came to Ethiopia because of his African heritage, wanting to see a Black African power thrive on the world stage. He'd been a ranking officer in the Cuban air force before he resigned and crossed the sea. Before his arrival, Ethiopia didn't have a real air force, but rather kept their planes in arsenals with the rest of their arms, given haphazardly to pilots by army commanders. Santareál invented the air corp. It was his pride and joy.

They sat on fold-out stools in the shade of the Zorya Polunoshnaya's wing, brought to them at the insistence of Santareál. "What's can I do for you, amigos?"

"Do you know of the problem in the Semien?" Zekiros asked.

Hector shifted. "Shiftas? Are those just bored kids, or are we looking at the real deal?"

Ras Giyorgis spoke up. "They are weak, but they are doing too well. News has came that they murdered a bunch of settlers in the hills. Gunfight. Settlers protecting their land."

"Communists?"

"Liberals." Giyorgis sniffed, "But it amount to the same thing. Trouble making."

"I agree." Ras Wolde Petros said, "We must put them down. It is the job of the Mesfin of Begmeder to act, but he hasn't. Issayas Seme stays quiet."

"Is this not what a professional army is for?" Giyorgis added.

It was Zekiros' turn to speak. They all looked at him, expecting something. "I am more than willing to commit the armed forces, but I don't want it said that Zekiros was so spooked that he sent the entire army after a few mountain bandits."

"Then we will have to." Wolde Petros said. Giyorgis straightened up and nodded, signalling his agreement. Before they could continue speaking, they had to pause, as an airplane was landing nearby. It was a fighter purchased from the Germans, a Fokker As, painted to look like an eagle. When it'd landed and the engine was cut, they continued to talk.

"And I will be fine with that." Zekiros said.

"Really?" Wolde Petros was surprised. "Is the Imperial Government not worried about Mesfins abusing their right to organize militias? If Ras Giyorgis and myself organize our retainers and go over into Begmeder, isn't that breaking the law?"

"The Imperial Army invading a province is also breaking the law. The law says the Mesfin of Begmeder is supposed to handle the policing of his own province. Fine. Where is he? We will have to break the law to finish this rebellion. Do we want to drag his majesty into it? Military occupation? Boots on the ground? No. There is scandal, and there is crisis. We need this thing done quickly, then we can quash the scandal in the courts."

"I can't promise a quick end." Wolde Petros said. "The Semien mountains are wild."

"I agree. I cannot give you boots on the ground. But I can give you something else."

In the distance, another fighter came in to land, its engine rumbling deep and low.

---

Johann Francoise looked over the greenies of the newly minted 3^rd Company, 2^nd Battalion, 1^st Regiment. They had been dropped off by plane, marching out in neat ranks into the warzone. The first man was shot in the head by a Traditionalist sniper and they spread out like headless chickens. He had yelled at them, waving them over away from the airstrip from the safety of the cave. The strip was always a target for Traditionalists and as the Green Company ran over to him, they were being shot at from both sides. By the last man, two corpses lay under the harsh sun. The company's sullen faces at their comrades were obvious and he let them grieve for a little bit. They wouldn't have any chance to once they entered the mines. After a few somber seconds, the tall Frenchman cleared his throat and the Greens, as a whole, turned towards him with curious if solemn eyes. They all looked so young, innocent even. Some of them coudn't have been older than 16 at the most and he was about to introduce most to their graves.

"Good morning 3^rd Company! I am Master Sergeant Francoise, leader of your company and the man leading your briefing this fair morning." The company was silent, like they were trapped under some sort of spell. They were in an incredibly large cave with sentries guarding the entrance, not daring to step outside however. Two Renault M35s faced the entrance, their crews maintaining them and checking over the systems. Several other groups were moving within the cave, from fireteam to battalion it was like a hive of activity. Several tunnels, both man-made and natural, led out of the cave into the mine complex or the town itself. Soldiers disappeared into the dark tunnels or emerged out of them, covered in dust and often carrying wounded with them. "Your role here is to reinforce the rest of the 1^st Regiment in defending the iron mines of Garet Djibelet."

A lieutenant raised his hand and Francoise waved for him to talk. "Aren't we supposed to be reinforcing the regiment in defending the town itself, Sergea?"

The Frenchman took on a grim expression and shook his head. "As of 0430 yesterday, the town of Garet Djibelet has fallen. The mines are our objective now and we will not lose another inch of ground." He let that sink in before continuing "This is Six Cave, the only cave that leads in and out of the mines that we control. We are in the process of taking Four Cave but the other caves are off limits, the Tradies have blocked them off with explosives. This is hub central and all of the tunnels lead to Six Cave. It is the most important place in this damn mine complex and our lifeline. Unfortunately, we will not be guarding Six Cave like these lazy tankers." He heard jeering from the offended group but ignored them. Tankers were always crass and rude, especially when they feel useless. A Renault trying to fit into a mine tunnel? Very few of them allowed for that. Most of the armour were leading the convoys of troops in and out to reach X-ray and Tindouf. Except for the tankers who were unfortunate enough to be left in permanent guard duty.

"You will be fighting in the tunnels in platoon sections. This is CQC fighting but we will not be tolerating friendly fire. Identify your target before you shoot them, simple as that. Any man or woman found taking shots at our guys and you will be going home in a coffin. Too many soldiers have died from friendly fire and those bodies could have been used to defend this place. Due to the close quarters, 39ers to the front like you were trained, bayonets affixed as soon as you enter these mines. Some tunnels can allow for a dozen men to stand shoulder to shoulder but others will make you crawl. It will be constricting but you've all been screened for it so if you're claustrophobic, you might be the stupidest son of a bitch I know. If you're afraid of the dark, you've been issued lights to be strapped on to your shoulder. Do not lose it and use it only when you're going down a particularly dark tunnel. Let your eyes adjust to the dark first or you'll be lit up by some trigger-finger newbie who shoots at the light."

The sergeant continued as the company took the lights out from their large turtleback packs and fixed it to their uniform. “Before you enter, you have to lose those packs or you will be too slow. Bring your smaller bags with a day’s rations and your water plus the other necessities. Leave the rest of your equipment here and your sergeants will deal with organizing it in a pile. Hurry it up, you’re needed here! Platoon leaders to me.” Five men and women stepped forward as the rest of the company started taking their large packs off. Francoise waved them over until they were close enough, looking at each junior officer in the eye. Four women and one man, two freshies and three veterans. He could tell from their grim expressions that the three women had fought in real battles before. The other two were too jumpy, bright and polished. Everything about them screamed “academy”. Still, he took his time assessing each lieutenant as the sounds of shouting NCOs filled the air. Looking past them, he took on a blank look. “Most of your soldiers will die.”

They were taken aback by the apathy in his tone but slowly accepted the truth in his words, the freshies more reluctantly than the others. They were all briefed before Francoise’ own, a lot more grim and detailed than what the infantry were given. They knew the death count and the horrifying conditions they were about to get into. The casualty rate amongst veterans coming home from Garet Djibelet was the highest in Tindouf. Among homecoming soldiers, many of them lost limbs and organs due to explosives and CQC melee. It was a brutal slog to try and fight through the mines, a hellish battlefield filled with nasty surprises and people who want to kill you. There was an uncountable amount of soldiers who have been buried alive since the fighting went deeper into the mine complexes. A company never came out of the mines as fully functioning. They were always understrength and filled with shocked survivors. The normal soldier wasn’t told this information before conscripting, they were kept from the truth to boost morale. They were going to learn soon enough anyways.

Francoise let them calm down before continuing. “Keep your platoons tight, maintain order. Split them into their squads and keep the 39ers at point, let their training take the rest. Do not charge in first, you cannot die out there. Officers who can lead their soldiers effectively will do so from behind. Use your orders wisely and be mindful of improvised explosives, cycle out different explosive specialists when defusing them but when they become scarce, your other soldiers should suffice for smaller explosives. Watch out for the chemicals and at these areas in red,” he handed out several maps of the tunnels with some tunnels marked in red “gas masks are to be worn at all times. Gas leaks are common and can kill more of your soldiers than a Traditionalist with a gun can. Hand out your spare maps to your sergeants and brief them like I have briefed you. Do not let anyone below that rank know about the casualty rate. It will cause a panic among the ranks. Keep your soldiers as fresh as possible and do not be afraid of retreat.”

The Captain put a hand on the nearest lieutenant’s shoulder, trying to improve their moods. “Follow my advice and I assure you, by Allah that your guys and gals will be fine.” He put a fake grin on his face, weakly boosting the atmosphere in the air. The freshies gave their own weak smiles of reassurance while the veterans nodded. He gave them further orders and dismissed them, looking back at the rest of his men. Five piles of gear were lined up in front of them. The spare rations were to be given to the hungry while the rest of it was going to be stored here. The lieutenants gathered their sergeants as Francoise got the attention of the rest of his men. “Okay boys and girls, welcome to your first warzone! Prep yourselves, we’re splitting into platoons and amassing at the intersection at the end of Tunnel 20. Your lieutenants will be briefing you on the way, 5^th Platoon stay here. Dismissed!”

They dispersed in an orderly fashion, a fresh female lieutenant standing at ease with her green platoon. Francoise looked up to them and nodded at the woman known as Boukharouba. He waved them to relax and ordered 39ers to the front, also telling the 36ers and LMG-man to fix bayonets. He put them in a double file line with him and the lieutenant in the middle behind the last pair of 39ers. He gave a map to the 39er Sergeant at the front, telling him of the large distances they needed to cover and the amount of enemy contact they were to expect. With reassuring grins to each soldier, he set them off with unease creeping at the back of his mind. This was to be a standard intersection meet, so why was he feeling this unnerving feeling?

---

“Cover! Enemy Tradies in fro-“ The sound of squelching flesh put the platoon into action, clamoring to the sides of the tunnel to find cover in stone outcroppings and forgotten mine equipment. Bullets pelted their position, finding both flesh and stone. Shouts from the front warned the rest of the platoon, finding cover and turning off their safeties. The chaos of the first firefight was a nightmare for all officers as Francoise rallied his soldiers to fire back. Trained to be fearless, the 39ers fired back first as the 36ers followed soon after. Looking for the LMG-man, he found a corpse with several holes in it, an FM 24/29 uselessly strapped to its back. He cursed himself as a round took a chunk of rock out of his cover, rocks scratching his cheek. He ducked down as rounds flew where his head once was. He looked around for the lieutenant and landed on a whimpering woman sitting behind some mining equipment. He had fought with equal amounts of fierce men and women in his life, both officer and soldier but he was disappointed by the veteran before him. She showed clear signs of trauma and shock. They sent a broken lieutenant into the battlefield to lead green soldiers into battle. This would not do.

“Lieutenant! Ma’am, what are your orders?!” The Frenchman shouted at her, trying to gain her attention. She kept shivering, holding her knees to her body as if to keep warmth. She mouthed ”alab” with her lips, staring blankly at the ground the Traditionalists fired back. He picked up a pebble and threw it at her head. She turned towards him and the emptiness in her eyes startled him. She was a disability, why was she here?

Soldier for life. That was the Algerian military motto. He sneered in disgust as he looked at the pitiful woman. There was protocol for such an occurrence, where the superior officer has stopped functioning in the middle of battle. He raised his rifle and fired, Boukharouba’s brains splattering against the wall. He sighed and tried to take command before being rudely interrupted by loud screaming. A foolish man who he did not know the name of picked up the FM 24/29 and started firing from the hip. Clearly not trained, some of the bullets went stray and hit a corporal tending to a wounded man. He screamed from the top of his lungs as he kept his finger firmly pressed down on the trigger. Several bullets pierced through his torso and head, dropping to the ground. These shots were much to accurate for some useless insurgent, a farmer who would’ve touched a guna few times in the head. He stared at the casings on the ground. These weren’t rusted, they were fresh.

Francoise stood to his feet and waved his arms, shouting at the top of his lungs “CEASE FIRE! CEASE FIRE YOU BUNCH OF IDIOTS WE’RE FRIENDLY! ALGERIAN MILITARY MASTER SERGEANT FRANCOISE!”

The gunfire halted on both sides. A small “oh” was heard from the other side. Francoise groaned. Joining the Algerians might have been the worst decision he could have made.

Yerevan, Armenia

Elections were logistically-heavy operations. For months, electoral committees studied census data to determine the intricate distribution of ballots and voting stations amongst Armenian communities. From the biggest cities to the smallest mountain towns, all the way out to flying seaplanes to collect absentee ballots from merchant ships, voting officials were beginning their work. A strong democracy was called for in the original roots of the Armenian nation, the idea being that the Armenian state served the Armenian people instead of the goals of a single man. Everyone, from company men in Yerevan to farmers working vineyards in the valleys near Stepanakert, was afforded the opportunity to vote. And June was when all of this came together to determine the next Armenian president. In Yerevan, each neighborhood maintained a voting office in some sort of civic center: a community center, library, school, or something like that. These in turn were guarded by police, where signs of illegitimate voting were watched for. People began lining up in the morning underneath the watchful eyes of armed police officers, and voted until the polls closed at dusk.

Votes were collected from hamaynkner, or local towns and communities, in regional centers where they were counted. For local elections, this was usually enough to determine low-level politicians. Larger operations, such as for province-sized marz elections, used these voting centers’ data and counted up from them: this simple scaled up to the national level in the case of the June presidential election. Many of the Armenian revolutionary councilmen had been educated in Europe during Ottoman rule, and thus returned to their country seeking to establish similar institutions for their own democracy. Armenian executive elections were set up with a two-round system drawn from European political systems. The election of 1960 had four major candidates: Hasmik Assanian, who was still projected to be leading with a majority; the current conservative incumbent of Joseph Vadratian, and two others from the revolutionary and socialist parties who were trailing behind both. Assanian’s surge in popularity over the course of the election was projected to have him take the presidency that week: however, the system enabled a second election between him and another candidate if neither of them managed to break fifty percent of the vote.

At the campaign headquarters, however, the staff didn’t seem so humble. Champagne, specially delivered from France, was cooling in the cellar while laborers carried unimportant furniture and other objects to the curb. Radio Yerevan announced the closings of polling stations in various marzs as the sun dipped below the skyline of the city, bathing its pink buildings in an orange glow. Assanian waited in his office with his Vice President to-be. While Assanian was in his mid-forties with lighter skin and thinning black hair, the Vice President was thirty-two, the youngest a candidate could be, with longish curly brown hair and a much darker complexion and looked almost Turkish. His name was Hovik Idratian, and he came from Van. Idratian was picked specifically due to his experience in the region, being descended from a long line of well-respected Western Armenian who were popular for their incessant efforts to lobby for a region that was mostly ignored by the Easterners. A land of barren desert and sand had hardened the young man, despite his boyish face. He presented himself fairly lightly, however, and wore a suit of light grey in contrast to Assanian’s stern black.

As Idratian’s job was to manage the cabinet of Assanian’s administration, he was in the back by a desk coordinating their arrival to the office. All eleven of them were returning from their private residences in Yerevan in their cars, elated at the news of the election. Just the other day, the final selection had been made on the most difficult position to fill: Minister of Development. The National Reconstruction Agency was that ministry’s major project, and was responsible for bringing the parts of Armenia that were still developmentally stunted up to par with what was to be expected from a regional power: something that Armenia saw itself as an achievable goal within the next decade or so. Assanian and Idratian picked another Westerner for this position, due to his philanthropy work repairing villages that were destroyed by Ottoman occupiers during the revolution. He, too, was highly respected by many of the lower-class Armenians, even if he did sometimes say things that bordered on too communist for Assanian’s own liking. Despite this, he knew how to get money for these projects and he knew how to use it wisely.

It seemed, however, that the job of the presidency started before the election was even over. Already, an investigation in Gyumri was starting to turn up evidence of a volatile situation in its ghettoes. Communists were, in the opinion of his intelligence committee, starting to worsen the already volatile situation in Europe. Persia wanted to review terms of a new oil pipeline before the contract could be moved further. His laundry list of things to take care of grew every day, some of it appearing in the newspapers recently and some of it simply being inherited from an apathetic incumbent. Vadratian had spent the last few months sitting in office, most likely with his boxes already packed, blaming anyone and anything except himself for why the polls showed him being, at most, around twenty percent. There were rumors of him trying to delay the election by any means necessary, but the Constitution declared it legal to forcibly step a sitting president down if they tried to stay in power without a good reason. He had already tried to call fraud on multiple primary poll results over the election season, and each investigation yielded nothing.

In Armenia, the legislative system usually maintained enough checks and balances on the executive branch, thanks to the political agreements amongst the Armenian Separatist Federation Councilmen after the Revolution. The Armenian Parliament had the power necessary to arrest, in the worst case, an executive politician who was unwilling to leave once his term was over. In addition, several leaders of the ASF militias still survived and constituted the Council even in their old age. They had no organized power but, if they disapproved of someone and made it known, any and all of their social or political capital would vanish as others took advantage of this to attack them. They were already annoyed with Vadratian for his actions around the Russians, hinting that treating the Russians like he did was akin to the Ottoman occupation, so they were watching the election closely. One wrong move from Vadratian, and he could be labeled a traitor to the Armenian state by people who were unanimously respected in society. It seemed like President Vadratian knew that, too, and had slinked away from the spotlight in the last week or so of the election.

The votes were coming in as the sun set and night took over the city. The densest and most urban hamaynkner, such as Yerevan or other cities, would report their votes to their respective marzer first while the rural countryside naturally took longer. Therefore, more urban marzer reported in first: Yerevan traditionally was the start of the results, and an overwhelming victory for Assanian came through the telephone lines to a staffer. Assanian led at sixty-six percent of Yerevan’s vote, followed by Vadratian at fifteen. A resounding cheer came through the floor from below, as it was a wide belief that Yerevan charted the course of the rest of the country. For every major presidential election, Yerevan had correctly predicted the winner. While this didn’t stack up for Parliament’s elections all the time, it was still a strong enough tradition to celebrate heavily when Yerevan brought in a political win. Somewhere, a bottle of champagne’s muffled pop sounded through the thin walls of the West Yerevan building. Idratian silently smirked and pounded his fist on his chest, before reaching for his own bottle of dark liquor.

The rest of the night, until the morning hours when the mountainous Artsakh could finally get all of its votes transported and counted, was spent listening to the voting reports come through the official telephone lines. The scores from these provinces were averaged out as the sun began to rise, leading to the final result that would be broadcast for the country to hear: Hasmik Assanian had won the Armenian presidency with a vote of sixty-five percent of the Armenian populace. Joseph Vadratian took his place with twenty percent, mostly brought in from the southern areas with little to no Russian presence, while the fringe candidates managed fifteen between them. A roar came from the downstairs offices as the campaign clinched its victory. Someone lit fireworks off the roof and the street exploded in red, blue, and orange lights one after the other. Idratian came over to the armchair where Assanian watched the Hrazdan River from his window and handed him the bottle. Out a whiskey glass emblazoned with the logo of his old regiment, the next President of the Republic of Armenia sipped some of Idratian’s liquor. It tasted like aged cognac.

“Well sir, it looks like everyone is all here,” proclaimed Idratian as he peeked outside of the wooden door to the hallway. “Do you want to meet your new cabinet?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t say that it’s my new cabinet, but it’s official now,” answered back Assanian as he threw a suitcoat over his sturdy frame.

The pair strode through the hallway, its cream-colored walls lit by lightbulbs in elaborate sconces. The conference room was located at the end, next to the staircase of the building, guarded by an oak double door. The Vice President went forth to open the door for his new boss and waved him through. Inside, Assanian’s cabinet awaited: men from their early thirties to their sixties, dressed in anything from navy blue to dark grey suits but all with a purple tie and a flag pin upon their lapels, stood in a semicircle with glasses raised for the new leader of their country. A smile touched the stern lips of a stoic man, before Idratian poured him his own glass of traditional brandy: made from white grapes and spring water from a vineyard just outside of Yerevan. Without further word, they toasted, slamming their drinks down onto the conference table before downing them: “To the new President!”

More fireworks popped in the sky outside, as supporters of the new president moved to Independence Square to celebrate. Bullhorns and speakers announced the victory to the people of Armenia, from the desert of Erzurum to the black forests of the Artsakh. This night was for celebrating, but after a short break the next week was when business truly started. Things were moving quickly in the region: there really was no rest for anyone in this world.

Aygestan, Armenia

Logging was a deceptively simple operation: if enough people cut deep enough into a tree with their axes, it would fall to the ground and could be picked up and moved to carpenters to be made into an innumerable amount of useful objects. The Artsakh was known as a heavily forested region nestled in the rocky mountains of Eastern Armenia, bordering Azerbaijan and Persia. Much of Armenia’s wood came from here, and the craftsmanship of Artsakh woodworkers was known throughout the region. But before ornate furniture could be exported from the region, the raw wood had to come from the mountain valleys. As the morning fog cleared, a crew of men in a military-surplus halftrack painted bright blue drove through a winding dirt road. A rainstorm from the direction of Sevan had just passed through and left thick mud in its wake, but the halftrack motored through with efficiency before taking a turn towards the job site. It wound down the hill, taking care to go slowly by the sharp turns that threatened to flip the clumsy vehicle. Eventually, it came to a series of tents and firepits that marked the logging camp.

A crew of a dozen men jumped out of the back and into the mud, splashing it onto their coveralls and cotton pants. They held axes and hatchets in their hands and greeted their friends as a late breakfast was served. Most people around there ate a simple, small breakfast: in this case, coffee was made and poured for the new crew and loaves of bread were prepared with jars of sweet jam. Breakfast and conversation filled the forest as the fog and mist left, revealing a lush undergrowth of dark green foliage sneaking through the trees. With the size of this camp, it took about a day to fell around twenty trees, so they wasted no time getting to work. The loggers moved from their camp with their equipment bundled on the back of mules and other pack animals to help navigate the rough mountain slopes in their way, trekking through their footpaths past the stumps of trees that had been cut down before. Careful to select ones that they could easily bring back, the loggers selected their first hauls of the day and immediately set up their things.

Gor Kandarian worked a handsaw with his partner on one of the bigger trees on the mountainside. A set of steel cables had been wrapped around the tree and attached to a pulley somewhere else so that, once the tree had been cut, they could lower it down slowly. This was a necessity in mountain logging, catching the timbers before they swung down violently onto people. Gor and his partner worked the backbreaking labor of sawing the handsaw back and worth, sweating as the summer heat began to replace the cool morning fog. It was ten in the morning by the time they had gotten almost there: Gor checked his cheap mechanical wristwatch and nodded, approving of the timeliness of this particular job. The two went back to business before, several minutes later, a crackling and splitting sound was heard from a few meters away. Another tree had been felled, caught by its wires, and gently lowered to the ground to be cleared of branches and jutting sticks before rolled back to a collection point. Gor continued to saw, before he saw his tree begin to topple over once it was almost severed.

The gigantic tree, lush with a healthy dark brown bark, began to fall as its weight dragged it to the ground. The slack on its steel cables tightened, stretching them out. Gor stepped back, down from his portable ladder, but never heard the metallic popping sound as the left cable snapped out of an old, rusty clip on the pulley that someone had forgotten to replace. The cable, now unconstrained by its pulley, suddenly let loose: the tree began falling rapidly, swinging towards Gor’s direction. Unable to even register what was happening before tragedy struck, Gor was slammed in the torso by the massive log and sent flying down the mountain slope like a ragdoll. The tree crashed into another with a thunderous sound, while Gor himself found an end to his journey as he slammed into the trunk of another tree. Blood oozed from his head and nose where, underneath, he had cracked his skull against the tree. He went limp, his vision quickly phased to darkness, and he was dead as quickly as he became injured.

Naturally, the crew of logging workers stopped their work immediately and rushed over to help, but by then it was too late. The body of Gor was picked up by two of his comrades and dragged back to the camp, a process that took much longer than getting out to the job site. A runner came to camp and pounded on the fabric door of the supervisor’s tent, screaming for him to come out. The man was ordered to take the supervisor’s automobile and drive to the clinic in Aygestan, the local village, and find the doctor. This, too, proved difficult as the vehicle became stuck in the mud on the dirt road back to the village. Gor was laid out in the center of camp, but the members of the camp knew that it was already too late. He was dead long before he had gotten back to camp. It was only a matter of time before the doctor came by to declare the same thing. An hour later, he did.

Elsewhere in the village, Mary Kandarian watered her bed of carrots in the yard behind her family home. Nestled atop a hill that sloped down into the woods, the Kandarian home was like most Artsakh rural homestays, was built of stone with decorative wooden columns and a porch that wrapped around the base of the structure. In the back was the greenhouse, a small barn, and several plots of vegetables that Mary enjoyed cultivating for their meals. Within the house, Gor and Mary lived with both of their parents and four children, forming a large family unit typical of rural society there. Their days were generally the same, with Gor coming and going at regular hours unless he knew, and always ahead of time, if he was spending time in the camp as a permanent party. The kids would go to school and come back every day, and the grandparents would stay and read and knit and watch over the house with Mary. For Gor to come home late was highly unusual, since he didn’t do things like go out drinking with his coworkers after work.

Around nine at night, a knock came to Mary’s door. She was reading in the living room while waiting for Gor, the kids had been sent to bed and the parents were asleep already. She got up and went to the red-painted entrance where she thought that Gor should have already used his key. Opening the door, she saw two men were not her husband: the town doctor and the camp supervisor, palms folded respectfully and somber looks upon their faces. The supervisor, and older man with a greying beard and long hair that touched the collar of his grey cotton shirt, bowed his head as he took a step forward. “Mrs. Kandarian,” he began softly, “Gor was killed today.”

Mary’s heart froze, like she was having a heart attack. She stood in the doorway for a few seconds while the blood rushed to her head, reddening her face and leaving the tips of her fingers and toes numb. Her heart, it seemed, could be felt pounding through her chest and her head. “What do you mean?” she asked, trying to keep her wavering voice steady under the pressure.

“I mean… There was an accident. I’m so sorry.” This was all the supervisor could manage in front of Mary. It was obvious he was upset by this as well.

Mary’s mouth twitched and formed into a grotesque frown, tears flowing from her eyes despite her attempts to stop them. Her breathing became almost like hiccups as she tried to stop the sobbing. The supervisor put his hand on her shoulder, and she jerked away. The doctor now, came up to comfort her. “Gor will be returned to you for the funeral, and the priest will be coming by tomorrow,” he soothed, knowing that this was the only thing he could say. “If there is anything else you need, just remember that the village is with you.”

“But why?” asked Mary, looking back up at the doctor. “Why Gor? What am I going to do?”

The supervisor hesitated for a second before answering: “These things happen, it could have happened to anyone at any time. Even me… But the storm will pass eventually for you and your family.”

Mary shook her head and stepped back into her house, grabbing the door handle: “Return my husband’s body to us tomorrow,” she asked. “But for now, leave me be.”

The supervisor nodded quietly, and Mary slammed the door on them. Unable to control it anymore, she went to her sofa and dove into it. Her husband of ten years, dead in a random accident. Someone who she had raised her family with and built her life around, gone in an instant. It was frustrating, it was maddening, and it was tragic. How could it have happened to her? Even worse, now they had four children and three grandparents to support, none of whom worked, and Gor was the only steady source of money that they had. She was left in a dark place with nowhere to go, and she cried through the night long after the supervisor’s car pulled away from the road and headed off to the doctor’s office. The night was long for Mary, proved by her red eyes and running makeup as the sun rose and shone through her window. Before breakfast, she cleaned herself up to maintain the air of dignity as her family came down to eat. As they gathered around their upset mother, they noticed that something was wrong, and Mary stood in front of the crowd of increasingly-frightened family members to say it bluntly: “Your father… Well, your father is dead.”

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June 14th: Addis Ababa, Ethiopia
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"Have you heard from your brother?"

Sahle, Negus Negast, Conquering Lion of the tribe of Judah, felt like a child in front of his mother. Emebet Hoy Eleni had an awkward lunch with her eldest son in the courtyard, watching a servant feed their pet lions.

"He probably likes it in China." He ate from a small bowl of beef strips with jalapenos, scooping up the food with strips of injera.

"Probably, probably. You say probably! You don't know. How can your brother like it in such a place?"

"They give him a book and throw some rice to a peasant for him to see and he'll be happy."

Eleni leaned back. She looked up at a nearby tree. "Remember when you climbed up there and hung your father's undergarments from the highest branch?"

Sahle grinned.

"Your brother went up there to retrieve them. He didn't want you to get in trouble. He nearly fell!"

"He always meant well."

"He always loved you."

Sahle didn't say anything for a long moment while he nibbled on his lunch, looking at the bowl of beef in contemplation. "He has his life to live. China will be good for him. Besides, we'll see him at the Olympics. That's this summer. It'll be here sooner than you know. We'll see Taytu there too."

"I am looking forward to that." Eleni took a deep breath, and it made Sahle uncomfortable to see that his mother was becoming more and more an old woman. "Sometimes, it feels like the months go by slowly with my children away. As if it takes two months of time for one month to pass on the calendar."

"I'm still here." Sahle said.

Eleni smiled. "I know. Though I wish you kept your siblings around to help you. Governing is not easy, and I do not like that Desta creature. You know how unpopular he is with the Makwanent."

"I couldn't do it without him."

"You could." she said, "If you put your nose to it and stopped running around with the Tanganyikan Ambassador."

Sahle started to fidget. "I have to meet with Desta before I go." he stood up.

Eleni looked troubled. "Go? Where are you running off to?"

"I have meetings. Like you said, mother, governing is not easy." he kissed her on the forehead and went inside.

Sahle walked through the tiled halls of the Gebi Iyasu, two Imperial guards falling in behind him. The building had the airy feeling of an Italian country villa. He passed into the south wing, where there were offices for government, and met three of his Ministers in a room looking out at a garden. Desta was leading the meeting.

"Your Imperial Majesty" all three men greeted. Behind Desta was Aleme Menigedi, the Minister of Transportation and Public Works, and Lawgaw Seleshi, Minister of Posts, Telegraphs, and Telephones. They were bland, bureaucratic looking men, plucked out of the bourgeois by Desta and not especially familiar to their Emperor. Between the men were a number of maps strewn out on a table.

"You needed me?" Sahle asked.

"I have good news, and a request." Desta smiled. "The good news is that the Negus Coffee party is on their way back. They've completed their tour and will back at the American Embassy tomorrow."

"Good." Sahle felt warm thinking of seeing Livy Carnahan again.

"And I request that your majesty pay a call on Hamere Noh Dagna. I've been told he met with the Filipino ambassador. I do not know why, but he may be trying to sabotage our dealings with that country. He is bitter, and he does not like me, but you are his Emperor."

"What can I say to him?" Sahle asked. Deep down, Sahle feared Hamere Noh Dagna. "If he does not like you, then he does not like me."

"That is not true."

"It would be a waste of your time."

"Your majesty knows best what to do with your time, but I believe it would be wise to placate him. His office keeps the al-Himyari's in check. Without him, Ras Hassan would become a dangerous power in the land."

"Maybe." Sahle said, "I'll think about it, but I am busy right now. Carry on." The three ministers bowed. Sahle left as quick as he could without looking like he was retreating.

Rudolph von Lettow-Vorbeck met him outside, dressed in a suit jacket and bowler hat that made him look like a kid trying to be an American gangster. He was leaning against a German made Königswahl Gepard, a glossy car that made him think of racing. The Emperor and a guard got in the cramped back seat. To Sahle's delighted surprise, the Tanganyikan ambassador decided to drive.

"Is this the surprise?" Sahle asked.

"No. I have a couple of Fräuleins waiting for us at the Vin Rouge. Or, should I say, a couple of Mesdemoiselles."

"You are my lord and savior." Sahle laughed. Rudolph put on a pair of goggles, hit the gas, and sped away in the direction of downtown, the engine roaring manfully and the car taking turns as if it were born to do so.

The Vin Rouge was a four story building with neon lights in front spelling out the name next to the glowing image of wine being poured into a glass. The first and second floor was a restaurant. In the back was a cabaret lounge. The third story housed a library and club where wine was served in a quiet, dignified setting for men who wanted to study French. The fourth story was the most exclusive brothel in Ethiopia. Rudolph had reserved it for the evening so that nobody would see the Conquering Lion of Judah making his conquests in such a place.

They pulled around back and were ushered into a stairwell meant for employees. It was a brutal cement shaft with dangling bulbs that gave out a sickly yellow light. A white man with a top hat led them up to the top floor. They were brought into a sitting room furnished and decorated in Second Empire style, with heavy fleur-de-leus drapes on the windows. An older woman sat on the couch reading a book. She looked up when they walked in. "Ah, your majesty. Your excellency. You know how this works?" Her voice was scratchy.

They nodded.

"Good. I'll get the girls ready. Use the chests in the corner."

The Vin Rouge had its own protocol for everything, trading on their reputation for the exotic. There were rules that didn't exist in any other brothel Sahle had ever been to. Rudolph and Sahle, on separate sides of the room, began to disrobe. They didn't say anything first, ignoring the awkwardness of becoming naked in the presence of another man by focusing on the task at hand. Sahle bent down and undid his boots, took off his socks, then stood up to slip off his robes, then his undergarments. He deposited it all in the chest in the corner. The carpet felt spongy under his bare feet.

Undressed, they had nothing to do but wait. Standing in the corner was too ridiculous to be an option, so they had to face one another. Rudolph no longer looked the European dandy, but just another pink-skinned white man, a pathetic sight. Sahle couldn't help but see the other man's mushroom prick, and felt good about his own endowment. They sat down on opposing couches, Rudolph crossing his legs, and they tried not to look at each other.

"You see this?" Rudolph grabbed a small book on the table nearby him and tossed it across the room. Sahle grabbed it. The Adventures of Leonid Secshaver: A Man of Many Meatings. It was a cheaply printed book. On the cover was the outline of a rather average looking European man dressed like an adventurer on safari, standing at the center of a long table lined with various half-dressed women who were staring longingly at him.

"Sack Shaver?" Sahle asked, guessing at the English play on words. It was odd to see an English book in what was supposed to be a French room.

"Sex Haver" Rudolph replied, "Look at the author."

Sahle's eyes nearly bulged out of his head. "Reginald Heap. That Reginald Heap?"

"He used his real name." Rudolph tittered. Sahle flipped to the first page and read a bit.

Princess Nastya was randy, sitting at a mirror in her boudoir, pleasuring herself with the golden handle of her brush. "Let us call a conference of Europe, because I want to see the strong diplomats at work. Call Leonid Secshaver from from Africa..."

Sahle laughed. "This is horrible." He tossed it back to Rudolph.

"These things are collector's items now. Written by a murdered man. I own one myself, The Adventures of Leonid Secshaver: Ten Thousand Ticklish Tallywhackers. It has an Arabian Nights theme. Its so bad that it's good."

"I have to admit, I miss the man." Sahle said.

"He was one of the interesting ones. How he died was suspicious."

"I heard this from the other Ambassadors. I didn't think you'd start on it too."

"No no no." Rudolph waved, carefully keeping his leg pressed down to protect his modesty, "I mean I think the Rhodesians did it."

"Do we have to talk about this? Where are those girls?"

"The Rhodesians are something I have to think about. My uncle's biggest military priority, I suppose aside from the Swahili communists, is our border with Rhodesia. I think they ordered Heap murdered because, well..." he held up the book, "He was an embarrassment. They are that brutal."

"Talk to Benyam about this." Sahle watched the dark mahogany door, hoping it'd open any second now and free him into the arms of a friendly whore.

"The Kaiser of Ostafrika wants to know what Ethiopia still remembers its wartime debts. Ethiopia might have been pushed back by Britain if it wasn't for my grandfather. My uncle knows of the Ethiopian attempts to bring Rhodesia into your fold, and he wants assurances that an alliance against him isn't forming."

"An alliance against him isn't forming." Sahle said blandly.

The door opened. Two beautiful Habesha women walked out dressed in frilly lingerie. Saved by the belles! The tallest walked up to the Emperor and led him by his erection to a place where they could have privacy.

~Black Sea Coast, Odessa, Ukrainian State~
June 1960

The sun was just tentatively peeking over the horizon, its rays stretching their way towards the Richelieu Steps where the Hetman and Prime Minister were making their way down to the seaside. Anastasiya was wearing the uniform of the High Commander of the Ukrainian Royal Army her father preferred, with six stars instead of five as the normal highest rank, but stripped of all the decorations that her father had plastered on.

"It was good of you to come out so early in the morning, Vadym Stepanovych."

"Not at all," replied the balding man in his mid-forties, striding briskly to keep up with the tall Anastasiya. He wore a simple but well-kept grey suit with a blue tie, and a hint of concern betrayed itself on his narrow face. "Quite frankly, it was inordinately difficult to get a meeting with your father, even when I became Prime Minister, let alone at five o'clock in the morning. I was beginning to worry that the Solovski dynasty had no intention of negotiating with the Parliament they themselves created."

Anastasiya slowed to a stop, and rested her gaze upon Antonenko. "Everyone seems to view me through the lens of my father, whether that have a good or bad impact upon what they see. I would ask that you at least make an effort to dispel any notion you have of that and instead look at what I am doing with a new light. My father may have viewed you as little more than a populist obstruction to his policies, but I respect your work in the Verkhovna Rada."

Vadym blinked. The reaction he received was so contrary to his expectations that his stop was a little more... abrupt. The royal guards accompanying them looked almost as if they were ready to move to stop him from falling, but he managed to hold himself steady. A couple seconds passed with him meeting her gaze, calculations processing inside his head.

"You've asked me here to discuss cooperation, haven't you, your Highness?" Vadym cautiously let the words out.

Anastasiya smiled, a wide, beautiful smile, her pitch-black hair fluttering a little behind her in the wind. "And freed of that bias, you've figured it out all in one stroke." Soft, light peals of laughter rang out down the stairs, causing a few birds in their trees to flutter their wings a little in surprise. Anastasiya covered her mouth with one hand as she laughed, then continued walking down. "I'm pleasantly surprised. I expect to enjoy our little chat." Vadym dutifully followed, bereft of words for the time being. If only he didn't already have a wife... not that that would matter anyway.

---

"Those steps are... longer than I remember..." Vadym panted. Anastasiya let a slight grin show, nodding. "They are a work of art, but also quite the exercise. Goodness knows how those fleeing the Cossacks down it in 1905 would have felt, but I suppose that that era is lost to time now, so we'll never have a reliable depiction... Ah, here's the High Admiral."

Leonid Ostapovych Kostenko, the High Admiral of the Ukrainian Royal Navy, bowed to each of them in turn. "Your Majesty and Sir Prime Minister," I'm pleased to present the captains of the Ukrainian Royal Navy." Three lines line of well-decorated officers saluted.

Anastasiya strode her way down the front of the first line, shaking each man's hand in turn. She stopped at the end, performed her own about-face, and announced "At ease." The officers relaxed their arms, and she made her way back to the High Admiral and Prime Minister.

"-but so few? Surely we should have more ships," Vadym was concernedly addressing the High Admiral. "Exactly," interjected Anastasiya. "That is precisely what I brought this meeting together for today. But first, after you, Leosha." The admiral smiled, and Anastasiya couldn't help but notice Vadym's look of surprise. When they had taken a walk out of earshot of the officers down the dock, Vadym said, "So I take it you two have some prior acquaintance?"

"Ah, that's an old story. Do you mind if I tell it, Anna?" Anastasiya blushed a little, the first sign of embarrassment Vadym had seen out of her. "Ah... fine, fine, it was nothing really." Leonid chuckled, and went on. "She was a stowaway, this one." Anastasiya went entirely a bright shade of pink. "That was... not entirely-" Leonid waved her off. "Back when I was captaining the Kagul for the Imperials, Anna managed to get onboard and stayed on for a couple of weeks before my men found her rifling through the food stores. Believe me, her father was livid, but the crew was about ready to adopt her as their mascot by the time we got her back. She was a good girl with a good head on her shoulders, and she still is." Anastasiya's blush had faded and she was all smiles. "I appreciate the vote of confidence, Leosha. Just as I'm sure that if Ukraine was a nation floating on the sea you would have been Hetman instead of my father." "Aye, your Highness, but I have no children besides my ships so you would still be my successor, no doubt in my mind." Vadym laughed along with them at this exchange, and then let the door close behind them as they arrived at the navigation room of the Kagul, the now flagship cruiser of the Ukrainian Royal Navy.

"However, we must now attend to business," Anastasiya began as they seated themselves. "I have called you both here today in light of the foreign policy agenda called for by the Senate and nobility. I recognize that as a military man, your place is not in the intricacies of politics. But I hope that you will both recognize my ideas and cooperate with me for the sake of Ukraine and its people in the coming years.” Both men leaned forward, seemingly willing to listen.

“The Senate has called for, after the cleanup of remaining East Ukrainian resistance forces, an immediate invasion of Belarus. They believe that it is necessary for Ukraine to consolidate as much of Russia as we can, lest the Imperials take it first, and that we aspire to become the new dominant race in some kind of Ukrainian Empire.” Leonid furrowed his brow, but Vadym looked positively appalled.

“There’s no way that would ever pass in Parliament, even if it goes through in the Senate. Goodness knows the Ukrainian people have had enough of war, after the ten or twenty thousand dead and injured we’re sending back to their families in the next month or two. If all you were asking for was my opposition, you already had it. The Ukrainian National Democrats’ platform is for peace and stability, not more endless conflict.”

Anastasiya shook her head. “Regrettably, that’s not enough. Word has it the nobility are buying MPs from your party. They expect to have a good couple over the majority they need. I would find the ones responsible, but they’re so well networked into the system that it’s like asking a wolf to find the ones responsible for the disappearance of sheep.”

“I’ll get the whip on them. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, I’ll do the best I can. They should know better, they’ll lose their jobs next cycle if this goes through. And I’ll report it to Vashchenko if I find out who’s doing it.”

The admiral took the pause to cut in. “That’s all well and good, but I don’t see what I’ve got to do with it.”

Anastasiya’s eyes lit up. “You’re everything to do with my alternative proposal.”

“Alternative?” Vadym looked confused.

“You yourself were puzzled at the lack of ships in the Ukrainian Royal Navy, no?” Vadym gestured for her to continue. “At the time of the secession in 1954, the Russian Imperial Black Sea Fleet was stationed at its usual port of Sevastopol, which as you know styles itself the capital of “Tartaria.” The only ships stationed in Ukraine that were seized by my father’s forces were the Black Sea submarine fleet and a small group of two cruisers and three destroyers. This cruiser, in fact, was one of the two since Leosha here defected.”

“So where exactly are the rest of the ships?”

“Still in Sevastopol.” The admiral gruffly responded with an irritated look on his face. “When the Empire started falling apart once and for all, they docked the ships and all the men went home to their families. They’ve been gathering dust for four years, and it’s a damn shame.”

Vadym turned to Anastasiya, a look of dawning comprehension on his face. “You want my support for an invasion of Sevastopol, no?"

“Excellent, Vadym Stepanovych. I knew I was going to enjoy this little chat.” Anastasiya swiveled her chair to the left, and stood up, the sea roiling out the window behind her back. “I’d like you two to support my plan to invade Crimea instead of Belarus, Vadym in political circles and Leonid in military ones. If we block their vote, they’ll have no choice but to at least support that one, many less lives will be lost, and Ukraine’s coast will be safer against pirates and any naval Russian invasion alike.” She extended her hand towards them both.

“So we both benefit, and you get to show those stuffy old nobles that you have a trick or two up your sleeves. Not a bad job for a little girl.” The admiral chuckled, shaking his head, and shook Anastasiya’s hand.

“Perhaps the little girl has grown up, Leosha.”

“Maybe she has,” he replied, lighting a cigar from his pocket. “I’d better get going hiring up new officers. We’ll need every old sailor we can find.”

Anastasiya shook Vadym’s hand as well. “I look forward to working with you further, your Highness. It’s not every day you get to be the heroic man who averted sending another hundred thousand men to war.”

Anastasiya smiled and nodded. “I’d be happy to.”

~Potemkin Military Base, Poltava, Ukrainian State~

Khrystyna crept forward in the underbrush, the sound of bullets cracking over her head. She gestured toward her comrade to follow, since she had found a safe path through the mines. There were two ones that were awfully close, though, so if she wasn't careful...

Her shoulder twinged, and she fell to one side, hitting the top of the mine.

"Damn it!" she shouted as an alarm rang out, the sound of bullets ceased, and the lights turned back on. She got back up and dusted herself off.

"Khrystyna, you okay?" The other soldier looked concerned.

"Just my chert shoulder bothering me again. I hope it heals up soon."

A new figure approached. "Maybe if you would let it heal instead of training constantly it would."

"With all due respect, Colonel Ruda, no." Khrystyna turned to face her direct superior, the man in charge of the Pryznyach. "I can't just sit here and rest as men keep dying for our country."

"A laudable attitude, but not one that's good for you. Anyway, there is someone important here to see you. They didn't tell me who."

"Some stuffed-up general here to pin a medal on me, no doubt. Roger, I'll go." With that, she slung her rifle behind her back and strode out.

"Has she always been like that? asked the other soldier.

"Can't say she would be her if she wasn't. There's a reason she's the best." The colonel shook his head, but he was still grinning.

---

"Major Khrystyna Antonenko, reporting as ordered." She saluted the guard at the door to the firing range.

"Major, welcome. May I have your weapon?"

Khrystyna raised an eyebrow. "It is a firing range." The guard shook his head. "Just hand it over, Major." Khrystyna sighed exasperatedly, and pulled it off her back. They opened the door.

When she made her way inside, she noticed a woman in a general's uniform taking shots at a target. This cast her off her stride, she didn't think there were any female generals. Maybe she was from the air force? She only just noticed the sixth star when the woman turned to look at her.

"Major Khrystyna, I presume? It's lovely to meet you at last. I meant to earlier, but I had some other duties to attend to." Anastasiya smiled warmly at the dumbstruck officer.

"Your Highness!" Khrystyna instinctively bowed, but a slender hand reached towards hers to pull her back up.

"Now, now, none of that formality is necessary. I greet you as a thankful officer to her subordinate." Anastasiya saluted, more sharply than Khrystyna expected, and she followed suit. "So I'll start with that. Thank you, Khrystyna. With your effort, though it may not have been the most honourable, you have saved many tens of thousands of Ukrainian lives that would have otherwise fought and died, and our country will be reunified once and for all."

"It was an honour, Your Highness." Khrystyna tentavely opened her mouth, then closed it again. Making up her mind, she asked, "If you don't mind, your Highness, where did you learn how to shoot like that?" She gestured towards the target riddled with holes near the bullseye.

Anastasiya chuckled. "Don't tell anyone, but I was always a warrior princess type. It's a good thing the Admiral isn't here to tell that story again." Khrystyna's eyes widened, but Anastasiya waved her off. "Anyway, I have two other duties here. Firstly, I came to ask you something. It would be my pleasure for you to serve as Commander of the Royal Guard, under my personal command. I know that you are passionate about your duties here, but I am in need of a skilled soldier in light of... well."

Seeing the light fade from Anastasiya's eyes gave her all the information she needed. "I would be honoured and happy to accept. You've been an inspiration to me and to all women in the military. I believe that you care for Ukraine, and I will protect you with my life." She knelt and looked up at Anastasiya.

The Hetman smiled and nodded. "Then that leads me to my third and final duty here. She drew the ceremonial saber from her left hip, and then rested it on Khrystyna's right, then left side. "I hereby dub thee knight of the Hetmanate, and I grant you the title of Hero of Ukraine." She took out a small gold medal with the Ukrainian royal lion and pinned it to her uniform. "Rise." Khrystyna rose to look at Anastasiya, a new fire of determination burning in her eyes.

~"Little Vladimir" Refugee Camp, Odessa, Ukrainian State~

Delov Vissarion made his way through the crowded, dilapidated streets. He could hear some Ukrainian men jeering at him from the corner, but he just ignored them. He kicked a trash bag someone had just thrown out on the street out of his way.

"Disgusting. I feel like I've been living in an animal pen."

Delov was the prodigal son of an old noble family. He was pampered and well cared for on his estate near Perm, until the empire collapsed and everything went to hell in a handbasket.

"Damned commies ought to go to hell themselves." He pulled out a cigarette and lit it up. Blowing it for the first time gave him some well needed stress relief. The wind rustled the sheet metal roofs of the nearby temporary dwellings, and Delov felt it through the couple of holes in his ragged suit.

It was hardly the epitome of class, but it was far better than anything else he had on hand. He needed it today more than ever, because he had heard about the opportunity offered nearby. His wife had told him about it. Open lands, plenty of it to farm. Peace and security. A warm and temperate environment. It was far away and alien to him, but it was the best chance his family had to start over. Rhodesia was the name of the place. At the very least he could speak the language to some degree, he had learned English at university-

Some drunken sailor types coming out of a bar interrupted his thoughts. They ambled out into the sidewalk, cheering and laughing.

"Might as well be another bag of trash," Delov mumbled under his breath as he tried to walk around.

"You said somethiiing, mate?" One of the sailors, evidently of a keen ear, called out to him in Armenian-accented Russian. "No. Leave me alone." Delov tried to get away, but an arm was thrust in front of him.

"You got a problem, big shot? Somethin' against Armenians? Too used to pretendin' you own us?" The three men surrounded him, and his escape route was quickly cut off.

Before he knew it, he was on the ground, kicks bouncing off his ribs, his legs, his everything. Other Russians passed by, silently and unsympathetically watching the beating. Delov was close to losing consciousness when he heard a whistle and the sound of hooves.

"On the ground! Stop at once and get on the ground!" were the last things he heard before everything went black.

---

Delov opened his eyes to a cot in what looked like a makeshift hospital tent. He was wearing some kind of gown. He rubbed his eyes and was about to call for someone when a woman in a uniform with the letters MP on her arm walked in.

"So you're awake. You recovered fast, I was afraid you wouldn't be up by tomorrow!" The lady sat next to him. "Good afternoon, I'm Mariya Yevgenievna, Ukrainian Military Police." Delov straightened up. "Were you the one who cared for me? Thank you, I'm-"

"Delov Vissarion, age 32, Russian. Yes, we know. We even washed your suit, figured it was the least we could do." Delov nodded and started changing, but then his eyes widened. "What time is it? I have somewhere I need to meet my family." Mariya checked her watch. "1500 hours." Delov practically jumped off his cot when he finished. "I need to go, now!" He stumbled a bit, and Mariya went to help him up.

"Hey, it's okay, just take it slow, alright?" Mariya walked with him to the door. "Just relax, I'm sure they will still be there." Delov breathed in and out, standing at the door. "Thank you again. I will." With that, he made his way out of the complex.

On the way out, he heard some of the other MPs talking. "Didn't you know they were Armenians? Were you trying to start a diplomatic incident?"

"They were beating a man to death, what should I have done?" 'Did I do that?' Delov wondered to himself, then shrugged. Soon enough he made his way to the building, Rhodesian flag hung over it. He scanned the... absurdly long line. Were they there anywhere?

"Daddy!" A small child's voice rang out, and he followed it to near the very front of the line. His wife was waving to him. He slightly limped over and embraced them. "What happened?" she asked. "Don't worry," Delov reassured them as he smiled. "That's all the past now. We're headed towards the future."

Comrade Bupe, son of Kalonde, son of Zambia, stood with his back to a Giant Eucalyptus as he carefully peeled a Mango with a pocket knife, digging out the sweet fruit inside as he did so. He slid a piece into his mouth, some of the juice trickling down his chin as he did, chewing happily as he half heartedly scanned the jungle in front of him. It looked as it had every day for the past three weeks, green, dense, and alive with so many different creatures. In retrospect, if he hadn't decided to join the a local Communist group known as the Masiye, he might have like to study the jungle and all it's various species.

Behind him, just out of view, was the mouth of a cave, heavy vines hanging down over the dark opening, trees on the rock face above serving to conceal the hideout from Rhodesian air patrols. Even as he ate the Mango he heard the drone of an engine and looked up, peering through the jungle canopy to see a Rhodesian Airforce Mosquito flying along the ridge line. Another surveillance flight in all likelihood. The Rhodesians made one a day but the Masiye had been careful to keep their space well hidden.

Though, maybe not hidden enough. A week ago two people, a man and a woman, had staggered into the cave half dead with exhaustion. The man, called himself Andrew, had told them of how the previous group he had been with, a local bunch of nobodies none of them recognized, had been ambushed and wiped out by Rhodesian Security Forces. The woman had shied away from contact with anyone, especially men, and only spoke in low tones. Whatever had happened to her had clearly been horrible. She had only confirmed Andrew's story with nods.

The Masiye leadership had pressed them to stay but Andrew had shaken his head violently. He kept saying "They will come. They will come." It was no secret who "they" was, but the cave was well hidden and the Masiye well armed. They had been raiding into Rhodesia for years now, the ongoing Bush War, and never had the Rhodesians located them. Andrew and the girl, they had never gotten her name, had thanked them for their help, accepted some supplies, and carried on westward.

Mango froze halfway to Bupe's lips as he heard the snap of a branch in the brush. He was dressed like any of the other sentries, his body covered in a series of branches and fern fronds that allowed him to look somewhat like a dress or bush. It was very difficult to detect and had been used to great effect numerous times in ambushing unwary Police and even several Rhodesian patrols. Nothing moved now but his eyes as he scanned the brush in front of him. Several raiding parties had been sent out a short time ago but they were not due back for days.

A shadow moved within the undergrowth and Bupe ever so slowly lowered his hands until he could touch the stock of his rifle. The mango, now hidden beneath his cover, dropped to the ground with a gentle thud. He kept still once again. The hair on the back of his neck was standing on end and he had the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. He was not alone.

He acted in an instant, dropping into a crouch and spinning away behind the tree. A rifle cracked a second later and wood exploded next to his face as he ran for the cave entrance. It did not matter that the enemy had found them, only how they were going to survive.

More bullets shredded the brush around him but he was in the thick of it now and who ever was shooting at him would have to be a lucky. As he drew closer to the cave he was his comrades moving up to throw the camouflage off of their defensive trenches, weapons at the ready. As he came closer he held his rifle above his head until one of the others saw him and waved him in. He leapt over the nearest neatly concealed stone berm and spun around, laying his rifle across the top layer of ferns.

Shouts echoed through the jungle in front of him, shouts in Afrikaner. His own men were shouting now, pointing to various points in the bush and he watched as another sentry, caught outside the cave entrance, lunge up to attack a Rhodesian soldier who suddenly appeared in an opening in the foliage. The two struggled for a moment, the tree like Masiye trying to stab the bigger Rhodesian with a machete until a hail of gunfire from the barricade threw down both men. A storm of gunfire erupted from all across the jungle in front of Bupe as if in revenge. Bullets shattered the rock behind him, threw dirt into his faces, and men began to die.

Bupe had been doing his best to shoot back at the enemy. He felt fear, he had always felt fear, but he thought it made him smarter. He did not take risks that the others might and kept his head down when he could. Even now, as he slid his rifle forward again, working a new bullet into the chamber, he did it slowly. Attracting attention was a sure way to get killed. He took a breath, held it for a moment, aimed at where he thought he had seen a muzzle flash, and pulled the trigger. He quickly began to reload, never knowing if had hit a man or not. Another bullet was sliding home when two canisters came curving out of the jungle trailing orange smoke. It took Bupe a moment to realize that they bracketed either side of the cave entrance.

"Fall back!" He screamed, startled faces turning towards him. One man opened his mouth to reply and then flopped backward as a machine gun burst tore half his head away.

"Fall back!" Bupe screamed again, frantically this time as he began to run doubled over toward the cave entrance. He did not have to look to know that the Rhodesians had ceased firing. He could hear the sound of engines. There were no roads here.

He burst through the camouflage vines that covered the entrance to the cave just as the Rhodesian Angel opened fire. Bupe had seen the aircraft once before in a magazine. It was designed as a "bunker buster", that was the term he had read. It was not terribly fast, nor did it fly very high, but it was perfect for smashing strongholds. Like a cave for example.

The first rocket was high, slamming into the rock face above the cave and sending a thunderous cascade of rocks down onto the Communists trying to retreat from their defensive positions. Bupe heard the screams as his comrades fell beneath the falling debris. Some, most, managed to stagger through the wall of dust just as a second rocket burst through the screen of vines to detonate against the rear wall of the cavern.

Bupe felt as if his world had exploded, his ears rang and, when he put his hands to them, his fingers came away wet with blood. He had dropped his rifle and frantically began to search through the dust that was choking him. Shapes ran in the dust, others limped, some twisted and fell and more dark shapes appeared at the entrance of the cave.

His fingers found a pistol, he did not know whos, and he picked it up, squinting towards the cave entrance. The sights found a dark figure running to the entrance and he pulled the trigger once, twice, five times, and the man spun away to fall into the dirt, Bupe unable to hear his screams.

He felt a stinging sensation in his leg and looked down to see blood oozing from just above his knee. He did not feel any pain even when hands grabbed him by the arms and he was hustled toward the back of the cavern where a sharp turn in the tunnel would protect the Communists from their attackers. The last sight he saw before they turned the corner was that of the cave entrance.

The vines that had covered it were gone and the entrance framed the jungle outside, a beautiful green mass topped with an azure blue sky he would remember forever. But in that sky, coming like an angel of death, was the Rhodesian plane. He saw flames burst from beneath its wings and the small objects drop away. They did not move or waver. They were coming for him.

Bupe was dead before the rockets slammed into the back of the cavern, sealing the communists into their web of tunnels. The bullet in his leg had severed the femoral artery. His comrades, those who survived, swore to continue the good fight while outside the victorious Rhodesian Security Forces buried their dead, leaving the enemy dead for the scavengers.

Above it all, un-moved by the wars of men, a mango tree reached towards the sky.

The Lady of War, Philippines' Ally, Part Two

June 1960

She had survived, but Vinh had not. Vinh, her father's hometown, and her's too. Vinh, where she had her earliest memories. Vinh, once a bustling port town, now smoldering ashes. As Lady Trung organized the evacuation of the civilians of the city, while bringing in reinforcements and supplies, her heart felt weighted down with lead. Was there no end to this war?

The female commander looked towards the coast, where a flotilla of Sulu pirate ships had docked, bringing medical supplies, food, and tents instead of just death. Her mother-in-spirit was risking much, but said risk was mitigiated by the fact that the 'Sultan of Sulu' had been 'exiled' from the Philippines itself and now made his headquarters in Sarawak. From there, he was organizing a 'Sabahan People's Congress' to raise an army against his brother; she hoped the Sultan had learned from his mistake at Lahad Datu.

Not that she was any stranger to military blunders herself, considering how she didn't anticipate the 'Denver tactic'. Sighing, Lady Trung turned towards a messenger in the traditional shirt, vest, pants and turban of a Sulu Pirate. Said messenger, when he was in range, would then say, "Lady Trung, news has arrived from Huế; the 'Republic of Vietnam's' army has staged a coup against Ngo Dinh Diem and killed him and his entire family. It seems that bombarding their own troops at Vinh was the last straw. How did we know this? Because their navy, in response, has split; a few are returning to the French while even more, including the two destroyers Theirs and Gamelin, are defecting to your side."

The Sulu pirate smiled. "I've already sent a few of my ships to escort them; they may be just fishing boats and merchant craft with guns attached, but some of those guns can punch a hole in a larger vessel before they get brought down." Lady Trung smiled for the first time in eight days; things were looking up -

Then a raindrop fell on her nose, and a rumble of thunder followed. It seemed that the current gap between moonsoon rains had passed, and so was the opportunity to press the offensive.

"Back to the air-raid shelter; if it doesn't get flooded, of course," there might have been a mild quip in that sentence, but it went unnoticed as it would not have been funny anyway. And with that, she walked off to the converted cellar where she had her makeshift headquarters...

------

The Sulu pirate who had acted as messenger was with them in the converted cellar, which was still cramped, but less so as some of her troops chose to take shelter in what buildings remained intact after the bombing. Lady Trung, in order to distract her mind from the tedium, asked him a question, "How is Sultana Sabiha doing? And what is this I hear about the mid-term elections in the Philippines?"

"The Sultana is doing all right; she's currently managing the Sulu pearling fleet and discreetly arming said fleet with the proceeds from pearls, which is a good thing, as Mubarak Kiram of Sabah, our Sultan's misbegotten brother, has been staging further raids from Lahad Datu. All of those failed, don't worry; the Sultan is better at setting defensive works than fighting." The Sulu pirate then frowned at the mention of the Islands' mid-term elections.

"Well, let's just say that the last remaining rich...nonbelievers in the Philippines pooled together their money and promised electricity to the poor in exchange for votes. And it worked; even Muslims like the prospect of having electric lights," the Sulu pirate frowned at that.

Lady Trung sighed, "Priscilla might be my mother-in-spirit, but I think that she is being naive to believe that she can end her country's tutelage and just allow opposition forces to do what they want. Well, when that Aurelia bitch takes over and drives her out, my mother-in-spirit will have a unified Vietnam to take refuge in."

The Sulu Pirate chuckled. "You think that highly of your chances of victory? Not mocking, mind you, just that confidence is rare in a woman."

"I lead women into battle," Lady Trung pointed out. "And it's less my military skills - which are not infallible, as Vinh demonstrates - and more my enemies' tendency to self-destruct. Nevertheless, I will be the Lutalo to Priscilla's Sahle, only the both of us are bound together by more than self-interest..."

“We have your ship fitted out and ready to go.” the sailor said as he lead the Bureau agents along the river side. It was night. Across the dark waters that made up the Zhujiang estuary. Not a quarter a mile from the naval yard was the Shizi Ocean and its wide deep course into the South China Sea. The reflection of street lights and a few lone automobiles driving on the late night roads were reflected in the dark waters of the oily black river. Stopping briskly under the orange glow of an incandescent light they stood at the gang plank onto what looked to be a run down junk.

“It's quiet a piece of work.” Huang Du whistled. Arban stood stopped behind him, a serene look of despair and disgust firmly planted on his face. The junk was yet still an old wooden ship, probably once ran by sails. But between then and now the masts had been cut out, and even from a short distance with the motor silent in the water a faint acrid smell of oil and gasoline hung in the air from an engine that had likely not seen repair since the 1940's. In the faint light the two agents could see the discolored boards of its hull, spotting the lighter color new wood from the darker old. Patches of sheet metal had been hammered low near the water line into its hull and they and the rivets used to affix this shoddy armor looked to be the newest addition to the ship. Its cabin was crowned with a sheet of tearing tarpaulin, and a motley collection of surplus field guns were inconspicuously thrown about the deck, mortars and machine guns stood in the open warm early summer's air with the light of the city behind silhouetting them against the darkness.

“Well from the requisition's request we got I was lead to believe you wanted something, 'a pirate from the north of Borneo might pilot'.” the sailor said, with a laugh. “I don't know what they're sailing out around there, but I imagine this is close enough. I dare not ask what the Bureau wants with it though.”

“It's good you don't.” Arban said, “How's the crew?”

“They're not green horns if that's what you're wondering. I've a mechanic of three years on that ship with you and at least fifteen sailors who've been patrolling the waters between here and Macau and Hong Kong Island for the better part of five at most.”

“No uniforms, I hope.”

“No, they're all dressed in their grandfather's clothes from the rice fields.” the sailor grunted, laughing. In the faint light that was cast onto the ship's deck the agents noticed a few dark shapes of sailors traipsing about on the deck. Someone flipped a lighter and lit a cigarette and the flash of orange fire was brilliant in the darkness.

“Without going into the details, she's yours for however long you need it.” the sailor said with a committed proud nod, “And if you're going to run her aground or sink her at sea have the decency to do so close to home. I don't care about the boat but I sure do like the man on board.”

“Thanks, we'll get them home safe.” Huang Du said, stepping onto the gangplank. Arban followed, warily peering down the side as the plank rocked and sagged under the weight of the two agents as they stepped from concrete quay over open water, and onto the creaking deck of a decades old ship.

There was a stiff, awkward silence between the agents and the sailors as they came on board. The Chinese sailors, in drab stiff peasant's clothes leaned on the stumps that remained of the masts, or sat on the deck watching them, unsure whether to take them as a superior officer, or some other matter entirely. Arban, noticing this confusion set about asserting their position. “On your foot!” he shouted. Huang Du jumped, surprised his Mongolian companion could sound so much like a drill sergeant.

The sailors responded immediately, and they shot up to their feet and went quickly to attention. Arban issued his orders: “I want this boat out on the water. Oh the helm, cut the lines. We'll detail our mission when we're on the water. Move out!”

They responded to his assertiveness, and went immediately to their roles. Untying the ropes that tied them to the wharf they released the wooden hulk as down below the engine sputtered to life and groaned with a throat full of water as it propelled itself out into the open water. “I didn't know you could order sailors around.” Huang Du said in a low voice as the two walked down the deck.

“I had to read the navy's officer's manual.” Arban said. His voice wavered uneasily as the boat rocked side-to-side as it sailed into waves.

“Get sea sick?”

“I don't know. I've only been on a boat once for five minutes. It made me dizzy.”

“You're going to need to get used to it.” Huang Du assured him.

As they left the river, and began slipping into the estuary proper on the lone dark waters on the South China Sea, a light was lit underneath the deck. With barely enough room to stand, the crew of the slowly chugging vessel came to stand around a small table the two agents were taking up. Huang Du stood leaning over a map, checking estimated routes any number of supply ships into Vietnam could be taking, a reference book lay open by his side. Arban, gripping a length of flexible conduit in the ceiling stood gently swaying from side to side, his normally dark sun-kissed face growing paler in the soft lamp light casting sharp shadows and highlights all throughout the lower deck.

“Our mission here today, and for however long it will take us is a matter of utmost secrecy.” he said in a voice that echoed in the confined space. The crew gathered around tight supporting each other with arms over the next man's shoulders or leaning up against a wall with a foot planted against the thick wood timbers, “As such every man here is secluded to this boat until the task is done. I hope we will not be on the water for long, but it goes without saying there will not be any shore leave. We will be secluding ourselves in international waters, but more likely than not our mission will mean we will pass into the claimed waters of other states. As such, consider what we are doing as being very illegal. But this isn't unusual, you're now temporarily contracted agents of the Qingbao Ju.

“There are some regular rules to mention going forward during the mission, and well after the mission. Namely first: we are your superior officers. By military establishment our authority holds precedent over other ranks as if one grade higher in international missions such as this. So we do not care if you're the most senior enlistee or officer about this boat today, because our rank beats yours.

“Secondly, on completion of the mission and return to shore you are not to speak of your association with the Qingbao Ju for a minimum of six months. If by any chance the situation demands it the Bureau will contact your commanding officer with a notification to pass down to you explaining any possible extension to your term of silence. Until this is up you are not to officially admit to you having ever becoming an associate of ours, none to your family, friends, fellow sailors, or future officers.

“On relation the third condition is that you are to not speak of the mission for a year after the fact, unless of course circumstances means we will be extending that term of silence. You will be notified if so. The Bureau will attempt to contact you directly if that is the case. Telling anyone about the mission is the last thing we want you doing.

“Violation of these terms is subject to penalty, in military criminal court of national federal court on charges of high perjury by breaking this promise. You may be additionally charged with any number of offenses. At minimum you'll receive jail time. At maximum you will never be seeing the light of day again.

“Do I make myself clear? Under present conditions there is no option to decline the mission. Unless you want to swim to shore now.”

The room was silent, and slowly the sailors began nodding their heads and muttering, “Yes, comrade.”

Arban nodded, “Thank you. Now if you don't mind, my partner will explain the mission we are on.” he said, letting go of the conduit and falling back into a roughly hewn chair.

Taking his cue Huang Du looked up and rose, pocketing his pencil and compass. “The present condition of the Vietnamese conflict has attracted the attention of intelligence brass.” he began, “A new operator has appeared in northern Vietnam and is at work reshaping the current civil war. With no leads on who or what this actor is, let alone who might be supporting and supplying them it has been decided that increasingly direct methods of investigation are required to determine the source of support and the nature of the active situation in Vietnam.

“We have conscripted you for that particular purpose.” Huang Du continued, clapping his hands together and bowing with a cheeky smile, “And we intend to carry this out as quietly and painlessly as possible.

“The objectives set before us are simple: to identify the ports of entry into the territory held by the actor named Lady Trung and which ships are ferrying cargo and supplies into them. The main parameters on this mission have come down to primarily watching and following ships at a distance with the intent of identifying the ship and its country of origin.

“Our emergency parameters do include engaging a ship in combat if we need to escape or otherwise seize and scuttle the ship. And while we believe we will mostly be observing unarmed civilian ships and there so far been minimal need to protect the ships between here and Sabah, which intelligence indicates has been active with piracy.”

“But if the ships are being escorted that it's just as well to spot the flags they sail under.” Arban groaned.

“Precisely, so we do not expect to go into anything hot. But if need be we have orders to meet and engage as far as the situation deems fit for our survival and the success of the mission. The primary intent of any avoidance maneuver should be to escape. We do not know what sort of escorts we will be dealing with.

“But if for the sake of intelligence deems fit, we can authorize the boarding of a foreign vessel to search and seize what we can from its holds. For this our operational parameters outline the following: we should detain and neutralize as much of the crew as possible, we speak as little as possible – for this I will be discussing with you the battle plans for this situation on and off and repeatedly throughout the entirety of the mission so each of us can carry out our assigned duties as well as possible with as little guess work as possible – and finally to carry out our raid in fifteen minutes to half an hour so as to flee the scene before any support or intervention can be mobilized. We are not taking ships for the sake of taking ships, command unfortunately shot that down or we would have more boats or a bigger boat. Are we clear on the situation.”

“Yes, comrade.” the crew responded.

“Thank you.” Huang Du smiled, “I want a course set south. I'll be selecting one of you to begin a watch rotation. He will select a partner and every hour they will be selecting any inactive or sleeping crew member to keep watch on deck. I want this boat put on course, and the rest of us can get some sleep before morning.”



A hundred photographs hung on a clothes line strung between points on the wall, fastened up with small nails. Clipped between the jaws of wooden clothes pin they hung in the daylight revealing their contents in washed out, off-balance color. Walking between the developed pictures Lo Bai Shun peered into each, studying the content of the images and scribbling notes into a small notebook.

The process the project took would simplify a fair portion of the building process of the cartoon. By replacing hand-drawn scenes with photographs – even stylized – a great deal of work could be lifted off the already limited faculties of a small decentralized team. Though true as he though, that parts of the film would have hand-drawn scenes, it had been decided that the bulk of the feature would use collected photographs. There were some criteria though to meet, and more than enough to pull from to make a heavy library of candidates.

Among the photos were a mixed collection of shots from around Hong Kong. There was a specific theme to these images. Industrial shots, almost alien with pipes and metal sharply contrasted in hard shadows and highlights. Rocky landscapes of debris fields pushed to the side and out of the city, left to the overgrowth decades after the civil war. Anything the portrayed a sharp artificial nature. He picked out the ones he liked the best, looking at their backs for a scribbled number and noting that with some comments in his little book.

Then there were shots from elsewhere, Hui Feng's contributions. He had brought from Shanghai very much the same sort of thing, but with the Shanghai touch. The great steel girders of iron bridges spanning the Huangpu River. Disheveled bricks husks at the center of city, and then the surreal architectural landscape in Shanghai's constantly rebuilding heart. Without any particular interest in any one type of scene Hui Feng had brought to Bai-Shun pictures shot through through the struts and poles of scaffolding, whether vertical or horizontal. Or the watery undulations of white-washed concrete balconies in interior or exterior space. He framed towering narrow windows in odd angles, or straight on. He had gone to the river shore, shooting the river-side as the water trickled on to the sea and into a bank of white fog, pebbles as large as boulders in the shot.

Outside of his own criteria, Bai-Shun found himself compelled to move much of Hui Feng's contributions to their own area to consider for later.

He was beginning to make what he felt was progress. Though it was only just the beginning. He knew – though he didn't dare think ahead to then yet – that these photographs would need to be blown up. He would likely need copies. Elements would need to be cut out to move between various foreground positions. A whole complex series of copying and cutting and even editing with a paint brush or marker would need to be done to build the scenery. It would take, and knowing it subconsciously they had at this point a rough year or two worth of work.

A knock on the door shook his attention away. Stopping mid-way he turned and peered through the hanging pictures. Scratching the side of his head with his pencil he wondered who would be calling on him at this hour. He turned and looked out the window, it was mid-evening, the sky was already starting to change. Another knock on the door summoned him over, and he bowed and walked under the hangings and opened the door.

Standing in the door way was a small, half-head shorter than he young woman. She smiled as she looked up at him. “Bai-Shun, you didn't forget. Did you?” she asked playfully, looking at the pencil and notebook in his hands.

“Fo-” he started to say, then remembered. “No, no I did not, Han Shu.” she smiled knowingly and let herself in.

She had a short measured step, a delicate frame with a strong posture. Scanning the room with her soft sharp eyes she looked over the many dozens of pictures Bai-Shun had been examining and reexamining. “If I didn't know better I'd say you're investigating a crime.” she laughed, and turned, “You didn't get so engrossed in this you nearly forgot again?”

“No I-, Yes, I suppose I did.” Bai-Shun said with a sigh, realizing his mistake.

“It's good I come by then.” she said with a sparkle in her eyes, “The show begins in an hour and it's all the way on Hong Kong Island. So we have to leave now.” she insisted.

“Let me get a change of clothes.” he started, but Shu stopped him.

“No, no, no! You're fine as you are.” she said, grabbing him by the shirt sleeve and pulling him out the door. “It's not like anyone will care. Let's go.” with a rush they disappeared from the apartment. The pencil and notepad falling to the ground as the door shut with a thump after.

Han Shu slowed down, giving relief to Bai-Shun who was able to catch up without threat of having his clothes torn. Straightening the breast of his buttoned shirt he said, “You know I haven't eaten yet.”

“I'm sure they'll have something to eat there. Besides, we can catch something to eat after.” she announced as they walked from the apartment. A short ways down the long sandy dirt road that lead up to the apartment block they stopped at a motorbike park along the road side. Two helmets were fastened to the side, and Shu offered Bai-Shun one. “Will you drive?” she asked.

“It's been a while.” he said, taking the helmet.

“Well it wouldn't look right for a man to drive his girl around.” she said, teasing him. “But perhaps you need to get a bike too. It would so much better than having to take the trolley all the time.”

Bai-Shun grumbled, taking the helmet. “Far better than trying to bring a car into the city.” she admitted.

He couldn't fault Shu on that. Strapping the helmet down he mounted the bike and started the engine. It rumbled weakly at first but then soon sputtered to life. Han Shu straddled the seat just behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. With a sputter the two drove down the roads.

Traffic late in the evening was far less extreme as mid-day. With the farmers withdrawn back to the New Territories, the bulk of the errands done the roads were not so congested by wagon carts and people. There was a almost serene calm to it, driving along the road, what traffic was out widely spaced. For Bai-Shun, he could think of no other time better than to actually drive on the road. It had been five, perhaps seven years he had driven anything himself. But trying that for regular work turned out to be too stressful for him, his palms would go cold, his heart beat fast, and soon he would be finding somewhere to pull over and walk the rest of the way and avoid the sense of a lack of control in heavy traffic, he had escape on foot.

But here and now was when he could say he had that. He didn't feel shut in by wagons and trailers and large trucks. No one's exhaust was backing up and popping with a loud bang. Stopping at an intersection to let a small group of pedestrians cross Han Shu leaned over his shoulder, “Don't you want a dog?” she asked, pointing to a old woman walking a medium sized dog of undetermined breed across the street, “My dad used to have a dog like that. He had a white spot on his face.”

Bai-Shun didn't reply immediately. As the crossing cleared he drove on. The motor of the bike starting to echo off of the rising facades of inner city apartments. Store-fronts and galleries started to become more of a feature of these street-level buildings. More often at street corners or mid-way between the bright-red postal boxes of Hong Kong as set up by the British authority began making a sight.

At the next intersection they reached he responded to the dog question: “I don't think I have any room.” he answered.

“Oh sure you do. For a small one. You're so lonely in your apartment. I can't be there all the time.” she said. Her words trailing off playfully at the final sentence.

The docks of Kowloon though were as full of life as at any moment of the day. As the evening darkened the lights in the port were flashing on as they drove by, illuminating the piers where ships from northern China were coming in, or where ships from the Chinese south were on their way north. Making side-way glances at the docks though, Bai-Shun couldn't help but feel much the same emptiness for the many piers that were empty at the docks, as fleeting dark glimpses were had between warehouses and fencing.

But a better view of the piers were had as they came on the bridge between Kowloon and Hong Kong island. Straight head, illuminated by the stalwart illumination of state buildings, and the bustling cosmopolitan heart of the foreign ideological refugee community the dark form of Victoria Peak rose ahead. Along the sides behind the guardwalls and under the bridge the inky black waters of the South China sea loomed with its half-empty industrial docks, and full piers of small fishing boats. The length of the bridge and its great sweeping overhead supports were illuminated in the soft blue-green glow of artificial light as black sedans rolled by in either direction.

Driving down the long ramp onto the island and things decidedly changed. The structures and the apartments looked decidedly older, decidedly more European than across the channel between them and the New Territories. The high rises were shorter and there were small gardens or park places off to the side. Driving along a coastal road they meandered along the north end of the island passed or through small coastal parks and plazas. Turning to drive into the island though the urbanscape began to change. From open coastal roads the old buildings began to crowd in on the street more, the thoroughfare narrowing as they passed cars parked along the side.

Along the side of the road, they cut into an alley. The engine echoing louder now against the walls Bai-Shun slowed to an idle. The alley opened up to a courtyard space filled with motorbikes and bicycles. Lanterns strewn across on heavy chords threw a warm and bright light on the courtyard, turning early urban night into a bedazzling day complete with streamers and the loud hopeful conversation of dozens of couples and theater-going groups.

The couple got off their bike and headed towards a door set into a niche covered in ceramic tile. Around the door stood smoking and waiting mixed groups. Bai-Shun recognized the American self-exiles, the British and Australian veterans and their Asian wives, and volunteers from all over who found themselves unable to go home, or uninvited. They communities had begun to mingle here in Hong Kong.

Among the likes of Bai-Shun, it was believed that what was here in Hong Kong was the germinating seed in its earliest stages of growth of a new cosmopolitan culture in the twentieth century. As the rest of the world seemed to turn away from diverse communities, the scattered seeds spread by such reactionary turning found themselves by some mystery in southern China. The soil perhaps was ripe for it, as not far away were the remnants of other European colonies, Macau just an hour or two away being one of them.

Inside the décor was far different. The lighting was subdued to a dull orange glow, and the dim lanterns and banners and sheets that decorated the furniture and wall were – unlike the outside – the only decorations. Framed photographs and potted plants had found themselves inside. A soft blue rug covered a wooden floor and a desk with a European table clock and bright desk lamp dominated a far corner. Leaning against it a thin fiery red-headed Englishman leaned against it, watching the new comers with a warm welcoming smile. Approaching him, Han Shu presented the tickets she produced from a small undecorated purse.

“Mistress Shu, it's a pleasure to see you.” the man said with an accent. He spoke familiarly with the young woman. “Who is this?” he asked, looking to Bai-Shun. The Anglo had to stand a good four inches over Bai-Shun, and he looked down slightly at him.

“He's Lo Bai Shun.” she said, “The date I said I'd bring along.”

“That's wonderful.” the man at the desk said with a smile, “Well we'll be beginning in a few minutes. You can head on down as soon as you like. We have beer and dumpling by the door, free to however much you can eat or drink.”

“Thanks, but you know me: I don't drink. There any tea?” she asked.

“There is.” the deskman said, bowing.

“Great, thank you!” Han Shu cheered, “Tell Mang Dak I said hello!” she nearly shouted as she pulled her boyfriend to another door, and down a narrow flight of stairs.

“Why aren't you present?” Han Shu asked as they descended the stairs.

“Excuse me?” Lo Bai Shun asked.

“Present, why aren't you assertive. You could have spoken with Mr. Hamlen some.”

“Who?” he asked

“Mark Hamlen, the man who took my tickets. He's a good friend of my friend, he's a nice guy.”

“I don't know him.” Lo Bai Shun responded as they hit the bottom flight of stairs.

Stopping before they went through the door Han Shu turned to him: “Mark Hamlen. His parents were born in London but moved to Hong Kong in the 1900's. He was born and raised here. He fought for our side. He's a veteran of the civil war. He likes to be called Sergeant Major, it makes him laugh.”

“Thanks, but I still don't know who he is.” he answered her.

She sighed, and rolling here eyes opened the door as a small group were headed down after them. “I think it would be really good for you.” she insisted, leading him through, “I know you get anxious, you're a little cold. But if you need to talk to someone I think it'd be nice to have someone not just Guangzhou. I realize you need that a little now and then, I can't help. But I know some friends who can.”

Lo Bai Shun sighed heavily, and averting his gaze from the pleading expression of his date. She sighed softly, and reached out and gently brushed the breast of his shirt. “I'm sorry.” she apologized.

“Let's find a seat then.” he said quietly.

The theater room was a basement. But the cold concrete and brick had been hidden behind rugs hung up on the wall. The floor had also been dug out and re-coated as well, deepening the room by a good two or three feet to make it cozier. Single strands of light bulbs hung down, shrouded with beaten and beaded lampshades and along the wall next to the door was a table laden with metal buckets of bottles of beer, brandy, and wine. Nearby a man stood by looking after gas stoves keeping warm spreads of stuffed clam and baskets of dumplings, and at least one large coffee pot where by the ten or thirteen tea bag tags sticking out from the lid was full of tea kept warm. “You find a seat and I'll get something to eat.” Han Shu said, turning Lo Bai Shun onto the rest of the room.

The rest of it was inhabited by small dining tables, big enough for two but at times three or four people had been crammed in on one. They all encircled in a semi-circle a stage, which was a simply wooden platform with a minimal number of pre-positioned props. He found himself a seat at the edge, nearest the door and took the table for himself and Shu's. She came over soon enough with a couple small cups of tea balanced on a plate of dumplings to share.

The lights in the room dimmed soon enough, and improvised orchestra lights at the rough stage's edge turned on and the show began.

It was a comedy, and for Lo Bai Hun he did not find it very funny. Setting itself during the war it followed a group of peasants who fought a guerrilla resistance against the Japanese. But instead of using guns and bombs they used wit and guille to bamboozle and trick the Japanese. He could not fault them for the effort, after all Han Shu loved it. But he could not bring himself to find it so funny. Less so a joke where a disgraced Japanese officer is made to perform sepuku, but fails because he is too afraid.

All throughout the room, conversation echoed, words bouncing off the walls, swirling and twisting into a thick mixture of sounds and voices, yet the cacophony had a delicateness, a mild flavor to the sound that made it anything but unpleasant to the ear. Athena was accustomed to the soft yet rich sounds of conversation that went on in the language club. Le Petit Paris was a relatively new organization in the center of Athens. Perhaps it was more popular among the common adults of Athens, however, it was very common to find the diligent secondary students coming to chatter away in the club, as well as a few words of Greek slipping in between the soft French vocabulary. Certainly, no one would take this as a scene out of France itself, but with French becoming an almost ubiquitous subject in Greek education, a little bit of extra help was necessary for those wishing to get into a decent university.

And it was certainly better than taking on English or Turkish; at least that's how Athena saw it.

A quick glance at the clock made it clear that her invited guest was not going to make it today. Athena groaned.

“Useless, leave us to do all the work,” she muttered under her breath, pushing back her chair, the agitated screeching it made almost audible over the interwoven blanket of voices that covered the main conversation area as she made her way to the door.

Though socialization was a typical activity at the club, it's primary purpose was education in the French language. The library was host to a group of adult learners, here for one of the lessons the institution provided for late learners. Athena made sure to avoid drawing attention to herself as she snuck into the back, carefully combing through the books to find that little guide to verbs she had spotted the other day.

“Well, if he's not coming, I might as well just go home”

It was hardly a long trip from Le Petit Paris to Athena's home. Her father preferred living in the central area of the city. More people meant more obscurity, more insignificance among the common rabble of Athens. People talked in villages, close knit groups that had been around together for centuries. The Grandson and Great-Granddaughter of the greatest traitor in modern Greek history, they wouldn't last long in a place like that.

Inner-city Athens was hardly a paradise. The streets were littered with the poorer Greeks, as well as the majority of the non-Arvanite Albanians, and the leftovers of the descendants of whatever Turks managed to survive both the end of Ottoman rule in Greece, as well as hide well enough from her Great-Grandfather's purges. Thankfully, most had no interest in who she was; and that was for the better.

Athena and Georgos Metaxas lived in a single room flat in a large building in central Athens. Some speculated it had previously been the home of a nobleman but was now organized into a residential space, given the charming name of “Residential Block 22”.

“Dad, I'm home,” Athena said as she entered into the room. Georgos rarely cleaned up the place, and as usual, he was laying, unconscious and drunk on the couch. Crumbs and whole or half eaten tiropetes, little fried snack foods filled with cheese and parsley, littered the couch and ground. Her father had made them for her birthday yesterday, in one of the few time she saw him lucid all month. A copy of the local newspaper, Eleftheria, was covering him like a makeshift blanket. Athena picked it up as she noticed the headline.

“Government crackdown begins on Shqip Albanian culture clubs; “Local meetings becoming havens of sedition and treason” remarks local official”

Athena threw the paper down while she tuned the radio, her father had left it on, yet it was only letting out static. Mostly it was more talk about the war, and about how “Shiptars” couldn't be trusted, as well as Arvanites insisting they were not like the Shqips, and that unlike them, they were loyal to Greece and to socialism, and that they were just as Greek as anyone else, they just happened to speak Albanian as a cultural langauge. Finally she found something, a comedy-mystery show she often listened to. To Peripeteies tou Ioanni kai tou Aristoteli, The Adventures of Ioannis and Aristotle. It was a period piece, a radio show set in the Byzantine Empire, about two men named Ioannis and Aristotle, who solved mysteries and protected the Byzantines from danger. Today's episode involved Ioannis being kidnapped by some unknown force, and the only clue being some fur left at the sight of the abduction. It wasn't long before Aristotle found out that Ioannis, as well as a damsel in distress, had been taken hostage by a Rus' warband looking to sell them into slavery in the lands of the Arabs! Athena took what was left of the tiropetes and poured herself a glass of the wine in the kitchen area, and listened to the story, her mind forming pictures of Aristotle bravely infiltrating the Rus camp disguised as an Arab, and tricking the Rus into leading him to the prisoners to be shown to him for sale, slipping a pin to Ioannis as he inspected him, and then distracting the slavers with price negotiations ( complete with comedic dialogue) while Ioannis freed himself and the girl, and how the two managed to defeat the Rus' coating their whole tented encampment in vodka and kicking up the fire to trap them inside. The two Greeks escape and save the girl, while the Russians burned to death in a fiery end.

Satisfied with the episode, Athena decided to go for a walk before her father woke up.

It took about two seconds out before she heard a voice that annoyed her immensely.

“Hey, Athena”, a lurid, voice called out to her in a disgustingly flirty way. Athena turned her head to catch sight of exactly who she thought. Demitrios Zervos was something of a local badass in this part of Athens. He was 18, followed by a little gang of local Albanian and Turk hoodlums who had bought into his game. They had taken to calling him the Pasha of Pangrati. Demitrios had his eye on the little girl for a while now, and he was intent to get her in his bed today. Athena stiffened herself up and responded.

“What do you want, creep?”

Demetrios chuckled, his cronies following suit. “I don't know if you heard, but I'm headed out to training in a couple days,” he puffed out his chest, in a failed attempt to look more masculine, “Gonna see some action in Albanian with some of the boys here too,”

Athena scoffed, “Maybe you'll finally earn that title of Pasha; just be willing to pay with functioning legs”

“Shut up, cunt!” shouted one of the boys in the back, with Demitrios shouting back to the gang member to shut up and watch his mouth, with him immediately turning back to Athena with a sleazy smile as he apologized for his friend's misbehavior.

“Okay, so you're going to war in a few days, so what do you want from me?”

“I figured if you're not busy, we can go back to the pad, share a little drink and maybe have some fun if you know what I mean”

Athena's face twisted in disgust, “I'm 14”

“Yeah, but you certainly don't look it”, he replied, looking her up and down

Athena pulled her arms over her body, “Disgusting”

“Hey, maybe the little prude is more like her great-grandpa than she likes to admit,” one of the others quipped, “Think's sex is dirty like old Johnny”

“Nah,” another spoke up, “My girl told me back in Argyrokastro and Korytza she was sharing a bed with that blonde chick, Lydia or whatever”

“Heh, looks like you're trying to woo a dyke, Demitrios”

Athena felt sickened by their insults and began to move back to the door of the residential block.

“Oh, it looks like something finally got to her,” someone chimed up

“Probably worried we'll report her to the police and get her locked up”

“Don't be stupid, dykes don't go to jail, just fags”

“She'd probably like it too, locked up with a bunch of chicks. It'd probably be heaven for her.”

Athena wanted to shout at them to shut up, but couldn't bring herself to it, only sneeking back into the block while they were too distracted to do anything, listening to the talking outside.

“What the, where'd she go! Ah great work, guys, she's gone now you stupid fucks.”

“Don't act so made, Demitrios. You weren't going to get any anyways.”

Athena simply waited for the talking to die down, looking out the windows of the building lobby to see if they were gone. All the while cursing the group, hoping every one of them would die a horrible death in the war, that the Albanians would take their heads off and parade them around the villages like trophies. She was on the verge of tears, but held it back. Off in the distance, another radio was buzzing on about the war in Albania, That the premier had issued a statement on the conflict.



Markos Vafeiadis was not fond of public appearances. Since the declaration of the Hellenic socialist republic all those years ago, he had rarely come out to address the state directly. He was far from the man he was then, a graying old man, a grizzled reminder of the commander who helped bring about the end of nationalism in Greece. Now the time had come once again to bring about the end of a monarchy. The Hall of the Demogerontia, the name of the ruling council of Greece, was a prominent part of the city of Athens, being a repurposing of the former palace of the king. Though it was often seen, it was rarely visited by those outside of the Communist Party elite. A crowd had gathered around the Hall as the premier made his public appearance, clearing his throat, he began to speak.

“People of Greece, long has it been since we had seen it necessary to exchange blows with our neighbor. Albania is a contentious state, a state that has shown little regard for that which is wanted by the people. When the people of Northern Epirus declared their intention to leave Albania, and rightfully join into the Greek State, they refused, and we were forced to act, to aid our brothers in seeing their wishes realized. When the people of Albania spoke before that, and they united together and announced their intentions to bring the revolution to Albania, the tyrant Zog brought in his soldiers to enforce his will, to slaughter innocent people in the struggle for an Albania ruled by the people. But what should we expect from a man like Zog, a tyrant like Ahmed Zogu, who came to his power only by the will of the people, who was elected by their power, and showed his true, putrid nature by abusing his position, and becoming not a servant of the people, but a despot, who transitioned his nation into a Monarchy of his command, to set him and his descendants above all others in his lands. And now, the disregard of Zog shows, in his arrogance and hatred of the people, he has transferred control of the nation onto a son who is not fit to govern a household pet, let alone a nation! King Skander is the ultimate expression of the incompetence of monarchy and the dangers it holds against the common man. This fool sits upon a throne, letting Albania decay as the decadent and immoral advisors at his side carve the nation up for themselves and exploit its people and its resources. It is known that Greece has supported a far more befitting ruler, the brave Enver Hoxha, and his followers as they take Albanian back for the common people. With the declaration of a new government by Comrade Hoxha, it is now fitting that we, the Hellenic Socialist Republic, publicly recognize the legitimacy of the People's Democratic Republic of Albania, as the sole authority over the state of Albania, and denounce the unfit, tyrannical rulership of the House of Zogu. We announce a partnership of Greece and the legitimate government of Albania, and a pledge of Greece to assist and protect our socialist brothers in the north against the Monarchist threat. May the House of Zogu fall, and may Albania prosper under the leadership of Comrade Hoxha.”

Markos was certain that his speech had rallied the Greeks to his cause, and that it would send a clear message to all across Europe. Monarchy was on its way out, and it was only a matter of time before all of Europe was red.

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June 15th: Sun City, Arizona
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The Lucky Gent was rich with the raw lumber smell of unvarnished wood, mixed with the heady scent of beer. Waitresses plied each table, dressed in skirts propped by ridiculous fluffy petty-coats, much shorter than the 19th century garb they mocked. The dealers at the game tables wore pin-stripe vests over baggy white shirts with arm garters and green visors like bankers from westerns. On a protruding stage in the middle of it all, two men who looked exactly like Mark Twain played "Blue Moon of Kentucky" with a fiddle and a banjo.

The hokey Western theme only extended to the employees. Patrons could be told apart by the modernity of their clothes. Taytu sat at a blackjack table next to a young man in a suit that was much to big for him. He talked the dealer's ears off. That was good enough for Taytu, since it saved her from speaking.

"Say mister, you've been following the election?" the boy asked. He signaled when he wanted to hit or stand.

"Only the headlines in the papers. Isn't it too early for that?"

"Well I want to get ahead of it, you know? Be a good citizen. I've been watching Eric Fernandez. You hear about that guy?"

"I can't say that I have." The Dealer said. Taytu won. The dealer went about his business mechanically, and nobody acknowledged her.

"He's the left-winger. A real visionary. You should look into him."

"Left winger? Are you a socialist?"

The boy won a round, but didn't seem to notice. The game for him had become a backdrop for the conversation instead of the other way around. "Naw, I'm no socialist. I'm a transactionalist." he said self-importantly.

"A transactionalist? What's that?"

"Well, I believe everything is a transaction. All people want to do is know that they got a good deal. Good deals are what run the world, see. It don't matter of you are a capitalis', a monarchis', or a communis', so long as the people think they are gettin' more than they are putting in, well, they'll be fine with it."

"That's just common sense." The dealer won. Taytu went through the motions, waiting until her bodyguard returned from his phonecall.

"Sure, but nobody thinks like that. People in this country, they think it's all about the scratch. But that ain't it at all. If some red Chinaman thinks he got a good deal in joining the commune, lets say ten Chinamen with tiny rice paddies live next to some cat with a great big paddy, and Chairman Hou comes along and tells them to communilize. Them ten poor Chinamen will be happy because they got a good deal. Sure, the cat with the big paddy won't be too happy, but what's he going to do about it? I think that's the problem with people going around saying its all about the scratch. What's money to a Chinaman if he don't gotta pay rent on his paddy?"

"Say, this sounds like communis' talk. Do I need to call the authorities?" This was the first time the dealer made eye contact with the young soap-boxer.

"Aw, why would you go and do that? Don't Sun City got a sayin'? What you do in Sun City don't get said anywhere else?"

"Something like that." The dealer went back to his business.

"You misunderstand me anyway. Say I'm a workin' American man and my boss is real good to me. I take home a great big roll every week, maybe save some extra for a rainy day. Well, that's a good transaction. Why'd I ever think about being a Communis'? A Worker don't care he's being exploited if he got a car, and can buy a swell dress for his wife now and then. Why's he care if the boss is fat and livin' uptown? All the workin' man wants is a good deal for himself."

"I still think that's common sense."

"Sure, but it goes further then that. Transactions decide everything. Love ain't nothin' but a man and a dame haggling for a good deal. That's what it all is. What was God doin' with Abraham and Isaac on the mountain? That was haggling. You tell a man he gotta be your servant forever and he won't be so happy about it. But you tell a man that he has to kill his kid, then you change it and say 'we got a sale on the holy spirit now, all you gotta do is kill a goat and pledge your never-ending loyalty, and suddenly the man is excited about the prospect. Why? He got a good deal."

"I don't know if you're a communis' or a Jew."

Noh came back and took his place standing behind Taytu. She looked up at the dealer and smiled. "Deal me out."

The dealer nodded, but the young man looked hurt. "You don't have to go, miss. I was gettin' to enjoy your company."

"I have places to go." she said. She took her chips and left. The wood floor creaked beneath her shoes.

"What did the Embassy have to say." she asked.

"Nothing." Noh replied, "I updated them. They had nothing for us." Taytu wondered if he'd updated them on everything the two of them had been up to. Did they know she'd seduced him? It didn't matter. She had nothing to hide. They went to the cashier and cashed out. "Do you want to eat here?" Noh asked. "It's as bad a place as any." she said. They walked toward the restaurant, navigating the dawdling knots of patrons and tourists that clogged the main aisles.

The employees in the restaurant were dressed as ridiculously as those on the floor. Their maître d had pigtails. "How many?" she asked. "Can you count?" Taytu replied. The maître d's smile wavered for just a second, like a brief glitch of static before the radio went back to playing exactly has it had before. "Right this way!" she led them to a two-seat table, a napkin dispenser in the middle shaped like a pig. She opened the menu, and was pleasantly surprised they had a wine selection. "Château de Poster Fagot" she requested, "The whole bottle." The waitress left them.

"None of this looks familiar." she said, reading through the menu items. This wasn't what they served in DC. Not at any of the places she went to anyway.

"Try the Chili." he said, "It's like the food at home."

"How do you know that?"

"At church. They told me about a place. The spices are different, but otherwise it's about the same thing."

"Chili it is." she said. They both folded their menus. A waitress came over and took their order, leaving them to wait with a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses. Taytu poured.

The restaurant was accessible from the street, and she could see outside the window. The sidewalk was bathed in the flashing glow of colorful light. Blue, to white, then back to blue. It repeated this cycle. She knew it was the massive neon image of a steamboat hanging above the entrance because they'd went under it to enter the Casino. People passed by in groups, their skin looking ghostly under the light. As she watched them, she noticed something. Motorcycles. A dozen of them or so all parked in front. She remembered what the old Native woman had said about the Highway Rangers; Southerners still bitter about the war. She looked around, and saw a table across the way where four bearded men in leather jackets stared at her. Leered at her.

"I think we are in danger." she whispered to Noh.

"What?" he looked where she was looking. "I think those are Highway Rangers. Remember the old woman at the desert motel?" She said.

"You're safe." Noh said, "This isn't the middle of the desert. Don't worry about it."

Their food came, and Taytu tried to shake the Rangers from her mind. Both of them had bowls of spicy ground beef with a couple of flour tortillas on the side. Noh ripped off a piece of tortilla and used it to pinch a glob of meat.

"Is it supposed to be eaten like that?" she asked.

"I don't know, but I like it this way." She shrugged and followed suit. 'When in Rome only' counted with things that were worth while, and this kind of restaurant was certainly not that. She ate, ambivalent to the American cooking, and tried not to notice the Highway Rangers. When she did steal a furtive glance in their direction, she was always spooked to see at least one of them looking at her. She wanted to get away. "Let's get out of here." she asked, taking the check and the bottle of wine. They paid at the front and went out. Noh gave the valet their ticket.

They were under the flashing steamboat wheel now, on the other side of the window. The motorcycles stood in front of them, making her feel caught, like an antelope stuck between a lion and its den. The crowd walked around them uninterested.

"Hey, niggers!" A dreaded voice came from behind. They turned around, and to her horror, faced the four men she'd seen in the restaurant. "Why y'all dressed up so fancy?" Their leader taunted. They looked like vengeful wraiths under the light of the neon sign.

"This is Princess Taytu of Ethiopia." Noh said, standing between her and the Highway Rangers, "We are diplomats under the protection of the United States Government."

"Oooh, la-tee-dah" one of the Rangers walked toward them. They moved slowly, wolves circling a buffalo, finding the best time to pounce. "We got more then enough niggers as it is, we didn't need no more from overseas. If I could, I'd build a big ol' wall all around Africa, and on the inside it'd read 'NIGGERS KEEP OUT' in big ol' bloody letters 'bout ten feet tall." His eyes flashed.

Taytu screamed. Pedestrians avoided them all together rather than get involved. She felt helpless and alone in a way she hadn't felt since childhood. Her scream spooked the Rangers. One of them rushed toward Noh. A fight started. She saw the silvery gleam of a knife, and at once the entire world seemed to slow down around her.

"Put away the skiv and back off." A hard voice came from the doorway of the Casino. Three men in pin-stripe suits stared down the rangers.

"Who called the wops?"

"We don't need you tramps on the strip. Get back on those grease-machines and go south. South, you hear? Go anywhere else and we'll follow you. You get that?"

The head Ranger looked hard at his challenger, then looked around, and started to appear nervous. "Come one boys. This ain't nothin' but a town of damned-fool nigger lovers." They climbed on their bikes, started them, and proceeded to make as much noise as they could, revving their engines and screaming at the top of their lungs, filling the air with the stink of gasoline. But as they did this, they headed south.

"Thank you..." she turned around to her saviors, but she saw their faces were as hard for the Ethiopians as they had been for the Rangers.

"I know you didn't bring the trouble on purpose, but you brought it all the same. Now our patrons are gonna look at you and think 'Trouble'. You can go wherever you want, miss, but you can't stay here."

"We were going anyway." Noh said.

"Good." the hard-faced man seemed to relax. "Pleasant journey. And a piece of advice: Don't go south."

Niko hated having to make these routine trips to Macedonia of all places. Giannitsa was the last place one would expect the center of Greek automotive manufacturing to be. It was hardly a major city, and almost a third of the population was ethnically Turkish. The city had come to be known under the nickname of “Little Turkey”, and the locals had taken to calling it by its Turkish name, Yenice, though most of it's inhabitants had been born and raised in Greece. Still, one was just as likely to hear workers in the factories gossiping in Turkish as in Greek.

Niko hated speaking Turkish, he despised the sound of it, the look of it, everything. Yet his father had required him to learn it. Instead of the sweet sounds of French, he was tiring and laboring over a barbaric language brought by invaders. No matter how necessary it was for him, he would never enjoy listening to it, and never appreciate the feel of it coming off his tongue.

Niko was all too aware of what went on in Giannitsa, his father had invested significant effort into making the automotive industry functional here. Nikolaos Zachariadis Jr., head of the Department of Industry of Greece. Factories under his authority like this one dotted the landscape of Macedonia. Sure, a few outliers could be found in Athens or the Peloponnese, but Macedonia was the industrial heart of all of Greece. The national company his father had installed into the land was even given an optimistic name.

Alexandros Automotives: Reliable from Greece to India

But civilian concerns were not the reason for visiting today.

The head of this factory, a short, fat Slavic man named Boris, was sitting in his office going over the numbers of his plant. He had grown up a little bit farther north in Edessa. Neither a Greek nor a Turk, he belonged to a native Slavic culture found in the far north of Greece and the far south of Serbia. They called themselves Macedonians, but the Greeks preferred to just call them “Slavs”. Boris had worked hard to make it this far, having none of the benefit of being a Greek, nor the social programs to help Macedonian Turks. Niko was no more a fan of Slavs than he was of Turks, and it showed in his entrance.

“Boris,” Niko said without emotion, not even extending a handshake to the head of the plant.

“I assume you know why I'm here,”

Boris swallowed hard at the statement. “I have some idea”

“Really?” Niko responded, eying the foreman. “So are you just lazy or stupid?”

Niko's expression changed into one of anger as he spoke again.

“Consistently you have managed to ensure that this location is under performing,” Niko slammed a folder full of reports on Factory #334, showing its low output.

“It's amazing, really, that you can manage to so poorly run a location. We are beginning a massive war effort, and I expect that you are going to be able to deliver some kind of improved output, so that we're not just jacking off in the mountains, and actually manage to accomplish something. But I'm probably asking too much of you in that regard. Since this conflict has started you've managed to drag your ass in actually contributing to the war effort.”

Niko lit up a cigarette as he finished speaking, seeing the very noticeable shaking that was present in Boris. Being the head of the department meant he always got the pleasure of cutting out and fixing weak links in the machine. “So, pack your shit and get out, Boris. I don't have any use for you if you're going to be a burden on the war effort. You have until the end of the week to leave, and by then we'll have found someone who is capable of actually keeping up output.”

Niko turned away before he could see any emotion creep up in the Slavic man's face. Production was of the essence, and he could not afford to have the war effort undermined by some useless peon.


A tip had gotten off the other day about seditious behavior in an Albanian bar in the north of Argyrokastro. A little dive bar called “Maja e Malit”, a well known hang out for Albanian nationalists and monarchists. Two days ago, a tip was given, about unusual behavior going on among the patrons of the establishment. Treasonous discussion, distribution of anti-Government literature. Talks had come of a strange figure, a man calling himself Gjergj Kastrioti, frequenting the establishment, spreading dissent and attempting to recruit into his nationalist organization. Military police were ready, and a raid on the bar was about to go down.

The signal went out, and the doors of the bar were kicked down. Screaming echoed out as women and men ran for cover as the military police entered into the room. A few attempted to run, only to be stopped by the police as they attempted to flee. The raid progressed further, as the police broke down the door into the back offices.

Or so they thought. The greeting they received was a gun shot, returned in turn as the would be Albanian assailant fell to the ground.

It had been underestimated just how much was behind the bar.



For too long we have been subjugated by foreign powers. Since before written history, our tribes have been held under the yoke of the Romans, followed by the Byzantines, the Ottomans, and now, the Greeks control us, with the lie of a free state created to make us placid and malleable by outside powers. All aspects of our very core as a people have been forcibly altered by those who would control us. Is not our language contaminated by words imposed upon us by the Romans? Does not over half of our people adhere to that religion brought by the Ottomans, while another half pretends to be free while subjugating themselves to the Greek and Roman chuches. He says he is free and follows an Albanian religion but knows not the history that brought us in to the Christian faith.

We had hope, in the great King Zog, chosen of God, a man who had brought forth Albania as a true nation, not merely a collection of warlords. However he has left us with an ineffective king. This is unfortunately true. However, King Skander is not the only option. For King Zog had a brother, Prince Xhalil who produced a suitable heiress for rulership. Princess Xhemile of the perfect age of 19 as of the publication of this tract, can provide us with a long lasting leader that can unite the Albanians in opposition to invasion.

The plan is simple, the necessary steps that Skanderbeg's Own must take into account to ensure the optimal Albanian state against invasion.

1. We must liberate all Albanian territiories from foreign invaders
2. We must force the incompetent King Skander IV to abdicate to his cousin, Princess Xhamile
3. We must return Albania to its traditional values, and codify what an Albanian is and how he must act.
4. Free Albania from degenerate foreign influences.

Anyone can see it is plain how an Albanian should act. An Albanian is he who speaks the language, who practices Islam (the only religion we can make our own, and that we can separate from some foreign power such as Catholicism and Orthodox Christianity, that bind us to Rome and to the Greeks), and follows our old ways and traditions. Under the rule of Princess Xhamile Zogu, and with the guidance of Skaderbeg's Own, we shall purge all the foreign influences from Albania ,and bring our nation into a new golden age.

Go with God, my friends and brothers, for it is up to you to defend the fatherland. Further instructions will follow. But may this booklet guide you until then.

Atdha
“Gjergj Kastroti”

“What the hell am I looking at, exactly?”

“It's called Atdha. It means "Fatherland" in Albanian. These, along with a plethora of other copies, were recovered from a bar after we receive d a tip of nationalist activity going on there. Turns out the place was a center of activity for this group, called Skanderbeg's Own. This looks to be their manifesto, written not only in Tosk but in Gheg and even Arvanitika”

Vasilis Bartziolas ran his hands over his head. At a time like this, the potential for domestic terrorism was far from what he wanted. It was already enough to have to be monitoring the Albanians as was, but having a potential terrorist organization brewing within Greek borders was something else.

“What do we know about them?”

The assistant tossed a file onto the table, “They seem be fairly new, forming mostly in Northern Epirus, with some support found in the South Epirus Department as well. Their leader calls himself Gjergj Kastroti, in reference to Skanderbeg, the Albanian national hero.” The assistant then opened up the file to show a picture of a young man, looking to be about in his late 20s, clean shaven, reddish blonde hair, no distinguishing facial features other than a rather long and pointed nose. “His real name is Ahmet Pashaj according to one of the members we interrogated. He's from Tirana originally, later moved to Korytza, but then settled in Argyrokastro after it was brought into Greece.”

“Anything else?” inquired Vasilis

The assistant's face twisted into a look of disgust.

“He's got a record of involvement in ultra-right and nationalist movements in his short 25 years of life that put some other right winger's to shame. He was rejected from military service in Albania due to a crime he was convicted of back in his teenage years, but he's pretty well known in Tirana for his beliefs.”

“Which are?”

“Extreme Albanian nationalism, ultra-right conservativism, Islamic fundamentalism, praising of autocratic rule. He was a major supporter of Zog's regime, but believed that Zog didn't go far enough in establishing what he believed were “traditional Albanian values”.

“And this Princess he talks about?”

“Ah yes, Xhamile Zogu. The cousin of Skander Zogu, by way of Zog's brother Xhalil's son Skender. She's the next in line after Skander dies.”

“And where is she?”

“Germany”

“Germany?”

“Her father moved to France sometime after Zog took power in the state, and that branch later relocated to Germany after France became socialist. Xhamile lives somewhere in Frankfurt, but she'd almost undoubtedly return if Skander were to perish, as Pashaj's group desires. My guess is that Skanderbeg's Own plans to kill Skander and force Xhamile into power, while using her favor as a means to get into positions of power over Albania, and hopefully mold into their desired image. Xhamile is still just a young woman, they probably see her as weak and easily manipulated into favoring them. Xhamile presents a threat as she's a far more capable ruler, and might gain international support for her rule, as opposed to Skander, who can barely eat on his own. But the biggest threat comes in the potential for Skanderbeg's own to conduct terrorist campaigns against us. We could see them attacking civilians to invoke terror, or see them damaging key points in Epirus to try and cripple the war effort, and cut off our support of Hoxha's men.”

“So what do you propose we do about it?”

“First will be to begin cracking down on their meeting places. It will be best to put all Albanians in Epirus and Greece under surveillance, and to carefully monitor any establishments frequented by Albanians. The security in both Epiruses must be increased, and we will need extra defenses around key transportation sites to Albania.”


Souroupo was a popular nightclub for the working men and women of Ioannina. Muhammat Burim had managed to get into the club easily. No eye was drawn to him, no one suspecting anything. At least he thought so, before he knew it, one of the bouncers had caught up to him.

“Hey, you, yeah you.” Muhammat turned to catch his eye, “What have you got in there?”

“You will see soon enough, you will all see in time.”

“Open the jacket”

Muhammat simply started laughing

“Can you not here, I said open the jacket!”

The laughing just continued, as other patrons even began to notice.

“This is the last warning, open the damn jacket!”

But the only movement was when Muhammat pulled a string on his vest.

“In the name of Allah and the House of Zogu, justice will be done”

And in one loud blast, it was clear what he had been hiding.

Hollywood
4:01 PM

“Roll playback. And… action!”

[Scene Music]

Champ Dennis faked blowing on his trumpet while the Edwards Sisters watched in awe. He and the three girls were dressed in the khaki uniforms of US servicemen, the sisters in skirts instead of pants. The set they were on looked like an army mess hall, the sisters sitting on the empty counter and snapping along with the playback. When it came time, the sisters mouthed the words they'd already recorded in a sound studio.

"He was a famous trumpet man from out Chicago way/He had a boogie style that no one else could play. He was the top man at his craft, but then his number came up and he was gone with the draft. He's in the army now. He's blowin' reveille/He's the boogie woogie bugle boy of company B!"

They all slid off the counter and started a dance number with Dennis. The three girls surrounded him and traded off singing duties while Dennis blew his horn in accompaniment.

"He was the boogie woogie bugle boy of Company B/ And when he plays boogie woogie bugle he was busy as a bee
And when he plays he makes the company jump eight to the bar/He's the boogie woogie bugle boy of Company B!"

From behind the camera and crew, Elliot Shaw watched the musical number with bored detachment. The movie, Private Champ, was loosely based on Dennis' time in the Army during the war. In truth, Champ Dennis served hundreds of miles behind the lines preforming for US troops and never had to go through basic training. The bit about the tough drill sergeant who learned to have fun through Champ's music was bullshit. The same way the Edwards Sisters were neither named Edwards or sisters.

Elizabeth Edwards was actually Esther Segal, a Jew whose dad was some big lawyer back east. Midge Edwards was Maria Rodriguez, product of a Mex dad and a white mother. And young Cathy Edwards was Caitlin O'Keefe, a Mick so Irish she pissed Guinness, all had decent pipes and close enough features to pass for sisters so the studio lumped them together aad gave them new names. Like Dennis' war service, the Edwards Sisters were created for mass consumption.

Elliot finished his cigarette and stubbed it out on the floor as the scene began to wrap up. Champ finished his long trumpet solo as the girls climbed on top of the counter to pretend to sing the rest of the song in harmony. Champ dropped to his knees below them and faked belting out the last bit of the song.

"He puts the boys to sleep with boogie every night/And wakes them up the same way in the early bright
They clap their hands and stamp their feet/Because they know how he plays when someone gives him a beat
He really breaks it up when he plays reveille/He's boogie woogie bugle boy of Company B!"

"And.... cut!"

The crew applauded politely. Champ Dennis wiped sweat from his brow and bowed while Elliot walked towards the director.

"How many takes did you do?" he asked the little man.

"We got four takes," said George Alexander. "I wouldn't mind a fifth."

"Four is good enough," Elliot said, resting a hand on George's shoulder. "More than enough coverage to edit something good. I need to get Midge out of here."

George looked crestfallen but nodded. Ten minutes later, Elliot and Midge Edwards were in his car heading west to Malibu. She'd changed out of her costume, now wearing a pair of slacks and a blouse. Elliot could see the beginnings of a bulge sticking up from the blouse.

"Geez," he said to her. "How far along are you?"

"Six weeks. Gimme a cigarette."

He passed her his pack and lighter. She took a healthy drag off her smoke before expelling a column of smoke out the cracked window.

"The costume people were taking my clothes out, so it won't show up on film. I know that's why you're asking, Shaw."

"Know who the daddy is, Midge?"

"I got it narrowed down to about a half dozen," she said with a grin. "Gonna call me a roundheels, Shaw?"

"Don't think I will," said Elliot. "If you were a fellow, they'd call you a Casanova or a Don Juan. But because you're a skirt, roundheels is the operative word. I don't think that's fair."

Midge finished her smoke and flicked it out the window. They spoke very little after that. Instead, they listened to the big band music on the radio. An hour later, Elliot pulled up to the big iron gates with the letter MBC on both sides of the gates. Elliot rolled down the window of his car and hit the callbox beside the driver's window. After saying who he was, the gates opened and he drove through.

It looked like a beachside mansion because it was a beachside mansion. The doctor who ran the place had bought the home and turned it into the Malibu Beach Clinic. It was the best medical treatment money could buy. Dope cures, psychotherapy, plastic surgery, abortions. You named it, the good doctor preformed them for a price. Every studio Hollywood studio had a running account with the man that kept at least two beds open and waiting for their starlets. He was waiting for Elliot and Midge at the front steps of the mansion.

"Mr. Shaw," Dr. Charles Van der Merwe said politely, his Afrikaans accent still present after decades in America. "And who do we have today?"

"One, sec, Doc."

Elliot took Midge by the elbow and walked her away out of earshot from the doctor.

"Last chance," he said softly to her. "Midge -- Maria -- you can keep the baby, but you'd have to get hitched. Studio has a list of men they'd like you to marry."

Midge looked up at Elliot. She had pale blue eyes, a gift from her European ancestors. In them, Elliot saw no fear or doubt or hesitation.

"I want the scrape, Shaw," he said with a smirk. "The last thing I need is a kid I don't want and a husband I don't love. I'd rather get it over with and have my freedom."

Elliot nodded and they walked back to the doctor. He was tall, a good three inches above Elliot who was 6'2, with lanky limbs and fingers that were long and slender. There were many rumors about the man's mysterious past in Africa. Human experiments on the natives, lobotomies for Rhodesian enemies of state, eugenics initiatives the good doctor had started in the name of preserving the white race. It was all conjecture as far as Elliot knew. But still, he was sure to hide the truth about Midge's half-Mexican lineage as he checked her in for the abortion.

After Midge was given over to Van der Merwe and his staff, he headed back to Hollywood. He stopped thinking about Midge and instead starting thinking about the dynamite in his jacket pocket. Thanks to Agnes, the list of phone numbers he found at Claire Beauchamp's bungalow had been searched and each number had been given a name and address. The further down the list you got, the worse it was. Each and every name was some kind of mover and shaker in LA in general, and Hollywood in particular. Lawyers, producers, actors, and even a director. All of them were now affiliated with a dead girl with radical beliefs. It was the making of a shitstorm, but a shitstorm he could control.

He would look into the list and the names on them tonight after his meeting with the cops. After playing phone tag, he and Detective Thomas had finally managed to arrange a meeting at a diner downtown. He'd give up Claire Beauchamp's life story, maybe leak the angle about her schtupping negroes, something to give the cops that would steer the cops away from the subversive shit and the list.

Elliot checked his watch and started to head for downtown.

---

77th Street Station
6:21 PM

Jefferson Thomas could smell blood. He'd been smelling it since yesterday night. None of the blood had been his. It'd belonged to the men of South Central LA. He and Hoty led a dragnet through South Central, rounding up all sex offenders who lived within three miles of the Voodoo. Anybody who resisted -- and what colored man would willingly go with the LAPD anywhere? -- had been roughed up by Hoyt and patrolmen until they were tossed into a paddywagon. They were then taken to 77th Street Station and forced to give an alibi for the night Claire Beauchamp had been killed. Those that did have an alibi had it "tested" by Hoyt's rubber hose and phone book while Jeff actually went out and made sure it was real. Those that had no alibi, so far it was six, had been worked over with the hose and phone book to get them to confess. So far, none of the six had confessed and were in holding cells for the next seventy-two hours.

Jeff came out the side of the station and on to the sidewalk, hoping the fresh air would clear his nose of that blood smell. In between the beatings, he'd actually made progress on the Wendall Brock murder. His criminal history was redacted, but his work history raised some interesting questions.

"Detective Thomas."

He turned at the mention of his name. A short, heavyset man in an LAPD uniform stood on the sidewalk. Jeff saw braid on his cap and captains bars on his collar. The man stepped forward and smiled politely.

"You're a hard man to get hold of, Detective. Captain Arnold Prescott."

Jeff felt his stomach drop. He put on a fake smile and extended a hand.

"Captain, I apologize."

Prescott looked down at his outstretched and stared at it before looking back up. Jeff retracted his hand and stuck it in his pockets. His face flushed in embarrassment. He should have known better than to do that. While the guys at 77th Street would shake his hand, it had taken them a while to work up to it.

"We've had a redball here at 77th Street Station," he said sheepishly. "You know how that is."

"Indeed," Prescott said with a nod. "Come with me, Detective. I'd like you to meet someone."

Prescott led the way and Jeff followed behind. A man was waiting for them in the parking lot, leaning against a black Ford Florentine, a fed car. He was tall with receding black hair and thick, black framed glasses that made his eyes look enormous. He sized Jeff up like a piece of meat as they got closer to the car.

"Detective, this is Special Agent in Charge Nate Parker. He's with the FCB."

"Pinkerton Division," Parker said, flashing a badge with the Pinkerton Eye on it.

Jeff could feel his stomach doing somersaults. Prescott and the Red Squad interested in him was bad enough. But now a Pinkerton, no LA's head Pinkerton, wanted him for something.

"Detective," Parker said with a smirk. "You are something of a curiosity. I knew LAPD had a few policemen of color, but I didn't expect they had any detectives."

"Does that surprise you, Agent Parker?"

"A bit," Parker nodded. "Your kind aren't really known for their deductive skills."

Jeff let loose with his smile. The same smile he used every time his brother officers made jokes about negroes in front of him. He put a little minstrel show in his voice when he spoke.

"Well, sir, I like to think I ain't your average nigga."

That made both Parker and Prescott laugh. They were both short and with very little humor.

"We just want to know your interest in Wendall Brock," said Prescott. "You requested his arrest report."

Something began to form in the back of Jeff's mind. The Red Squad and Pinkertons were interested in Brock, a man with a redacted criminal history, a man who was shot in a back alley. A man with radical literature in his home. Whatever he was thinking, it was unfocused and without form. But it was the start of something.

"He was murdered a week and a half ago," Jeff said with a shrug. "I got the case."

"But that investigation was suspended, wasn't it?" Prescott asked. "Lack of leads."

"It's South Central." Parker squared his glasses. "Brock was a degenerate with dangerous beliefs. Some jigaboo with a gun did the world a favor, Detective. Leave it at that."

"Detective Thomas is a good boy," Prescott said with just a touch of condescension in his voice. "He knows when someone, especially someone with rank and influence in the LAPD, asks to drop an investigation, then you drop that investigation."

"Yes, suh," Jeff said with a hardy nod.

"Thank you for your understanding, Detective," said Parker. "Now, don't you have a starlet murder to solve?"

"You're right about that, suh."

Jeff left the two men in the parking lot and walked back to the station on shaky legs. He could feel the two men watching him every step of the way.