They boy rested on his knees in the snow, dirt and blood adulterating the pure whiteness of the precipitation as it collected on the ground. The young man's chest grew and sunk with each breath that he struggled to suck into his lungs, head down, his face obscured by the long, blonde hair that hung down, caked and clumped together with dried blood. To the left of the boy stood a hooded woman, her dark black cloak trimmed with golden embroidery, loosely hanging over her body, her face clearly visible under her hood, with long, almost white blonde hair and icy blue eyes, as she held the end of a rope strung over a tree, leading back to a noose tied around the boy's neck. In front of both was another man in the same black and gold hood, an elderly bearded man. He spoke loudly to the gathered crowd.

"This man has been found guilty of desecrating the Shrine of Laima in this village. He has incurred the wrath of the Mother of Heaven upon us all."

The crowd roared angrily, their clothes glittering, the colors gone pale from the collection of the snow upon them. They were dressed in simple garments, long shirts over pants, the women wearing long, thick skirts over their pants, and all with hooded, woolen cloaks over their clothing.

The older man spoke once again, "Laima demands a sacrifice to restore the sanctity of her sacred space." As he spoke he instructed the woman with a simple point in her direction. The young woman responded by feeding the rope into some kind of turning machine and began to turn the handle, as the rope rose up over the tree, dragging the young man by the neck off the ground and suspending him. He tried to resist, twisting and writhing as he rose up, though it was clear there was no escape for him. The sounds of his choking could be heard as the older man and the young woman began to sing chants in praise of the goddess Laima, before the young man went limp, hanging by his neck from the maple tree.

With that the crowd cheered, as the young woman fetched a cow, and slaughtered it as well, sprinkling its blood over the site, over herself and the older man, and then turning to splatter the blood over the crowd.

What started as an execution quickly turned into a feast, as the participants of the sacrifice were invited to eat of the slaughtered cow, as parts of it were burned in a fire as tribute to the gods Laima and Perkunas.

The young woman called out during the merriment, "All praise Perkunas, the most merciful God, who gave us all of this!" And so the crowd roared in excitement of the figure. To the unknown, they may just be praising a god, but it was far more than that.

In the new capital, the King Mindaugas I, looked out over the dark, gloomy landscape of the Baltic. Most of the year, the Baltic was in freezing cold, with snow falling all but 3 months of the year. Only the hardiest of plant life could grow here. Much like only the hardiest of men could thrive here. Mindaugas remembered how his father had unified the tribes of the Baltic under the Lithuanian banner, and set them out to conquer and take new land for Lithuanians to live in. It was only befiting of a god king to do so, and now Perkunas had chosen to reside in him after his father's death. Mindaugas would be sure not to disappoint.

The base’s outer defences were finally being finalized and Valeria could rest a bit easier. The resistance in this area proved much tougher than expected. This outpost was the only stable point the Conglomerate had, the rest of the camps on the coast of former Brazil were getting attacked so frequently that Valeria ordered everyone to fall back until the threat is averted.

The threat, some sort of mystical post-apocalyptic cult, was more considerable than anything the Conglomerate had previously encountered during the Years of Unification. The biggest problem wasn’t the technology, the cult was almost at the Middle ages technological level, but their complete disregard for human lives. They were willing to send hundreds of ill-equipped warriors that had no chance of survival just so that a dozen of them would make it through and kill two or three Madirian soldiers and a couple of civilians before they were neutralized. In the long term that would probably work against the cultists and weakened their numbers, but Valeria wasn’t willing to let her people die for no valid reason, so the other positions were abandoned and all personnel gathered in the fortified base.

The men and women, often barely adults, fighting for the cult were absolutely fanatical in their beliefs and followed their orders blindly, even if it meant a quick death. Valeria wanted to get more information before advancing inland into their territory, but none of the scouts that volunteered to go ever checked back in and the few enemies the Conglomerate forces were able to capture alive were so brainwashed that they didn’t provide anything useful.

Valeria sent out remotely piloted drones, but most of the area was covered by thick jungle and if there were some permanent settlements used by the cult, they were hidden amongst the trees. The jungle also gave out steady heat signature, which was confusing the infrared detectors on the drones.

All things considered, the Conglomerate had no idea what and who are they standing against and Valeria did not like that at all.


Javier wiggled uncomfortably. The afternoon prayers were always so long and kneeling in the wet mud certainly didn't help. He had to remind himself to stay still. You have to keep your head down. No matter what you think, you can never stick out of the crowd. That was what his mother used to tell him before she was called. Also that he is too smart for his own good. That was a dangerous trait to have amongst the Regressed.

He mumbled the same words as the others around him, again and again, until they were burned into everyone’s brain. Until there was nothing else left. The preacher told the same story as always, the story of pride and fall, the story of mankind thought themselves to be greater than God and how it was struck down and nearly obliterated to pay for its sins. The few faithful were spared to start anew, with the task of rebuilding the society the right way. Everything that even resembled advanced technology was ought to be destroyed as a tool of the Devil, all thoughts of it were erased and whoever tried to resist was burned alive as a heretic. There weren't many who tried to resist these days.

Javier used to believe it, just like everyone else. But his mind always wondered about things, thinking about how much easier they could be made if people used those devilish tools, or even just their brains.

Hundreds of people were slaving away carrying fresh water from the nearby river to the settlements. And it wasn't even good water, it always tasted of mud and often was dirty and weird smelling. Javier discovered some underground pipes and mechanisms that were undoubtedly meant to bring much better water from the underground, effortlessly right into people's houses. Javier was decided to talk to Pablo, village preacher about it after today's prayers, convincing himself that anything is better than having people waste their effort and getting sick from bad water. Man of God or not, he must listen to reason.

A few hours later, laying tied up on the ground and awaiting morning prayers when he was to be burned alive with the first flash of sunlight, he cursed himself for being stupid. Too smart for his own good, except what he did wasn't smart at all.

He rolled over onto his stomach, knowing that he doesn't have much time, and tried to reach one of his shoes. Hands tied behind his back didn't make it easy, but eventually he managed to pull the gadget out of the shoe. He found it during one of his trips to ancient ruins and it took him a while to figure out what it was supposed to do and how to make it functional again. It was like a tiny miracle - if you opened the lid, a small flame started coming out if it.

Having such thing on him put him in danger, but he didn't have the heart to just destroy it. Now he was glad that he didn’t. He twisted hands to put the flickering flame under the ropes on his wrists, biting his lips as it touched the skin couple of times. The image of much larger flames enveloping his entire body made him shiver. Finally, the rope gave in and Javier jumped up. He needed to get out of here, somewhere away from The Regressed influence. Not knowing if such place even existed, he snuck out into the jungle and started running for his life.


“Commander?”

Valeria raised her eyes from the monitor and looked at the officer who was peeking inside her office. “Yes?”

“We have caught one of the cultists trying to sneak through the perimeter.”

She jumped up, nearly knocking the chair over. “An attack?”

“No, it doesn’t seem so. There was only one and no signs of other activity. He seems slightly different from the others, we believe he might be a spy.”

“Different?”

“Well, he is less…” The officer circled his index finger around the right temple in the universal sign for describing crazy people. “Less brain-dead than the ones that have been attacking us.”

Valeria smiled. “That ought the be interesting. Alright, bring the spy here, I will speak to him.”

The officer clearly disagreed, as it was against the regular protocol, but he went to fetch the prisoner.

Javier was sitting on the ground, once again tied up and not being able to see or hear anything around him. He was contemplating on how much bad luck can one person have. Perhaps he really did insult the God. He was running aimlessly through the jungle, trying to get as far away from the Regressed settlements as possible, already exhausted and hungry. When the men jumped at him from the bushes and knocked him to the ground, he fought like hell, thinking that it were Pablo’s men, or worse, the Levelers going after him. But he was never a very good fighter and there were four of them. Something heavy hit him behind his ear, numbing his will to fight. They put something over his head, but he could still hear them.

Their language sounded pretty much the same as what Javier was used to, but at the same time different enough for him to realize that these people were not from around here. That naturally didn’t mean that they would be nice to him, but they will probably not burn him at the stake the next morning, so for now it wasn’t so bad.

His thoughts were interrupted by someone yanking him up and forcing him to walk. After a few moments he was pushed down into a surprisingly comfortable chair and his blindfold was removed. He looked around stunned with surprise, his jaw dropped. So much technology around him, most of which he couldn’t even guess its purpose. His eyes jumped from one thing to another and it took him a moment to notice a woman sitting against him, looking slightly amused.

“So, what have you found out?” she asked him, but he had no idea what she meant by that. Maybe some words had different meaning in their language? She frowned and leaned closer to him. “I know you are a spy. So, what were you going to report to your leaders?”

Javier stared at her. “A spy? You think I’d go back there? They were going to burn me alive! What is that?” he ignored her surprise and nodded towards a screen on the wall.

Valeria turned around, confused at first, but then she realized that these people didn’t know almost any technology. The ones that were captured before always freaked out and yelled something about the devil when they saw a tablet or a screen or a vehicle. This one really was different. If he was telling the truth about being on the run from the cult, he could turn into an invaluable asset, providing he will be willing to cooperate.

“It’s a monitor. It shows me what is happening outside right now,” she answered his question and smiled seeing childlike happiness on his face.

“Like a television,” Javier whispered. He had read about such devices in the old forbidden books, but actually seeing something like this was beyond his wildest dreams.

The woman gestured to the soldier to remove his restraints. “What’s your name?”

“Javier,” he answered, suddenly realizing that these people probably didn’t bring him here so they could explain their technology to him. He gave the woman a careful look. “What do you want from me?”

She smiled radiantly. “My name is Valeria. And I really hope we can be friends.”

In the world of the 25th Century - a rare sight was happening beyond the coast of the Iberian Peninsula. Namely an oil rig was slowly but surely being pulled back online.

Such a sight was rare, since not many people had the technological, resources nor manpower to bring such a titan of the sea, back to life. Work was done around the clock, as four hundred years of both seawater and the occasional radiated fallout had contaminated the rig.

As such the people working there required both equipment that was sealed yet also wouldn't break upon contact with a sharp surface nor suddenly sink - if somebody would fall overboard. It was hard work - but for the people on the rig, it was just another challenge to overcome.

A dark shape appeared upon the horizon, seemingly rising up from the very waves as light refracted off it's steel hull. The harsh seas beat against wrought iron like a smith's hammer striking an anvil. That shape grew larger with each passing second as it pressed forward, straight at the looming giant in the distance. As it grew closer, the shape could be made out: it was a ship.

A Destroyer, the modern Man-of-War, cut across the sea as it made a beeline for the towering oil platform. From stern to bow it was over five hundred feet long, bristling with menacing armaments, cutting an imposing figure on it's swift approach. Behind it, more shapes could be made out as it led the charge.

Seated within the bridge of the mighty FCS Tempest was a middle age man with a spattering of bright red hair on his chin. Captain John Barnes, veteran soldier of the Consortium Navy, turned an eye to his communications officer. "I want a status report on that platform, Lieutenant Hatchet." He requested, a dash of excitement barely hidden in his voice. "Are they active?"

Lieutenant Hatchet, a young woman with a mind for the mechanical and little else, quickly looked over her instruments. "There's...an active radio wave, sir. Someone's aboard." Hatchet informed him, a look of surprise crossing every member aboard the bridge. "Should I hail them?"

The captain was silent, for a time. A hand upon his stubbly chin, Barnes gave a slight nod of his head after a moment's thought. "Aye, Lieutenant. Put me through. And inform the rest of the fleet." Hatchet's fingers danced across her console. She flipped a switch, giving her captain the thumbs up to go ahead. Taking the microphone in his hand, John cleared his throat. "This is Captain John Barnes of the Fortis Consortium Fleet. You're on my new oil platform. Prepare to be boarded."

Soon enough, there was the sound of yelling and panicking shouting on the other end of the line. The language spoken on the other end of the line was a mix of regular English and what sounded like a strange mixture of heavier Irish and...something else sounding.

As the Fleet of the Fortis Consortium kept on their usual course - soon enough they would spot a single red flare being fired high into the sky from the platform. That soon sparked into a loud and bright red explosion. Similar to that of an old firework.

"This is the domain of Her Majesty, and the Kingdom of Britannia! Turn back now pirates!" replied a male voice on the other end - at least whomever worked on the oil rig seemed to have maintained their ability to speak English. Although it sounded like somebody was chewing of concrete and holding their nose shut. The tone they used also, sounded like they believed that the oil rig they stood on was holy soil - either they were truly serious or they were a bunch of nutjobs. Likely not the first in this world - whom thought any island that had their people on belonged to some Holy Spirit or Great Godess.

The sight of the flare sparking the sky with crimson light sent a rush of whispers and mutters through the crew. Captain Barnes sighed, his lips pressed together tightly. Whoever was on that platform had just called for help; which meant they weren't alone, whoever they were. The answer to the question on Johnathan's mind arrived when he heard a voice blare over the radio in spotty english. "What?" The ginger soldier barked, followed by a mocking chuckle. "Her Majesty? You gotta be shittin' me." Pulling himself up in his seat, Barnes straightened himself out, once more lifting the microphone up to his mouth.

"I think you've got it all wrong here, mate," Barnes started, the last word taking on a hint of an overexaggerated version of the Brit's accent. "We're not pirates. And so far as I'm aware, your whole damn country went up in flames a few hundred years ago. So unless you can prove to me you're who you say you are, and not a bunch of scavengers, in the next...let's give it ten minutes, then we're coming aboard." The captain clicked off the microphone, looking to Hatchet next. "Get the admiral on the phone. We might have a small...small problem."

As words were exchanged and tensions rose, the other ships lagging behind the FCS Tempest came into view. Among them was another Destroyer, the FCS Valiant. The other two were much smaller than the five hundred foot long Destroyers. Frigates, by the looks of them, though one might mistake them for corvettes given their small size.

"Be my guest...they'll be here before half of that. Say hi to Davy Jones for me, ya bloody wanker," came the reply from the oil rig. It didn't take beyond two minutes - before the....radar....would pick up then targets. The radar which hadn't detected many targets in over several years.

Namely they were picking up five unknown targets approaching high and fast. Namely they were flying in the traditional V-pattern, soon enough the com of Captain John Barnes was hailed again. The voice on the other side was much more harder, sounding like a half-angry Irishman and a Scot.

"Attention pirates. This is the Royal Air Force - in the name of the Queen Mary X. Please state your business, within the domain of the Kingdom of Britannia - in the next two minutes. Fail to comply and we shall sink your ships to the bottom of the sea."

The five approaching flyboys weren't propeller driven either, namely they sported jet-engines behind them, as all five of them broke off in different directions. Namely likely an attack pattern, incase somebody decided to open fire upon them. It meant, those on the oil rig weren't lying and also - they did belong to a nation and a Queen. One whom seem to possess the capability of deploying and maintaining modern aircraft.

A panicked shout came from the bright eyed young man that manned the radar station. "We've got bogeys coming in fast! I've got...five hits on the radar, sir!" By now, the whispers from the rest of the men on the bridge had grown louder. It was clear they weren't dealing with a group of common scavengers that tried to bluff their way out of giving up the oil on that platform. No, they had actually encountered the remnants of the United Kingdom.

"Everyone, quiet!" Captain Barnes roared, causing total silence to ring out over the bridge of the FCS Tempest. "If these bastards wanna pick a fight, then they just found the one'a their lives. Lieutenant Commander Kahn, give the order, to battlest-"

As the captain began to bark his orders, the radio suddenly blared to life. A familiar voice called out, and she didn't sound happy. "What the hell did you say to these people, Barnes?!" Dinah Cohen, the Armenian born captain of the unshakable Valiant practically screamed. Her anger was laced into every word, dripping with a venomous indignation that Captain Barnes and his crewmen were very familiar with. "I swear to God if you just caused an International incident you stupid hothead, I'm gonna-"

"Dinah, now is NOT the time-" Barnes tried to argue.

"Shut the hell up, Barnes. I am two seconds- TWO seconds- from sinking your whole God damn ship. God, you idiot! I'm taking command of this situation, effective immediately. Change your course, Barnes: now." Cohen didn't leave any room for argument, and everyone on board the Tempest knew it. With a sigh, the captain gave the order for his Destroyer to slow their approach as they began to turn away from the oil rig.

Dinah's voice replaced that of Barnes over the radio as she addressed the forces of the Kingdom of Britannia over an open line. "This is Captai Dinah Cohen of the Fortis Consortium. You have my deepest apologies, this is a simple misunderstanding. We're looking for a place to refuel, and we didn't know these waters belonged to the Crown. As the representative of my fleet and the commander of this strike group, I formally request permission to dock in the nearest operational port. It's been a long time since we found other nations out here."

As their timer went beyond two minutes, the RAF didn't start dropping missiles or bombs upon their Fleet - indicating that some Commander in skies above took their words to heart and called off any further attack.

While they circled the Consortium Fleet, soon enough they got a response. "Stick to your current position. The Royal Navy will reach your destination within an hour or two. Afterwards, the Queen will determine your situation. Any deviation and we will take this as a sign of hostility," they replied. Despite the rather xenophobic attitude, they weren't at least firing upon them - like some islanders used to do out in the Caribbeans.

---

Within the next hour, the Consortium soon got a glimpse of the Navy of the 'sunken nation'. Namely the proud flag of Britannia, or what resembled a strange mixture of it - started to appear over the horizon. Attached to namely three Frigates, a single Destroyer, two ships that fit the description of an armored battleship, possessing several large naval guns. While in the far distance, away from missile range was also what seemed to be an aircraft carrier.

All of that combined, didn't make things any easier - especially, as they also reported a nuclear submarine under the waves, although it was keeping its distance at least. Thanks to the active sonar of the Consortium. All in all - Dinah was right in pulling back, since this 'Kingdom of Britannia' didn't seem to play around and seemed to be the honest remnants of the UK or what they had become centuries later.

The opposite of Admiral Joseph Henshaw in the Royal Navy had talked things over - it was evident by the initial talks, that the United Kingdom had 'heavily' devolved into something similar to that of Japan in the earlier years of the 20th Century. Although talks had managed to reach a point, that a delegation was willing to be sent to speak onboard the FCS Purgatory.

Although, that came with a reminder, if things were to turn hostile - they had more than enough cruise missiles and naval cannons to sink half of the Consortium if things went awry. Soon enough though, the sight of a VTOL was spotted. The thing slowly circled the Purgatory, before slowly settling down upon its deck.

Soon enough, four armored soldiers disembarked. They immediately had their arms drawn and scanning the premise - their attire spoke of seriousness. Namely their armor, looked like a black wet-suit with a plastic-like carapace over everything. Even their limbs and legs - while they seemed to wore a helmet, that seemed to be a mix of a gas filter and a flight helmet. They soon gave the traditional signal of 'clear'.

Inside, the VTOL' pilot soon removed their helmet and soon enough stepped outside. Their appearance was...moderate, similar to a ranked aviator. Although, 'her' face seemed rather unexpected - as she had the face of a supermodel and purple eyes. Needless to say, the four Marines soon locked into motion around her - as her bodyguards, as they soon marched towards to meet the Admiral.

"Queen Mary Windsor the Wise, Tenth of My Name. Queen of Progress and Monarch of Britannia," she spoke, with a shallow bow - immediately her voice sounding both finely refined and the usual British snobbish.

The deck of the Purgatory was alive with activity. At the announcement that they would be receiving an envoy from the remnants of the United Kingdom, Admiral Henshaw had ordered preparations to be made for their arrival. Every officer and seaman aboard the aircraft carrier had been made to gather on the deck. Hundreds of men stood at attention. All had been asked to dress in their absolute best. For the officers, this meant gathering in the dress uniforms that they had taken with them when they deserted from their respective navies. Others, mostly the Ensigns and other lower ranking seamen, had rushed to get their fatigues washed and pressed.

Admiral Joseph Henshaw stood at the front of the procession. Dressed in the stark white dress uniform of a California Republic admiral, the Fortis Consortium's leader was a sight to behold. While he lacked the...traditional attractiveness of the queen, Henshaw looked good for a man in his forties. A strong jawline, tried and tested lines upon his weary face, and a form forged in the fires of hardship and war, Henshaw's tall and rigid physique was easy to pick out of a crowd.

When the ramp came down and the unknown aircraft's occupants exited, weapons raised, there was an immediate response from the crewmen around them. The soldiers at Henshaw's side, his faithful commander Douglas Brown and the unwavering, hard faced Lieutenant Amanda Ross, each were quick to retrieve their sidearms. Before the rest of the armed crewmen nearby could even so much as go for their own weapons, Henshaw raised a single hand to the air. His silent command was met with all firearms being lowered immediately, though the grey haired, steely eyed Brown was slower to put his guard down than most.

When the starkly beautiful woman that descended from the plane last revealed herself to be none other than Britannia's very own queen, the reaction that followed was obvious. Subdued only by the intense stares of their commanding officers, the sailors in ear shot all looked near visibly shocked. Even the Admiral's eyes widened, the lines on his face growing more prominent as he adjusted his stance. "Your majesty." Henshaw spoke respectfully, his voice like gravel as he bent at the waist in an awkward, unpracticed bow. His officers were quick to follow, mirroring the action taken by their admiral and leader. "I am Fleet Admiral Joseph Henshaw, representative of the Fortis Consortium. It is my utmost pleasure to make your acquaintance, your highness." That word felt alien to his tongue. Never in his life did Henshaw think he would address anyone in such a fashion, so he was clearly unprepared for...all of this.

"May I escort you to the council chambers? The council of captains is still preparing, we...did not expect to convene so quickly, so you have my sincerest apologies for any missteps that might be taken." The admiral explained.

"That is quite acceptable. A pleasing greeting to you as well, Admiral Henshaw of Fortis Consortium. We did not expect any outsiders within these waters...or at least not those whom possessed such naval capability," replied Queen Mary, as once she opened her mouth - she started speaking with both the regalia of some Old Royalty and also like some technical engineer. "So we too are a bit overwhelmed by this sudden turn of events. Although it is within my right as a sovereign head-of-state to dictate the terms of any and all trade or exchange of produce, resources or manpower."

"I will be bringing a bag with me, that contains my datapad and my touchpad - for the discussion of relationships between our two...states," she added, adding that last part with a bit of hesitation as she didn't know what to call the Consortium in all honesty. Despite all of this, Mary was rather welcoming of having and discovering new individuals and groups of them in this healing world.

As much as her people were against allowing outsiders anywhere near Britannia - Mary was smart enough to know, that at least trade and exchange of information was worthwhile in poking their noses outside of their borders every once in awhile. It was one of the reasons, they had managed to grow in the first place - and the oil rig in particular was a project, that would allow them to siphon natural gas and crude oil without having to brave the colds of the Icy North.

"....and....you didn't have to put this gathering on for my sake. I am sure, many of your people have more important things to do, than greet me," replied Mary - speaking it in a tone that was both patronizing and yet also understanding. As it also happened - she was dressed in what appeared to be a simple flight-suit and not an elaborate gown of sorts. It seemed whatever monarchy that Britannia had - it seemed to be of the more practical-minded and also overly intelligent type it seemed.

Still, Queen Mary followed after Admiral Henshaw in a rather calm and steady step - her own bodyguards keeping her flanks and behind covered. Even inside the crowded halls of the Consortium flagship - they walked in perfect unison. Their grip on their weapons tight, their voices silent and their step hard and certain. Whomever Mary' bodyguards were - they radiated seriousness by their very presence.

With a practiced flourish the admiral turned on his heel, falling in step with Britannia's monarch as they began to make their way across the deck of the FCS Purgatory. The sailors and officers lined up on either side made clear the path to the carrier's control tower, their hands raised in a series of sharp salutes as per the admiral's orders. The crashing of the waves and the roaring wind forced Henshaw to strain to hear her majesty as she spoke. "I apologize for any chaos we might've caused. If we had known there were others on these waters, we would've called ahead." Joseph offered a meager smile, his boots clicking against the hard deck.

Queen Mary X's hesitation to refer to the Consortium as a 'state' only widened the admiral's grin. He was well aware of the unorthodox nature of his people. They were a nomadic group, exiled from their homeland; a far cry from the well established kingdom that was Britannia. Still, in a world fueled by violence and mistrust, it was a blessing to finally find someone who was willing to lower their arms at the sight of his fleet. Henshaw's only dream was to someday see their flag planted somewhere safe, where they could finally depart from these dreadful, claustrophobic hulls that they had lived in for years now.

"Well," The admiral began as the queen mentioned the great number of soldiers brought up to the deck to greet her. "While that might normally be true, I believe a great deal in putting on a good first impression. It helps...set the tone, so to say." Henshaw was a military man, first and foremost. He had never been a diplomat, a politician, or anything else. He- and by extension, his crew- spoke best through force. Putting on a show of his troops made it clear that the Consortium was not some ragtag group of scuttled pirates and brigands who happened upon a few naval warships. They were veteran sailors, warriors, and they would not be easily pushed around. Henshaw did not revel in violence, however. If this meeting resulted in the peaceful negotiation of treaties and trade deals, he would leave a happy man.

"That might be the case - if one dealt with another military power," replied Mary. "To us, we value more the intelligence rather than the brute force of another nation. Anybody can flex their muscle...not many is able to utilize their mental faculties I am sad to admit..."

The small procession entered into the control tower that hung high above their heads. The admiral's officers led the way down a flight of tight stairs, keeping an amiable pace. Even the largest ship in the fleet felt far smaller on the inside than one would like. Everything was as tightly packed as could be to make room for more people, weapons and sub-systems. "The meeting chambers are just this way." Joseph assured the queen and her stoic honor guard as they passed into a hallway, where a few men in dark blue fatigues could be seen rushing into side doors to make room for the group.

Commander Brown pushed open the heavy steel bulwark that led into the chamber where the Consortium's council of captains met. He held open the door, allowing Lieutenant Commander Ross to step to the other side. The chamber itself was rather bland. Walls of grey steel and a lack of any color or windows, illuminated by the artificial lights on the low hanging ceiling, made it all feel rather cramped. Inside, twenty five men and women sat in semi-comfortable chairs surrounding a large, oval table, making small talk amongst themselves. At the sound of the door opening, however, all eyes turned and all talk was muted at the arrival of the admiral and the queen. The captains stood at attention, backs stark straight and chins held high. "Your majesty, these are my associates. The twenty five captains of our fleet. This is the governing body of the Fortis Consortium." Henshaw waved toward the gathered number of military officials. "If you'd like to sit," He pointed toward a pair of seats at the head of the table, "you may."

---

Queen Mary nodded in reply to the gathered people in a very polite manner and also gave a warm thank-you to the Admiral - whom had escorted her here. Her guards meanwhile remained as silent as always - although their heads did move about and scanned across the crowd.

Once that had been done, Mary soon was seated and addressed the gathered Captains in the area. "Well...I will admit, this is my first time welcoming a foreign entity that hadn't replied with an attempt at war or fighting..." she spoke. "So then....I guess....welcome to the waters of Britannia..." she spoke, to the gathered crowd. Meanwhile, Admiral Henshaw would have something to do himself - as the Consortium' Council talked it out with a new foreign dignitary. Namely he had something to read up on - namely the current history and usual policy of Britannia.

The captains returned to their seats, all eyes upon the young queen from the foreign kingdom as expectant ears waited, eager to hear what she had to say. The Consortium wasn't experienced in dealing with matters of state or diplomacy. For most of the many years it had sailed these accursed waters, they had existed merely to survive. Fighting tooth and nail against every living thing that stood in their way. Many had succumbed to hunger and disease, while many others had lost their lives fighting for the future that they would not live to see. Discussions, kindness and understanding were almost foreign concepts in this volatile life they lived.

Henshaw quietly took his own seat beside Mary, the advanced datapad in his hands. He briefly struggled with the technology he didn't understand, though Britannia's designs were innuitive enough that even the old war dog managed to get a handle on it after a moment or two of finagling. As he began reading on the Kingdom's storied history and it's policies, one of the captains spoke up. "Thank you, your majesty. We appreciate your hospitality." Dinah Cohen hummed, her words tinged with an accent that hinted at her Middle Eastern heritage. "And in regards to the situation that led to our meeting, Captain Barnes has something he would like to say." Cohen's voice took on an edge as she turned her eyes to the red haired man seated beside her.

Fierce amber eyes went wide as Barnes shared a glance with the younger woman that called him out. He didn't actually have anything to say, though Dinah had all but twisted his arm earlier and demanded he apologize for nearly getting them all blown up with his rash behavior. "I'm...sorry, for threatening your people on the oil rig. That was all a biiiiig misunderstanding, really." Johnathan chuckled awkwardly, adjusting his collar as he made only light eye contact with the queen.

"So then...since we have been all acquinted with each other here," replied Mary - although, some more than others. She soon got down to business. "Might I inquire what is it that you seek in the domain of Britannia?"

Straight to the point as usual it seemed with this monarch - whom didn't seem to beat around the bush, with titles and declarations. Despite not being asked of it - Mary didn't much see the need for people to call her 'Majesty' all of the time.

As for Henshaw - he would have skimmed through most of the important parts. Namely their government, people and quality of life. Compared to what everything they had seen - Britannia almost seemed like an utopia. Although, one person' utopia - was another person' dystopia. Since Britannia engaged in things, one might expect from a Fascist state not a technocratic-monarchy. Heavy surveillance, eugenics - namely mental illness was usually treated quickly...and finally.

All of this made one limit their eagerness to join Britannia in anything but simple trade - namely from a state, that saw anything below their standard of intelligence as un-deserving of several basic rights. Namely of right to vote, hold office or even self-determination in the rare case.

Admiral Henshaw kept one ear to the conversation going on around him, his eyes dancing between the bright screen in his hands and the woman seated to his side as he skimmed through the vast amount of data she had presented him with. It felt like the entire history of her kingdom was stuffed in there. Joseph's attention began to shift away from Mary, centering on the object held tightly in his hands, as more...disturbing...information began to appear before him. Britannia was not the haven of tolerable understanding that Henshaw had first hoped the kingdom to be. Hidden inside more mundane cultural information were practices many aboard this very ship would consider utterly abhorrent. Selective breeding, near Orwellian surveillance of the citizenship, and basic human rights being tied to an IQ test.

It made the man's stomach nearly churn at the unexpected sight. A disgust that did not appear on his passive expression filled his gut. Euthanasia of those deemed 'mentally unfit' was particularly concerning for the man whom had deserted his country in the name of preserving life. Glancing to the nearest member of the council, Henshaw made a conscious decision to tilt the screen away from him. They couldn't see this. If someone like Wallace Jackson, Cohen or even Barnes saw this, this meeting would undoubtedly be compromised.

Clearing his throat, the representative of the council decided to speak up before anyone else could answer the queen. "We need to refuel a number of our ships. We planned to commandeer an abandoned oil platform, but I think it would be profitable if we engaged in mutal trade." Turning an eye down the line of men seated to his right, the admiral's gaze stopped on a balding, lithe figure that looked like he had skipped a few too many meals. "Doctor Stein?"

Doctor Karl Stein, a sixty year old man from a German colony in the states, turned his head up from a report in his hands upon hearing his name called. The distracted scientist's eyes brightened immediately behind the round rims of his glasses. "Ja! Yes, ah, trade. Miss Mary- or, your majesty, my apologies- do you know what mixed oxide fuel is?" Before the woman even had the chance to do more than open her mouth, the old teacher was quick to explain it anyway. "It's a mixture of plutonium and depleted uranium. You see, two of our largest ships run on nuclear power. Well, some of our men- enthusiastic as they are- tend to gather up as much potential fuel as they can whenever we make landfall. This has led to us...ahh..stockpiling quite a bit of plutonium that we can't exactly make use of. Well, we've been combining it with the depleted uranium from our own reactors, and I do believe it would be quite valuable to you!"

Most people could actually detect the Queen' face slightly move from curious to slightly insulted - when Doctor Stein asked if she knew about MOX Fuel or not. "Yes, Doctor. I do know what MOX Fuel is," replied Mary - even knowing its old nickname even. "Most of our own ships utilize it instead of regular oil in their reactors. Since its rather widely available...in...well anything in the soil."

"Also I have to beg the question, why you haven't gone over to a breeder reactor," replied Mary - namely asking the tell-tale question that one Doctor likely hadn't thought of that had existed. Engaging in technical terms with a scientist whose life it was to understand this - with a Queen whom ruled a nation and talked about the subject, like it was last night' gossip.

"Since there is basically left-over nuclear material all over the world. A breeder reactor would consume more fuel than it produced - eliminating the need to overstore unavailable fuel. So I assume, you still utilize the old..or 'new' models - where your producing more than you can utilize...and whom are sadly too delicate to be used with the...dirt-version fuel, that is so abudant in the current world. Although, I do remember those models had been de-commissioned long before the end of the 20th Century...and you likely wouldn't know how to adjust a breeder reactor to consuming nuclear material without letting dust particles affect the energy-phase exchange."

"Although...I assume you still utilize the steam-turbine version...and not perhaps the extracting the energy straight from the process itself..." she added.

Stein was, as anyone who spent more than five minutes with the man, not a people person. He could read a machine like a book, but the Doctor had trouble understanding people unless they spelled everything out for him. The annoyance coming from the queen entirely went over the old man's head, a bright grin on his lips as she mentioned that she knew well what he was talking about. "Oh, excellent!" If MOX fuel was widely used in Britannia's own navy, it meant they wouldn't have to worry about compatibility issues. Though, the drawback being that they likely had a stockpile of the stuff already, making it's value drop slightly.

"We've discussed updating the reactors a number of times. Our team is well aware of the inefficiencies. However, our engineers seem to think it'd be impossible. Our only nuclear reactors are aboard the Mjolnir and the Purgatory. Both were designed to fit the light water reactors they're currently using. By switching to another source of power, we would need to redesign a large number of systems, effectively building both ships again from scratch." Stein explained. "We haven't the time or the resources, I'm afraid. Not yet. Though we DO have plans to-" As Karl spoke, he received a quick and harsh elbow to his ribs from the dark haired, middle age woman beside him. "-Ahh...Right. Classified. My mistake."

Dinah Cohen let her eyes move away from Stein, struggling to keep them from rolling at his inability to keep his trap shut when someone got him talking. He was a brilliant scientist, but the doctor was a...questionable choice for captain. "Given that we have a sufficient amount of this resource available to us, and we're in need of more oil for our other ships...We were wondering if your nation would be willing to make a trade? Our financial experts can debate the numbers at a later time, of course. And if we're going to make this trade, we'd need to make port in one of your cities. If that is...acceptable?"

"Some details can be worked out at a later date. Although there will be some certain restrictions and things that will be needed to be talked out," replied Mary Windsor. Although, the details would be discussed with Admiral Henshaw - since she had already build-up a good enough understanding of her opposites in the Consortium.

Collab between:@NecroKnightand@Apollo26


30°26'44.3"N 32°21'17.2"E
Suez Canal

Out of the entire Byzantion Maritime Patrol, only two captains were tasked with patrolling the Suez. It was a remote posting, nothing lived in the stretch of desert between Port Said and the Gulf of Suez. The coastline was littered with the burnt out factories and the oil wells of the middle east, either destroyed by raiders or the war.

The "Neptune Scourge" a repaired and modified Spanish Meteoro class frigate, was one of the two ships that patrolled the narrow canal. The Meteoro class was orginally designed as a patrol boat, making it easily suited for patrolling the narrow and relatively shallow canal. With a displacement of nearly 2400 tonnes, the Neptune scourge had the power of a light frigate.

Armament was its only problem, originally built with a 76mm main gun and multiple 20mm guns. The Scourge was retrofitted with two reloadable Exocet anti ship launchers, giving it the bare minimum for ship defense. The Lack of proper CWIS systems also worked to the detriment of the Neptune scourge as it had no way to defend itself from modern anti ship missiles. These problems were far from the minds of the crew. Who would possibly travel though the Suez? Beyond the Gulf of Aden is the Indian ocean, with weeks of travel in any direction. The desert around the Suez in near uninhabitable and undesirable. Everyone from the head of the navy down to raw recruits knew that traveling through the Suez was a waste of time and fuel without a purpose.

Luca Braza, the captain of the Neptune Scourge eyed their sister ship in the binoculars as they sailed back towards the Mediterranean. The warning he received from the other captain still echoed in his head, challenging that age old belief about the Suez canal, ' Be alert, radar contact at the mouth of the Gulf of Suez'.

The ship that was coming through was nothing that either of the men of Byzantion might except in their wildest dreams to ever sail the seas. Although it did sail, under the flag of Britannia. Namely the ship in question was a battleship - similar to its counterpart of World War One, it had enough firepower to devastate any city it turned its cannons towards.

Though far from being a hostile power, this ship in question had been mostly scouting through the coastal regions of Africa and had planned on swinging through the Suez on its way back to Britannia. Namely, as things were going - Britannia wanted to know, how many others had survived the nuclear annihilation four centuries later. The weakness of the older British Isles - was its misguided desire of being both rulers and dis-united from the world around it.

The Britannia of this era, practiced a bit of both - they still wanted to remain away, yet also have a more open hand in dealing with others. As such, a battleship would both demonstrate the power of Britannia to any wayward enemy and also any potential ally - that Britannia was a force to reckon with. Plus they weren't traveling alone as it was.

Currently, they were slowly moving through the Canal - keeping their equipment pinging for anything in the water. One could never be too careful here, since nobody could know how many mines or dead ships might have been sunk at the bottom of the Canal. The last thing they wanted was to join them, as such their powerful sonar was constantly blaring across the sea-floor and being a head-ache to their companions below.

Their sister ship was nearly five hours behind them at this point and the sun was just starting to touch the horizon, giving the terrain a slight red hue. Luca had his radar on passive mode, relying more on visual spotting than on the radar array. Being a patrol craft this makes sense, anything that could be out there would attack from the coast and countless patrols have proved that time and time again.

The radar operator wasnt even looking at the radar screen and allowed the mystery ship to creep within 25 miles of the Neptune Scourge. The unmistakable ping of a sonar blast was the first indication that something was there, waking everyone up from the stupor of another routine patrol.

"uhhh....sonar contact bearing......170," the radar operator barely got out before another ping could be heard. " bearing 165, distance........23 miles!" he finished with an alarmed tone. The man quickly switched screens to the close range radar array and tuned the radar out to the 20 mile limit. The room went silent as the first pulse registered on the screen, everyone saw the size of the radar contact coming the opposite way.

The sound of another sonar ping broke the silence on the bridge as alarms were immediately activated, waking up the night crews and brought everyone to battle-stations. The two Exocet missile launchers were loaded and the 76mm gun had its 8 round magazine full and ready to fire.

" Radar contact classified as......a battleship?" the radar operator said in a questioning tone. " Unknown class and origin, something not from around here thats for sure..." he finished

The captain and crew knew that they should be the only people out here. Seeing a battleship coming down the Suez was either a cause for alarm or hope. The BMP could not field anything that in the Suez and the closest battleships were at least two or three days away.If this ship was hostile, it could blow them away and be in the Mediterranean in a day and a half.

As the battleship kept on moving forward, the battleship of Britannia picked up that they were also being signaled, as such the captain of the vessel also ordered his men into battle-stations. Compared to the BMP - the Britannian vessel, was much more organized...and had a lot more weaponry to fire back, should the opposition prove hostile.

Soon enough, the communication equipment on board the Neptune Scourge would start working - namely broadcasted on an open frequency. Although, four centuries of non-contact with their fellow human beings, left things...mostly in gibberish.

That was until, several other words started to be spoken - something that hadn't changed much in the years of naval development. "KILO. TANGO..." came the voice. Or in old International Code of Signals it was a basic 'I wish to communicate with you' yet also 'Keep clear of me'.

Well, at least they hadn't fired upon them - which the battleship could have accomplished. As of the current moment, the vessel kept on moving although it seemed to be on high-alert as well, as its naval cannons started moving back and worth - indicating that it was in a search-pattern for any active hostiles.
It took a minute to process what Luca just heard. Kilo. Tango? What was that supposed to mean? He stared out at the horizon for a moment before the answer hit him.

" They want to talk!" he said aloud in an excited tone, prompting laughs from the bridge crew. He started to hope that maybe they can all get out of this with their lives. The radio in the bridge crackled to life again, this time the voice of the lookout could be heard. " I see the Vessel, due south maybe 15 miles away, I dont recognize the flag its flying."

" All Stop and coast, then drop the anchor" Luca said calmly " and send them return message saying Kilo Tango as well", he said before wallking out to the walkway of the bridge. The Brittanian battleship could just barely be seen on the horizon with the naked eye. He waited what felt like ages as the Neptune scourge drifted closer towards the battleship, coming within 10 miles before dropping the anchor. The immense size of the battleship could be seen from even 10 miles away, its conning tower clearly visible on the horizon by the naked eye.

" Alright.....Now what...." Luca said with a heavy sigh before picking up the Walkway intercom Handset, dialing the crows nest. " Flash the "All is Well", flag signal. Tell me if they respond"

More of the vessel came into view, the closer it got - although it did appear to keep a respectful distance from them and not be on a collision course at the current moment. Namely soon enough the flag soon became visible - looking a bit familiar to the old flag utilized by the former Governor of Gibraltar.

Although if Gibraltar had such a large ship, then half of their nation would know about that. Rather enough, it likely belonged to somebody whom owned Gibraltar once - namely an old nation known as the United Kingdom. While their flag looked different, it had the same made and coloration from a distance.

As it happened, soon enough - a yellow flag was waved at them. Namely a signal for 'My vessel is "healthy" and I request free pratique'. Or in this case it could be translated to 'I am not a danger, requesting location of nearest port'. Perhaps they were traders similar to the BMP.

"They returned the gesture.....and want to know the location of the nearest port?" the look-out finished with a question.

" Well, im sure the command at Port Said would love to see something like this". Luca said aloud before walking back through the bridge door and up to the sea chart. It would take 2 days for them to get back at normal speed, just enough time to get the larger ships of the BMP to the canal entrance. If this was a trap he could at least mitagate the risk by having some of the biggest ships in the fleet there.

Luca let out a long sigh before keying the intercom for the crows nest again " Flash an affirmative flag and then tell them to follow us" he finished flatly, looking up to meet the confused faces of the bridge crew.

" My ship, my decision" he quipped with a quick smile " What choice do we have" Luca finished with a chuckle. " Turn the ship around and fire and illumination flare off the stern, then make for Port Said at normal speed".

The crew snapped into action and the Neptune Scourge quickly turned around. The Sun was about halfway below the horizon and the sand was now painted in an amber hue. The thud of an illumination flare could be heard before the area was suddenly bathed in blueish white light, the signal for " follow me".

As they were getting underway, a single coded message was sent over the long range radio. In the direction of Port Said at the mouth of the Mediterranean.

"Battleship class vessel encountered,Unknown nationality, non hostile, leading vessel back to Port Said after request of shelter, request fleet mobilization at Port Said inlet"

(Double post because.......reasons)

Mediterranean Sea
36°08'02.9"N 15°10'31.0"E
30NM North of Malta, 35NM South of Sicly
Byzantion
Commander Luke Sousse " Lucky"

Floréal-class frigates served the French navy well during the war. Their relatively light weight and powerful propulsion system makes them the fastest vessel on the water over 20,000 tons. Originally designed for surveillance, the Byzantion Maritime Patrol or BMP for short, used them in the same role. Long range patrol, reconnaissance, interdiction and rescue was the domain of the Floreal Class.

At 27, Commander Sousse was a bit young to be commanding a frigate. Usually reserved for captain just making their rank, frigates usually lead to larger ship commands. "BZ-141 The Abyssinia" Or Abyss for short was Lucky's third ship since joining the Maritime Patrol. Long range patrol was one of the least desirable jobs for frigate captains, being one of the youngest in the group he was almost guaranteed a spot.

Why do people not like long range patrols you ask? The BMP has 12 light frigates designed for long range patrols, these are split into two groups of six. One group patrols the water to the west of Sicily and the other patrols the waters to the east. Each group has to patrol 2500 nautical miles of water in a constant fashion for two weeks until their relief is dispatched. Which means, long periods of time looking at lots and lots of water, getting chased/attacked by pirates and baking in the hot summer sun.

The Patrols originate at the resupply depot in Malta, vessels then leave exactly 24 hours after one another, ensuring that there is always a BMP vessel in every patrolled territory at any time. This also ensures a constant stream of information back to headquarters, as ships arrive throughout the week as they return from patrols. The Abyssinia patrolled the western Mediterranean and was currently lingering in the patrol lane, both anchors down. If anyone cared to pay attention, they would ask "why is there a ship just sitting in the patrol lane?" and "Why does this ship not have an IFF radar on?". Luckily for Luke, he knew the staff at the Malta radar station were lazy potheads and were more concerned with who could role the perfect joint than looking at the radar scope. It took one to know one however and Luke was doing just that……trying to buy some pot.

10 gallons of Valencian wine for 10 pounds of fine Roman marijuana, was a fair trade in Luke's opinion, how else was the crew supposed to stay sane for the next week. In a perfect world, Luke wouldn't have to borrow the BMP's frigate to go buy weed from some enterprising Romans. When you patrol the sea for two weeks out of the month and refit for the other two, there isn't much time for growing his own. There are benefits in travel however, Valencian wine was all the rage in the west and Valencia just happened to be on his patrol route. Through his connections, and maybe a little bit of money, Luke had created a small amateur smuggling ring.

" How long have we been here?" Luke asked angrily, turning his head to face the navigator on the bridge.

"30 minutes, they're late….", the Navigator quipped, sounding equally as annoyed. Luke turned his head back around and stood, walking up to the windshield on the bridge. He let out a heavy sigh and brought the pair of binoculars that were hanging around his neck to his face. " This is the first time, they have been late" he said to himself as he scanned the horizon. With the radar off the crew could physically see up to the 15 mile horizon, the man in the crow's nest could see out to 20 miles in any direction. The Romans should be coming from the north and unless they haven't left yet, should be clearly visible. With another heavy and audible sigh Luke dropped the binoculars and let them hang from his neck again.

"Turn on the Radar, I want to find where these guys are" he said in an irritated tone before he heard the whirring sound of the radar scope screen warming up.

" Got em" the radar operator said " Due north, 25 miles….they are stationary?" the woman finished in a questioning tone " They are being shadowed by another vessel, both stationary"

The Mediterranean is never "fully" safe, pirates are a problem, it's the reason why these ships are armed. Pirates this far away from the middle east coast would be odd however, but not completely unheard of.

" Turn to 023 and increase power to full " Luke ordered, walking back to the captains chair. The ground shuddered a bit as the engines turned over and the anchors were locked in place. The ship pivoted north and was soon at full speed, speeding towards the smugglers. After traveling for a few minutes the handheld around his waist crackled to life and the voice of the lookout boomed on the bridge.

" Sir, I see your guys, there's another ship moored to it….." the man said flatly

" What…." Luke said in an annoyed tone, shooting back up from the chair to walk back to the windshield, bringing the binoculars back up to his face.

The smugglers always used a modified 40ft Yacht, it was fitted with hydroplanes for increased stability and an aqua jet propulsion system for speed, nearly 60 knots with calm seas. At full magnification Luke could see the smugglers yacht and what looked like a small unmarked frigate directly next to it. The marijuana or alcohol itself was not a problem and was freely traded in both nations. However, on duty BMP personnel could not partake in such liberties, as it ( and rightfully so) dulls your senses, ruins crew cohesion and so on. The illegal part was the unincorporated and unmarked trade of goods on the sea. Not punishable by anything more than a fine but there is a reason these rules exist. Marked and incorporated traffic is tracked by the BMP and other allied navies. Unmarked traffic is not tracked, and no one knows when they are in trouble, piracy is a problem.

" The ship is classified as a Italian Minerva-class corvette, no IFF reply" the radar operator said calmly
Luke let out an audible 'hmm' before walking out onto the bridge walkway " Pirates, like that….all the way out here. Cant be.." he said to himself before bringing the binoculars back up to his face. The ship was a little over 10 miles away and could be clearly viewed by the binoculars. The Corvette was well maintained and painted, surprising for a vessel of that size outside of a major navy. As he continued to scan the mystery corvette a white flash along the deck caught his eye, followed by the unmistakable shape of a torpedo flying into the water.

" Shit…" he got out before flying through the door of the bridge. " Launch starboard decoys and distractions, turn to port, make for flank speed!" he yelled, initially stunning the crew before they jumped into action. The hissing sound of compressed air being expelled could be heard on the bridge as the decoys and sonar distractions launched, being followed by a quick lurch to the left. The Abyss was now moving perpendicular to the mystery corvette and the torpedo could now be clearly seen just below the water, it was taking the bait.

' That was easy' Luke thought before he heard the high pitched whine of a high velocity shell passing close over the ship. " Shit…" he said again realizing what the corvette's captain was trying to do. The torpedo was probably a dud, just a distraction for us to give him a bigger target for the gun. 10 miles was pushing the range of the 76mm gun and the shells were flew erratically as they reached this range.
The Corvette was moored onto the smugglers yacht and could not be safely fired upon. The corvette could fire over the yacht with ease but firing back would be a problem. Their problem was amplified by the fact that the closer they got, the more accurate the fire would get.

" Ready an Exocet…." Luke said in an annoyed tone between the shrieks of high velocity rounds. " All ahead flank" he added as the ship sped up to full speed. Exocet missiles were the premier French anti-ship missile during the war. Capable of supersonic travel in its terminal phase, it could be programmed to attack in sea skimming or vertical attack mode. It utilizes a semi armor piercing high explosive delay to blow holes through its target instead of on it. Although not designed to minimize collateral damage, it will work perfectly in this situation.
Why wasn't he happy to shoot an Exocet then? Luke, being the captain of the ship would be responsible for every round that left his ship. Every shot required and explanation, read paperwork, and missiles required a lot of…..paperwork. Ammunition and missiles are checked out during the re-arm so you couldn't lie about how much ammo you left with.

" Bay one ready" the intercom screamed as the missile indication light flashed green.

" Program bay one to go supersonic after launch and attack vertically, standard delay" Luke quipped before the weapons technician began typing away.

" Ready to fire…" the weapons technician said coolly

" Fire…." Luke ordered, shortly before the thunderous sound of a rocket could be heard firing. The missile fired from the vertical launcher on the bow, shooting straight up into the air before beginning its shallow curve towards the corvette. This all happened within plain view of the pirate corvette which immediately started to take counter measures, much to the surprise of the crew. Almost immediately after launch two, interceptor missiles were launched from the pirate corvette and began flying towards the Exocet.
The Excocet was starting its dive as the first interceptor was getting into range. Although oringally designed in the 80s, the French poured a lot of money in keeping the Exocet modern. Random evasive maneuvering during the terminal phase was the industry standard amongst anti-ship missiles at the time. The active radar guidance of the Exocet picked up the missile and quickly calculated the closest escape vector. The missile made a hard turn to the left before making an equally as jarring turn back down towards the pirate vessel. The Exocet audibly broke the sound barrier and sped past the second interceptor missile before slamming into the deck of the pirate corvette.

A jet of water shot up from the corvette like a geyser before the deck exploded upwards. Thick black smoke poured from the single smoke stack as a quick burst of flame exploded out of the bridge windows. The ship began sinking almost immediately, as it listed heavily to its port side.
" Lets get in there" Luke said excitedly as he felt the shake below him. He could see the romans beginning to cut the sinking corvette loose as they fought off the survivors who tried to swim to their boat.

By the time the Abyss got to the smugglers yacht, only the conning tower of the pirate vessel was visible above the waves. The water was a maroon mixture of blood and oil, with crates floating to the surface every so often. Luke walked down off the bridge and on to the quarterdeck of the Abyss.

" Ave…" the romans yelled up to the captain and crew now gathering on the starboard side of the ship.

" Ave…." Luke responded…." So…..you got my stuff….." he said with a sly smirk, prompting chuckles from both sides.

Doctor Iwamoto Takeshi nervously ran his hand through his hair. He checked that the pile of documents is still ready on the table and his presentation is ready to be displayed on the screens. He and his team have worked hard on this project for the past three years and he knew that if he screws up today, all that effort could easily be flushed down the drain. No pressure, he laughed to himself. Members of the Committee were slowly gathering in the room. Iwamoto wondered what important matters are they discussing. He spent most of his time in Arizaro, which was hidden away from the events in the country, so he didn’t know the latest gossip.

The latest one to arrive to the conference room was president Marco Cruz himself. As if Iwamoto needed another reason to be nervous. It was a good sign though, the project must seem important enough to him to come and see Iwamoto’s presentation in person. A young assistant ran around the table and handed a folder from the pile to everyone. Most of the Committee glanced on the first page or two, apparently uninterested. Awesome start, Iwamoto thought to himself, but then he saw the smile on the president’s face. Maybe not all is lost.

“Ladies and gentlemen. I am here to present you the Trans-Andean Maglev Corridor project. As most of you will know, the preparation for this project has been going on for decades, ever since we discovered the iron deposits on the Chilean side of the Andes. Right now, the mining operation to extract those deposits would be unprofitable, as the terrain only allows aerial access. With TAMC we would gain easy access to the western coast, in the first phase from Arizaro. The second phase of the project counts on extending the line from Arizaro to Salta Plaz.

If you could please open your brochures on page 3,” he paused and the sound of flipping paper filled the room. “Here you can see the planned route in the individual phases. The route is designed to end in the coastal city of Taltal, which is currently our largest harbour on the western coast.”

Iwamoto continued with an extensive list of benefits of the project. The main one was of course the access to the iron mine site. Iron wasn’t crucial to the Conglomerate for now, enough could be obtained by recycling, but Iwamoto knew of at least one future project that will need a huge amount of it. And since it was Marco Cruz who pushed the other project forward, Iwamoto counted on his support for the TAMC.

Another major benefit was the discovery of large fishing grounds just off the western coast, which would be a huge asset to the Conglomerate’s food sources. Taltal slowly worked on creating a squad of small fishing boats, but the complicated access to the area meant that there was no way the fish could get to the general population fast enough.

“This is all very nice,” one of the men interrupted him. “But if you look on it from the financial side, it is extremely uneconomic. Doctor Takeshi, what is the expected payback period?”

Iwamoto had to suppress a sigh. This question was unpleasant, but it was very well expected. “The economic models are displayed on the page 11. And as for your question, doctor Edwards, the estimated payback period is 50 years, 40 if we manage to get the Zaldivar mining operation running at the same time as finishing the works on the first phase of TAMC. But the long term economic markers are much more favorable, not even talking about positive influence on the society.” Iwamoto looked around the room. “Let’s not forget we are not talking about some marginal investment to a stadium or a park. TAMC will easily become a critical part of our infrastructure and will support the future expansion of the Conglomerate.”

“What about the technical part of the project?” an older woman in glasses interrupted him. “Are you sure that we have all the technology necessary to complete such thing? As far as I know, there were large problems even constructing the train track from Maquinchao to Salta Plaz and that was mostly on solid flat ground.”

“Yes, me and my team are aware of the problems the constructors had there, but you have to realize that it was over 60 years ago and we have advanced technologically since then. As you can see in the project roadmap, our first goal will be reaching the iron mining site. We have two large refurbished tunnel boring machines which we will use to drill the initial tunnel to Zaldivar. Once we have a safe passage for the supply trucks, we can start laying the rails. In total, there will be three separate tubes to each tunnel, two for the trains and one for maintenance and as an escape route.

There will be four shorter tunnels along the route and one long, starting here at the outskirts of Arizaro,” he added, pointing at the map. “We are already testing the technology there and are positive that it is accomplishable. The team lead by doctor Monroe is also very close to launching the new tokamak, which will provide more than enough power for the construction and later for operation of the TAMC.”

The president looked around. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, I believe it is time to vote.”

Doctor Edwards frowned. “I vote to postpone. The economy isn’t ready for such large investment.”

Iwamoto had to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. Just as he had expected, Edwards was trying to sink the project. So far it seemed that the votes were divided to almost equal halves, and it became apparent that it will be the president who will have the final decision.

Marco Cruz stood up. “Normally I would agree with doctor Edwards that this project will be dangerous for our economic stability. But since the planned project Poseidon depends heavily on the supplies of iron, then I vote yes for the TAMC. Congratulations, doctor, you got your funding,” he smiled on Iwamoto.


Valeria sighed and looked at the screen. She was trying to put an official report together, trying to hide the fact that so far the operation had been one big failure. At least now I have something good to report with the information from Javier, she thought with a quick smile. The young man proved to be an incredibly valuable source of information about the cult controlling southern Brazil and apparently all he wanted in return was to be allowed to learn about Madirian technology. Since learning was something the whole society was built upon, Valeria certainly had no problem with providing him all the knowledge he wanted.

She got to the point of ordering all the personnel to abandon the camps along the coastline and retreat to the fortified base. Hmm, abandon is such an ugly word. Tactical retreat sounds better. Tactical retreat to protect the lives of the Conglomerate citizens. She nodded. That sounds less like a defeat.

“We have managed to obtain inside information from the cult. They call themselves ‘The Regressed’ and their society is based on a twisted version of some monotheistic religion, probably originally on Christianity. The vast majority of the people in area are fanatical believers, completely under control of a network of preachers. There is a mysterious figure behind the organization, hidden away in the center of the cult-controlled lands. The cult also has an elite unit of soldiers, called ‘The Levelers’, which are used against anyone who disagrees with the regime.

The Levelers seem to be the only ones using any advanced weapons, other than that we have seen mostly bows and spears, occasionally a crossbow. The enemy relies heavily on their numbers and absolute obedience of its followers.” Shivers ran down her spine as she wrote those lines. Valeria was present during one of the cult attacks on the Conglomerate’s positions. Dozens and dozens of savages in rags running against her soldiers. Spears, swords and in some cases just plain sticks against firearms. The scariest thing was the absolute lack of fear in their eyes. They believed that death fighting Devil’s army would lead them straight to paradise.

“Our source confirmed that the level of technology within the cult is very low, almost at the medieval level. Anything advanced is seen as unholy, which gives us an advantage.”

Valeria frowned a bit when she mentioned her ‘source’. Javier was still technically a prisoner of war, which by normal rules meant that he would be sent to slavery. So far she had managed to protect him, because she felt it would be a shame to not use such a bright mind. She scratched her nose. I’m gonna have to figure something out.

As an idea popped into her head, she quickly wrapped up the report with usual request for more men and supplies and created another empty document. It is time to play ‘the uncle’ card, she thought. She didn’t like it very much, she was proud to get to where she was without any favours from her family. But if it meant saving one life…

“Dear uncle,” she wrote. “I hope that your presidential duties don’t take up all your free time. I have a small favour to ask of you.”

The ocean lapped up along the shore. Its low crashing cheers joining with that of a small group of young men who played along the long dark shore. On the western face of the Cuban Islands western reach there was little left along the shore line save for the dark soil mixing with golden yellow that indicated it had ever been inland, and that the surf had not crawled further inland in the intervening years since the nuclear apocalypse. From time to time with the passing of the tides some piece of a ruin or another would stick out from the ocean, piercing the tropical blue waters like a dock post if it were a tree, or barely breaking the water's surface like a turtle's shell if it were an old building. At times more often, the suggestion that the water beyond the tide line was shallow or precarious was the odd stranded or abandoned ship that was let to rot in the salty surf and sun, turning gray and becoming a roost for seagulls as weeds and algae bloomed around it.

Palms and alligator apples lined the shoreline beyond where storm tides had stripped clean the earth and pulled it towards the sea, creating the dark brown beach that drifted this way and that in the ocean breezes, or was whetted and ran down to sea in the storms. Bare footed the young men running along it felt the warmth of the naked Earth under them as they kicked a leather skinned ball back and forth. There was no particular goal in this. But the effort carried them along the shore and over the afternoon they had moved a mile across the shore passing the rough dirty ball between one another. Their noise and traipsing would frighten crabs from their hidden burrows and they would race away moments before the brown heel of one of the Cuban players passed over where they had been hiding.

Each of the men winding their way across the beach was athletic in build, their limbs sinewy in tight toned muscle. These were men who had come to know the rigors of the fight on the sea or on the coast. They had set sail north several times to loot the Mississippi Golf and to prowl its shrimpers and unprotected villages. Each knew at least one elder who in before their births had at one point gone over into the North in the hopes of conquering it in liberation. So too had they also tried to bring the same against Mexico. But while the fighting had been fierce there the attempts had been eventually repulsed. Now there was talk of heading into Belize, to those inclined to the arguments among the International it was felt this was merely a play. The real prize among those who cared to make for serious adventures was the great Brazilian island of Guiana, sometimes called Amapa. But this would be an adventure if called for would not likely call on these young men, who were still hardly boys to volunteer themselves to it.

But this was all just talk still.

So they continued to play across the beach. Finding not just amusement but also exercise to keep their foot work clean. This they all were adept at, and like many went without so much as shoes. Through jungle, over rocks, or brown earth and beach they had no need for shoes. They were strong, the muscles of their feet and toes hardened to kick the ball, calloused against sharp cutting rocks. They were deeply kissed by the sun and they were of a deep smokey, earthly tone; like ground pulp of the coffee bean. Their brightly colored outfits of beaten wood pulp, made fine like cloth and woven into strips of pig's leather hung light off their shoulders and moved with the ease and relaxed movement of an easy breath as they moved, ran, and twisted and turned.

The group comprised of such: Miguel Antonio Silvia. The oldest at twenty-five he was already an experienced man in the ways of fighting and the raid. Years ago a wayward bullet had struck his cheek, and gazing across the bone gave him a twisted scar that whipped and traced a line across the left side of his head to one of his large elephantine ears. His intense concentration on the ball was reflected in his green eyes, and long unevenly shorn hair flew in the warm tropical air as he jumped and ran delicately to intercept the ball before it could hit the waves and kick it off to whomever would have it. Though twenty-five, boyishness remained on his face like a phantom, he was round, almost clean if it were not for the first thin growth of a beard.

The second was Jorge Royo, lighter skinned than the rest with a lighter shade of hair, almost ginger with a touch of cinnamon. He glowed red under the sun and was more the junior of Miguel in both age and physique. Perfectly clean shaven, he had never managed to grow a beard and his head was crowned in coarse wiry hair that made something like a woolen cap on his head.

Between the two in age was Gabriel Carlos Ramirez. Tall and spry he stood imposing, even above Miquel, and with a heavy build with the strength of a sword fish or a shark. He smiled brightly as he moved with a grace far beyond what would be described of his build. But while his body was tall and burly, his face was narrow and sharp, his nose stuck out like a broad hook and the bridge of his nose had the soft crimson hew of sun burn. His high cheeks had been kissed and speckled by many small freckles.

Jesus Ikal and his brother Rodrigo stood out on the periphery of the group. Outsiders to the island as much as the group here. Migrants to the island, residents of Cuba for only a couple years. Their fortunes had drifted them from the mainland, from the Mayan Mexico across the sea. They had insinuated themselves into the group and were welcomed well enough into it. Both were unremarkable looking young men, with wide pan-like faces and narrow Indian eyes. Jesus' nose was heavier though than his younger brother, who was only twenty. But Rodrigo's chin had picked up the same proportional size as his brother's, and was held nearly as far out as either one's blunted flat noses.

The game progressed into the shadow of a large ship that had centuries ago been washed ashore in some storm long ago. Its hull had sunk into the sand and its bow rested far into the forested inland where it was broken on the rocks. Thrown like a javelin by some now ancient storm it had been embedded into the northern shores of Pinar del Rio Island. There it languished, its metal hull rotting away in the salty air of having been stripped away to as high as man's easy reach. It was half a skeleton now and years of being washed by rain and washed had streaked its hull with long streaks of rusty red and brown and inside in the scant light stalactites of rust had formed on the interior and had mixed with crystallized salt and the shit of sea gulls.

The game to an abrupt end in the shadows of the great bulk as a voice shouted, “Viva, Comrades!”

They stopped, and the ball was allowed to roll harmlessly to a stop between two of the players as they looked up to see who had shouted. Walking towards them was a broad shouldered man in a tattered green canvas field outfit. He rose his hands in greeting and he met with the group half way.

“Good evening, Raul.” Miquel greeted him, nodding his head.

“I hope I am not disturbing anything.” the older man said with a wide smile. He was wearing a thick graying beard, and the rest of his hair was tied up in a ponytail underneath his field-green cap, “But I bring news.”

“Then what is it?” Gabriel asked, his tone was sharp, blunt in its delivery. To any other man he may have been considered rude. But Raul knew each of the young men and took it as no sour slight.

“Have you been keeping up in the rumors and the talk?” Raul asked. Most of the young men shook their head, save for Miquel whose eyes lit up with interest. “The International Congress has come to a conclusion on where our efforts of liberation are to pass. Volunteers are called out for, and since all you have come to serve in some capacity before, I thought I would bring it to you.”

“What are the details?” Gabriel asked, again bluntly and without and consideration towards the delivery.

“I'll explain on the way back to San Capital. Now, viva!” Raul said, turning to head back. The whole group of five followed.

“I know it had been long rumored that any ploys against the mainland might next be towards Belize.” Raul continued, “But I'm under good confidence that it's believed that to liberate Belize from its warlords may incite reaction from Mexico. I realize that for you, the last conflict with the Mexican Estado Libre did not end conclusively. Though we burned Cancun and Merida we did not fair well in the jungles. Our only legitimate victory had been consolidating our alliance with the Estado Zapatista in Chiapas, they wore forced to give up half their territory. And it would seem that the Mexican League attracted help from beyond the Rio Grande, while the naval force of Mexico was greatly damaged, someone came to their aid and actually continuing it became complicated.”

“So what then, are we just giving up in Mexico?” asked Jesus Ikal with a real feeling of worry.

“Hardly.” Raul smiled, laughing, “The delegate from the Zapatista said they would continue on as they had for generations before against them. There may be formal peace for the time, but it is not without conflict. But while they keep Veracruz's attention it was decided in Congress to turn the attention back south, and sans fighting in the jungles we will liberate what we can of Brazil, and bring revolution to its ruin.”

The group murmured between themselves. Could it be serious? Could it be true? “Comrade High Commander believes we need twenty-thousand brave comrades and we're beginning to scour for anyone who may. The regulars had already been reached out to, and they will learn what they can of Amapa and open doors to us. Viva, comrades! Exciting times again!”

The way back to the village took them from off of the beach and they walked through the forests and jungles of the highlands. Much of it was young growth, and between the branches and trunks of apple trees, cashew trees, and palms they could spot the ruins of the world before enveloped in vines. At a point as they came closer the dense young foliage began to break and the path took on an air more like a mule trail and open fields full of beans and squash became more a presence. There would be at times clusters of small farmer communes and the sounds of cocks and the rooting of hogs entered into the soundscape of songbirds and breeze.

Crossing a bridge over a small creek they heard the songs of washerwomen somewhere further upstream, and looking to find they could find glimpses of the old wives and young daughters washing clothes in the cool water the trickled down from mountain streams, their white dresses wet from the splashing or they going topless in the heat.

Cresting a hill they now came to look down at the small village tucked into the bosom of the green mountains. The crowns of the trees and forests obscuring their view from the sea, but the smell of the ocean was still strong even with the flowery and fruity aroma of the wild orchards around them. The village of Sans Capital below them looked to be sleepy and calm, laid wide out over the gentle mountain hills in a series of clumped shacks or sturdier brick and mortar homes slowly being raised from the middle of the commune. Just looking down onto it there was a feeling of excitement below in its mud streets for all the flags were out and flying.

On the streets the old men sat stooped on their stoops, clutching walking streets or canes as they laughed and talked to one another. Chickens and roosters ran free in the village and they pecked through the mud and overturned dust of the street in search of worms or insects that they could further scratch up. Their cackling and cawing echoed in the afternoon air as Raul, Gabriel, Jorge, Miquel, Jesus and Rodrigo made their way to the center of town. There gathered around a notice board were a few handfuls of men their age or older, looking excited or anxious. Nearby at a makeshift desk made of an overturned apple crate and under a tattered tarp canopy sat a burly black man, a large cigar in his mouth.

“Senior Jovenel, I have brought those volunteers I told you about. As I said, they are eager.”

The man at the desk looked up, and laughing smiled. He rose and invited them over. “Then come. Come!” he cheered, “Are we ready to partake in the next great throw of our history, and bring liberation to our brothers under warlords to the south?” he talked in a thick accent, reminiscent of the French islands to the east, lost or barely there.

“I am ready to bring the new world!” Miguel declared. Approaching the recruiter he turned his head so he might see the scar on his face.

“He is as mature a fighter as any. My recommendations is to let him lead, and he will be a strong force.” Raul said, “I have experience on this matter.”

Jovenel nodded, “We will see.” he said, “Your name, comrade?”

“Miguel Antonio Silvia.” Miguel answered.

“So it is.” the man nodded, directing his attention to the others the process was repeated.

“Jesus, Rodrigo,” the recruiter said of the last two, “You two are brothers, and I would feel guilty about recommending a mother's two sons to fight together.”

“Our mother will be fine. She has more back home in Guatemala.” Jesus said, Rodrigo nodding.

“Are you sure? To die is one thing, but to leave the spirit of our kinsfolk in total sadness is one thing entirely.” Jovenel said.

Both Jesus and Rodrigo nodded in confirmation and the recruiter clapped his hand on his crate. “Very well then.” he said, writing down their names.

“If it would be possible, these young men have such a relationship it would make sense for them to be together. A mutual love for one another makes good men fight like devils for one another. They will be safer together.” Raul advised.

“I can not make promises.” Jovenel said, “But I will recommend it to the mission's Comrade Commander. Perhaps justice will done for them, and they will set foot on the beaches together. In the next week, we will learn. The full recruit list will be posted here in your village then.”

“Thank you comrade, and viva!” Raul cheered.