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July, 1960 - Lisbon, Portugal
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Duarte Nuno, Duke of Braganza, barely avoided getting his face smashed into the windshield as his staff car screeched to a halt outside the Assembly of the Republic. He burst from the car, leaving his hat and jacket on the rear seat as he ran up the long flight of stairs that led to the marble archways sheltering the interior door. Other figures were similarly rushing toward the entrance and he waved his identification in the face of a confused and terrified looking young policeman who sought to maintain some sort of order.

He burst through the doors and into the main hall which was a thunderous noise of shouting and waving arms. He took a moment to find his bearings and then hurried over to his chair, set aside much like the British Monarchs as a place of honour where he might sit and be addressed by the assembly if they so chose. He sank into the red cushions just as the President began to bang his gavel loudly for several seconds to bring some order.

"Fellow Members of Parliament! I have news. Our Navy has surrendered without a shot being fired. Spanish Marines came ashore and moved quickly to secure our seaward batteries. Spanish troops have also disarmed our police at the border and are moving rapidly down the highways and into Portugal."

The noise rose into a crescendo again and then began to die as a rumbling sound began to shake the building. Some ran to the windows and pointed upward but Duarte didn't need to look to know that the Spanish airforce was preforming another flyby.

Those who had run to the windows now returned to their seats and sat silently, stunned looks on their faces. Others continued to shout but one by one they began to fall silent until the whole room was as quiet as a tomb save for the roar of the aircraft above.

"I thought they gave us twenty four hours." One MP finally said as she stood and glanced around, the droning of aircraft engines fading into the distance.

"It seems that the new Viceroy preferred to work quickly." Retorted another. "Like it or not Ladies and Gentlemen, Portugal is at war."

"War?" A third sneered. "There won't be a war. Our army is a facade, our Navy already gone, and our airforce is still flying the same planes it had during the Great War. If we resist it will be a massacre. Thousands of our soldiers will die and for what? To save face?"

There was a chorus of agreement from scattered MP's. The speaker plowed on.

"The British will not be coming. They have their own problems. France is a Communist mire, and you can be sure the Germans hold us no love after we sided with their enemies during the Great War. We all knew this might happen one day. We are on our own."

There was another round of nods and Duarte could see the defeat in the faces before him. He suspected they might have been more willing to resist if the Spanish Air Armada had not passed overhead and, as if reading his thoughts, the great roar came again, louder this time. The building actually shaking as plaster tumbled from the high ceiling, falling amongst the MP's below, many of whom shouted in panic, one or two in pain.

"Could we negotiate?" Asked an MP from the north of Portugal. He was a big man and showed scars on his face that suggested he had once been a soldier.

"No." Duarte cut in this time and all eyes turned to him. "Delgado was clear that our surrender is to be unconditional. The Spanish Navy sits now unchallenged off our coast, their airforce mocks us with its very presence. This war was lost before it even began. I am aware that I am not a Member of this honourable Parliament but I, for one, would be heart broken to have the young soldiers of this nation be thrown away in a fight we cannot win."

The words were not his, but rather those of his beloved daughter, Mariana, who had accosted him before he could leave the Palace. She had been calm as she took his shoulders and stared into his eyes. "Pappa," She had said with as much passion as she had ever shown. "You cannot let them fight. To many will die. The Spanish will show no mercy. Delgado is not a sane man."

He reflected on what it waste it was she had not been born a man. She might have made a wonderful leader one day but now she would inherit nothing. Portugal would be no more. He wanted to weep. With nothing else to say he sat and seemed to crumple in his chair in front of the shocked assembly.

The President nodded slowly and then turned to the sea of desperate faces. In the distance the sound of huge guns opening fire echoed through the city. Everyone waited for explosions but none came. Warning shots. A demand for an answer.

"I vote for an immediate surrender. I will not have the deaths of thousands of our people on my hands." The heavyset MP spoke again. "His Grace is correct. We cannot win this war. To try and fight would be symbolic in name only. And it may make the Spanish vengeful. Delgado is not, I think, a forgiving man."

Another chorus of "Ayes" went around the room and the Duke took note of those people, seeing for the first time how, though they looked scared, they were far from surprised at the events. Suspicions began to form in his mind even as the President called for a vote. Had they been bought? How far did reach of Delgado extend? Had Spanish gold bought him a bloodless victory over Portugal?

"Then it is agreed." The President's voice broke in on his thoughts. "We will surrender immediately. Inform the armed forces. You Grace," He turned to Duarte. "Perhaps you would be kind enough to contact Delgado and inform him at once?"

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July, 1960 - Madrid, Spain
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Delgado put down the phone receiver and let a genuine smile spread across his face. Portugal had capitulated, as he had known they would have to. The unification of Portugal and Spain had been a project he had worked on for the last five years. The idea had not been his own but he had taken it on with his usual tenacity and, with the assistance of highly placed Portuguese asset, he had quietly bought the most outspoken Members of the Portuguese parliament.

They had worked tirelessly to prevent modernization of the armed forces, insisting on public works projects instead. It had been quietly, and very well done. Delgado had to admire the deft hand on the Portuguese side of the border who had so cunningly manipulated those same MP's into believing that a brighter future lay ahead of them if they aligned more closely with Spain.

"Lieutenant!" He barked the words, barely concealing the glee he was feeling. The door was snatched open at once and his attache stepped into the room, clicked his heels, and saluted.

"Assemble the General Staff. Oh, and find the King, he has a part to play in this still."

The soldier saluted and vanished out the door which closed with a bang. He hurried down the marble hallway and out into the main plaza where a deafening crescendo of bells was clamouring across the city. The news was only an hour old and already the streets were thronged with people celebrating a victory in a war they didn't even know had been declared. All they knew was what the newspapers, given a choice between cooperation or closure, were printing. The Spanish Kingdom was on the rise again. Portugal was rejoining the Empire. There was nowhere to go but up.

Simple, easy to remember, and most of all, hopeful. Spain had enjoyed a long period of economic success and growth, now she was going to rebuild the glory of old. He hurried down the long steps to a waiting staff car and leapt into the back, shouting for the driver to take him to headquarters.

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July, 1960 - Lisbon, Portugal
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"I am to marry?!" Mariana's voice rose slightly as she stared at her father. "To the Spanish King?"

Duarte looked miserable as he nodded. The message had come from Delgado the same evening as the surrender had been confirmed. Already Spanish marines were moving in to seize strategic buildings and locations. Lisbon was an occupied city.

"Yes... Delgado told me that if we want our family to remain in Portugal then you will marry the King."

"But that would make me Queen of Portugal and Spain!" Mariana sounded excited at the prospect. "Oh father, that sounds so much better than Princess!"

Duarte had to admit she was right. It was possible she didn't understand that the Spanish King was little more than a figurehead now. But then it didn't really matter in the end. Portugal hadn't treated them much better. He acknowledged Delgado's clever move however. Mariana was well loved by the people. She was beautiful, charismatic, intelligent, kind, everything that the common people hoped for in a Queen. By coupling her with Juan Carlos, who was as handsome as Mariana was beautiful, Delgado would be able to give people on both sides of the border a common love.

"At least he is handsome." Mariana was muttering as she looked at a newspaper clipping with a picture of Juan Carlos I smiling out at her. "So many of our ancestors married old frauds."

Duarte wanted to say something else but Mariana had already turned her back on him and was wandering out of the room toward a balcony. She stepped out into the hot afternoon sun and looked out over Lisbon. She could see the Spanish Armada lying at anchor in the outer harbour, their big guns trained on the city. The streets were empty save for roving patrols of Spanish marines. She could sense the anxiety, could see faces glancing out of windows, and she knew that her people were terrified. Then an idea struck her.

The Spanish were sure to have a parade through the city. It would be very un-Spanish for them to not have one. They did love a show after all. Maybe this wedding could happen the same day! It would create the illusion of it being a celebration of her as Queen.

She hurried back inside, past her father who was now sitting slumped in an armchair, gently swirling his drink around in one hand while he stared at the wall. She picked up the phone, dialled a number and spoke quickly to the person who answered.

"Will there be a parade. Yes? Good. I want to be married before it. Thank you." She set down the phone and glanced back out at the terrified capital. Good things could yet come of this.

He ran, feet conforming to the red earth they knew so well, that he'd known since his birth. He no longer felt pain in that quarter, the ancient jigsaw rocks that littered to roots of the ambas and mountains having long ago cured his soles of their more delicate senses. It was normal for him to cover the rugged distances between the old monasteries of Wag province on a daily basis.

The rainy season was passing, farmers returning to their crops over washed out trails, struggling with ornery pack mules in the dense summer air. Wet dirt from the pockets and gullies not yet dried by the sun caked his feet and the fringes of his cotton tunic as he ran. The green scrub land smelled of vegetation and life, and sounded of birds.

In a cloth sack hanging from his shoulder was, a letter, addressed from the Abba of one monastery to another. Telegraphs didn't connect the small villages or the old places, being a miracle reserved for the budding cities as they grew into something unfamiliar to the older ways of life. Out here, a runner was the fastest form of communication, and young athletic monks the replacement for the phone line.

If the distance was too long, he couldn't complete it in one day. To run at night was foolish. There were lions on the prowl after sunset, and bandits, and far worse things. As a boy, he and his brother had seen an ugly thing swim a river near their village at dusk. He hadn't known how to describe it, but his brother had. "It was a buda" the older boy told their friends self-importantly, as if the experience had turned him into a wizened storyteller. "A man-hyena, searching for a child's skin to make into a shield." The wild places of the world held dangers like this after dark. There were budas, and witches, and falasha, and the ghosts of cursed men who'd fought in ancient wars during the times of Yodit. He would not run at night. When the sky went yellow and the sun crowned the mountains, he made sure he was near his home village, on those familiar trails, safe from the truly evil.

The hut he'd grown up in still stood, now the home of his elder brother and his family. His nephew and niece were playing with the goats in the pen, teasing them through the fence. When they saw him, they ran to catch up with him, mimicking his wide gait in their clumsy childish way, shouting his name as if it were a childhood game of its own.

His brother came out at the commotion, wearing a threadbare tunic and trousers, looking every bit the respectable farmer. That boyish face was still there, covered in a thin mask of wear it was true, but his eyes were unchanged. The two grown men smiled and embraced. Even though they had spent their youth together, any time he saw his older brother, the same memory always appeared. It was the night before he went to the priesthood, his brother leading him through the frightening twilight like a scout ahead of an army. It was a memory of darkness and fear, the appearance of the old witches hut on the edge of the river, the smell of her when he went inside and saw her undressed, the only time he'd saw the secret place between a woman's legs. She bragged to the village she was barren, that no man could put a baby in her, an invitation that might have made her an outcast if the people of the village didn't also believe deeply in her knowledge of magic. She was an eccentric, and a filthy person. She liked to argue with priests and elders in public. As he'd grown older, he'd became a member to the secret everybody knew, that every man in the village had lain with her, and that everyone pretended they hadn't. And so he took his turn before he joined a life of celibacy, that strange night in his youth at a time when he still felt much too young for such things. It was a living memory, or one that came alive when he recalled it, the fear mixed with animal like pleasure, the feeling of having slipped into some unnatural netherworld, the fear of being cursed. It was why, when he saw his brother, he felt joy and guilt and discomfort all in one odd emotional sensation.

"Have the old men made you into one of them yet?" His brother said, repeating the same line he said whenever they met, still making himself grin like the clever man he knew himself to be. Both men laughed the laugh of old friends just glad to be in one another's company.

His brothers wife watched them, smiling a soft empathetic smile, standing over a hot pan cooking over a fire. Smoke billowed dark and heavy from the wet kindling, making her eyes water. A thin pancake on injera cooked below, filling the air with its tangy sourdough scent, mixing together with the smell of the earth and the grassy scent of goat shit that wouldn't be appetizing to an outsider, but reminded him of home. The brother ordered the children to help their mother with the food, and the two men went inside. "I have something for your eyes" his brother said just as they left the red light of sunset behind and entered the musty hut.

The floor was made of the same red dirt outside, the simple handmade furniture peppered with dust and thatching. The walls were stone, and littered with small openings. A mosquito bit the runners neck. He swatted it and inspected his palm.

"Mosquitoes rule a great empire." his brother said, paraphrasing a Scottish missionary who'd visited their village when they were children. This quip about mosquitoes was all the elder brother had retained from those early theological lessons. He reached down and grabbed a piece of parchment from the table, handing it to the runner. "It is from our brother. I know his mark, I compared to the others. But I can't read the rest." The young monk looked down, scanning over the scribbled Amharic script.

"Brother." The young monk started to read out loud, his voice filling the small room, "I am in the Ogaden. My leader tells me that I cannot tell you where because it is an army secret. I eat well. The Somali women bring us food, and it is like what we eat at home, though just like all things in the Ogaden there is more sand in it than there should be. The wind blows sand everywhere, sometimes in big clouds, and we must cover our eyes. The other men are surprised I can write. I write for them sometimes. I wish I could write for the men from the city because their stories are so wonderful, but they already know how to write, so I only hear some. The country men pay me with parts of their rations. They say I will grow fat like a city writer! I do not grow fat though, because there is always work to do and patrols to walk on. I know our brother is reading this. He should come out here to be a priest. There are many Muslims who do not understand god, and he could teach them. I hope to see you when I am put on leave for Meskel. I pray for you."

The children came in with a stack of injera. Their mother followed holding aloft a pot of stew, bubbling and sticking to the container. The bread was served like plates and the stew piled in the center, a mess of greens and chili peppers with eggs poking up like lumps of marble. The brothers tore pieces of bread and used them to pinch the stew.

"What do you think? Is he useful in the Ogaden?" His brother asked, his wife slipping a wooden cup full of Tej, home brewed honey wine, next to him.

"I think his imperial majesty's service will make a man out of him." He said, a cup slipped next to him at well. It smelled heavy and dangerous, but he could vaguely smell that small nugget of sweet too, a mustard seed size of golden honey in a hive of bees, inviting him to drink despite the warnings.

"Maybe so, but what is there for him to do?"

"Fight shiftas? Or desert bandits?"

"There are big hairy wild men out there too, who used to fight naked for the mad mullah." His brother turned to the kids now and spoke in the mysterious voice of a traveling storyteller, "They tie knives to their manhoods and swing them at Christian soldiers, and grunt like monkeys like this." He puffed up his cheeks and made an apeish hooting noise.

The children laughed, but their mother did not. "This is not a story for children" she scolded. The runner smiled. "It is not a story for my ears either" he said. The others laughed. "Besides, the mad mullah has been dead for so long, his hairy wild men must be old now. Ras Hassan rules Adal now."

"The Mad Mullah's son! Just as mad!"

"I do not think so." The young monk said, unsure. "He is a subject of his imperial majesty".

"Impossible! Impossible! True subjects of the King Of Kings must be Christian. That is the law."

"These laws are too big for me." the runner surrendered.

"That is why you still have a brother! I am here to tell you these things!"

Their mirth carried into the night, when the darkness closed in and their village became a fortress against the dangers. The runner went to bed content, well fed, and happy to be alive.

--

He left when light first peaked. His sister in law was just waking. She handed him bread as he went out the door, into the fresh morning air, the smell of dew and goat shit strong. He inhaled deep, taking pleasure in the songs of birds and the solemn dignity of the red mountains rising up like monuments. And then he ran.

He ran non stop, past the forest where the old witch used to live, past a herd of cattle grazing along the road, past a babbling creek, and the smell of the village with all its pungent humanity. Fields went by, and rocky crags inhabited by goats. A troop of baboons sunned on the rocks and lazily watched him go by.

This felt more natural than walking sometimes. Stones and farms and trees went by. Fat baobabs acted like familiar markers. His breath reached a steady pace and stayed there. In the way a mariner might navigate by the stars, he navigated by the shapes of ambas he's passed hundreds of times before.

His arrival came mid afternoon, at the foot of a scrawny amba split by the flow of two small rivers. A dusty station seemed to lean against the incline. Further above, nestled in the rocky peak of the amba, was a serious of scrappy stone churches and houses. Here was Debre Melekot, his destination.

"You're going to have to wait your turn, young man." an elderly bent over debtera warned, shaking a weathered prayer stick. The old man was being helped into a basket by two young acolytes. Once inside, the old man looked absolutely ridiculous, like a baby goat stuffed into a satchel belly up. A long rope ran up the side of the cliff, which would be pulled by acolytes at the top once they got the signal, helping the old holy man up the sheer cliff. The runner made sure his satchel was secure. "I think I can make it on my own." he said. The debtera grinned like a devil, but said nothing.

So they went up together, a crazy pair, the old man in his basket, the young runner grasping for rocks as he climbed barefoot up the sheer face of the amba.

"I used to be able to do that too." the old man said.

"Yes, abba." the runner huffed, reaching for a rock.

"Old age is not kind to the body. It is a lesson we all must learn. You will learn it to."

"Yes, abba."

"Careful now, you'll fall. Now. When I was young, I climbed everything I could see. Ambas, mountains, trees. I don't know. It was easy."

"Yes..."

"Are you the young man the priests have been looking for?"

"What?" The runner stopped, hanging onto the vertical climb, watching the old man be jerked up in the swinging basket. The old man got above him and looked down at him like an ornery monkey from a tree.

"The government came looking. The King of Kings. You have an important summons."

"It's probably not me."

"You might be needed. Perhaps there is a princess in it for you. You will have to renounce your vow..."

"It's probably not me."

"Oh, we'll see." The old man looked up at the approaching faces of the acolytes looking down. He snapped at them as if they were machines that could speed up on command.

The runner was breathing heavy when he reached the top. Instead of running, he walked. Debre Melekot was a thin pathway along the edge of the amba, stone house dangling off the precipice, monks in cotton robes sitting folded up under rock-hangs watching him go by. The old debtera didn't seem to notice him any more, detained by an old friend he met among the monks, their creaking greetings falling behind the runner as he made his way to the church. It was a two-story building of stone and plaster, colorful crosses painted on the side. The runner pulled out his sealed message and went in.

Inside, a number of priests in black robes stood near the alter, talking to an ugly hunchback in military uniform. A new acolyte, unable to fit into army life?

"Ah!" the head priest said, "Ashenafi Werku". The runner smiled at being recognized and held out his message. The priest continued. "Let me introduce you to Tekwashi Girima, the great army hero! He is making his Imperial Majesty's Olympic team, and he heard about you!"

Ashenafi froze.

"You are a good runner?" the ugly creature said. For a second, the runner was reminded of that thing he'd seen so long ago when he was a child, that thing his brother had announced was a buda. A were-hyena.

"I run all the time." he said, surprised.

"Good. That is what his Imperial Majesty wants. You will come with me?"

"He will come with you." the priest beamed, "It is the will of God that brought you so far!"

Aygestan, Armenia

Mary Kandarian stood with her family at the dinner table as the sun dipped below the dark green mountains of the Artsakh. She looked down wordlessly at the meal prepared, dressed in a deep blue silk dress with the traditional brightly decorative patterned trim subdued in tone, her jewelry and ornaments removed, and a scarf wrapped loosely around her head. The night before the funeral was the ritual of Dan Gark, a wake at home to be with family before the priest took them to the church the following morning. Both the parents of Mary and Gor, her own two sisters, Gor’s younger brother and sister, and the couple’s children were there: Mary’s brother was unable to get leave from the western border to attend, while Gor’s older brother was training in Nakhchivan. They had spent the day each other, recalling memories of Gor’s life and his marriage to Mary. His casket was prepared in the sitting room, open as per tradition. The church had dressed him in his suit, covered the wounds on his head with makeup, and made him look peaceful as he laid there.

The family ate and drank together until midnight, laughing and crying over childhood stories or pointless arguments that they had. One time, Gor had been out getting water from the well with his mother when he saw a dog running through the woods and decided to chase it: he had loved dogs and wanted one badly at the time. His father had to run after him and grab him as he tried to find it and “tame” it. A year later, Gor’s parents finally adopted a small dog from a family friend whose herding dog had puppies. It was a runt, but it lived through Gor’s childhood. Its name was Hovit. Many years later, when Mary and Gor had their second child, they would adopt another one for their kids. That one, old and riddled with arthritis, was curled up peacefully on the floor next to a window.

The wake of Gor was ended around midnight when his parents announced that they were tired and wished to rest for the next day. The sons went to the front door where the casket lid was placed upright, a traditional way of notifying the neighbors of a death in the family. They brought it into the house and carefully went to their rooms, while Mary returned to her now empty bedrooms. Photographs of her and Gor still stood on the dresser: that and the closet were still filled with clothes she had not sorted through yet. After the funeral and a few days of mourning, she knew she had to start looking for places to send his old possessions. Looking through the cleaned clothes hanging from the closet or stumbling on his hunting rifle and ammunition by the front door filled her with sadness, like she thought he was coming home at the end of the day before that thought was quickly crushed. Gor was never coming home from the forest again, he had been claimed by the mountains of the Artsakh like many others. A stupid, meaningless death. It was frustrating to watch someone die like that: not for a purpose, not for a cause, but because of an accident. She remembered simmering with rage when the foreman told her that it was a rusted-out clip holding a line in place. A rusted-out clip, a ten dram piece they could have picked up from the hardware store on their way over.

Aygestan’s priest arrived on the quiet Friday morning with a small group of volunteers the next morning. Mary, who had done her best to look presentable and stoic for the funeral, could not hide the lack of sleep in her eyes. Aygestan’s church’s pastor was an older man with a well-kept greying beard. Wrinkles covered his olive skin, but he maintained a tall and sturdy build despite his age. He wore the simple black robes of the Armenian Church with the pointed hood down, golden cross dangling low across his neck. His followers, young men and teenagers with strong arms to lift Gor’s casket, stood a distance behind him in almost identical black suits. Father Deradoorian bowed his head respectfully to Mary. “Good morning, Miss Kandarian”, he said softly. He looked to her tired face and sunken eyes in the way priests always tried to do, with compassion and understanding.

“Good morning, Father,” Mary answered duly and without overt emotion. She stared emptily ahead at him, diverting her gaze to scan the followers behind him. “Today is Yegeghetsvo Gark, isn’t it?” she said rhetorically, referring to the church services of Armenian funerals.

“Yes. With your permission, we would like to bring Gor’s casket to the church for this morning’s service.”

Mary nodded, stepping aside and offering Father Deradoorian a path through her door. The volunteers wordlessly entered in a single-file line to the sitting room where they ensured the casket was closed and properly secured. After Dan Gark, the casket was always to be closed when going to the church for services and burial. They lifted the dark black wooden coffin off the floor and shouldered it, bringing it right back out the front door and towards their modest black sedan that sat on the road with its rear doors propped open. They then lifted the coffin, spun it three times, and brought it back down to shoulder level. Father Deradoorian stood with his hands clasped together, watching. Mary had blanked her face, coldly watching the casket of her husband leave their home for the last time. The church’s car had been fitted with rails specifically for coffins, which the bearers carefully slid Gor’s onto. They locked it into place to stop it from sliding around on the winding mountain roads and pressed the rear doors closed.

“We will see you this afternoon once the preparations are completed,” Father Deradoorian continued. The volunteers of his all piled into the sedan, closing their doors to wait patiently for their pastor. “Who will you be bringing with you to the final ceremony?”

“Just our family and his,” Mary answered. He adjusted her dress and looked back to her house, where her children were still sleeping in their rooms.

Father Deradoorian nodded solemnly. “Well then, I shall give you a few hours to get ready. One in the afternoon is when I shall start the service.”

The pastor placed his hand over his heart and offered a blessing to Mary, before turning back towards the church car. He climbed into the side passenger seat and the engine rumbled to life: the wheels crunched gravel as it pulled back onto the road and began to drive off towards the main part of Aygestan. Mary’s house was only a few minutes from the town, nestled quietly along with three or four other wooden country homes on a lonely road. The vibrant summer forest enveloped their little street, stretching up and down the side of the hill that it was cut in on. Mary looked around at the road, noticing a flight of birds coming down past the power lines that stretched across the street. They turned right towards town, almost following the priest and his followers on their journey to the church. With a sigh, she turned back to her house and went back in. She woke her children and ordered them into their dark suits, then knocked on the door of her parents. They, too, were dressing in their mourning clothes.

Mary had to borrow a neighbor’s car to get them to the church. It took two trips to carry the entire extended family into town. Aygestan wasn’t large: the distance between her house and the church was only a few kilometers. It was a typical western Artsakh town: in the valley, nestled by the mountainsides that were comfortable to residents. Along with the church, there were only two restaurants, a coffeehouse, and a small hotel; a grocer, butcher, baker, and a general store all located in the same block of town; a single school for children of all ages; and one increasingly elderly policeman for the town. The biggest employer was the Aygestan Brandy Company, where Gor had previously worked in his teens before logging offered a more competitive paycheck. The only medical clinic was midway between Aygestan and the neighboring village of Kyatuk.

By one in the afternoon, the family had filled into the church’s graveyard for the ceremony of Yegeghetsvo Gark. They stood themselves around the grave plot that was freshly dug, looking towards the front and Father Deradoorian. Gor’s casket was positioned at the front of the ceremony. A trio of candles stood beside the casket and a traditional funeral wreath decorated by family and friends called the psak. Beside it, a khachkar had been carved for Gor by a local craftsman. The stone slab, engraved with his name at the top and symbols like the cross and the Armenian wheel of eternity stood stoically beside an altar. It was dug in like a gravestone at the foot of the plot. Assistants moved back and forth across the church, preparing things for the final ceremony. Mary came around next to her sister Anna, who gave her a quick look to make sure she was alright. They waited, standing straight with their hands clasped as Father Deradoorian went to the pedestal.

“Welcome,” began the pastor as he surveyed the gathered family with his kind eyes, “I hope that the journey here to our humble church was safe and comfortable.”

He looked over to his followers, who were positioned next to Gor’s casket. In a slow, steady voice, he gave his last rites: “While Gor was a good man, his time came early. We have celebrated him through life and now death, and now we must lay him to rest. God shall receive him, but we mustn’t forget him from his time in this world. Always keep Gor Kandarian in your hearts, always remember his contributions to his family and his village.”

Armenian funerals never had eulogies. The church services were short, efficient, and official affairs. Most of the remembrance was done at Dank Gark the night before, with family and food. More days of remembrance, especially on the seventh and fortieth days after the burial and annually after that, would be part of the Kerezmanee Gark graveside services. But for now, it was time for Gor’s final burial. The casket bearers slowly lowered the body into the plot, slowly putting it to a final rest. The pastor watched, then called the ceremony to a close after the body was securely in its plot. He dismissed the waiting family, who shuffled out towards their waiting car. It took another two trips to head back home, where they went back to their rooms and prepared themselves for the evening meal, hogehats. Consisting simply of cooked meat and potatoes, this meal was to remember Gor for everyone present at the ceremony. Until the end of the night, the Kandarian family ate and drank together. When they were tired and full, they retired to their beds. Gor was finally with God. He was at rest.

Yerevan, Armenia

The presidential office in Yerevan was located on the second floor of the palace directly in front of the main square. A vaguely rectangular room with an ornate wooden desk near the windows and balcony and an Armenian rug laid out in front of it, there was a sofa and table for meetings along with a library filled with literature and books about any subject relevant to the President. Hanging from the carved and decorated ceiling was a golden chandelier that bathed the room in yellow-white light as the sun dipped below the skyline of Yerevan. Like with many late night at the office, President Assanian was dressed down to his shirt, his jacket and tie slung across his chair. With him were a stack of files on his desk and the director of the National Security Service. A lighter man with wild, curly black hair and a perpetual stubble, Director Marko Moysisian wore his outfit with the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up and black suspenders slipped off to sling low from his hips. He swirled a large amount of brandy in a crystal glass.

The National Security Service was Armenia’s prime intelligence organization. Born from the Fedayeen spy networks after the formation of the military, the NSS became one of the most important parts of the government. It had agents collecting information across Armenia, and had spread out into Georgia and Turkey to locate threats to Armenian security. They earned their reputation for being snakes, stopping at nothing to get what they needed. Their operations embodied the dark side of militia tradition: apathy towards laws and decency, fighting against all odds to finish the fight. Eventually, they branched out into partisan operations: drawing on their Fedayeen heritage, they trained people to conduct assassinations and sabotage. The result was a small, relatively unknown, but incredibly effective organization that was difficult to control. They did what they wanted in ways that roughly lined up with the intent of the government at large, but one could never be certain of their actions. An Armenian soldier was trained not to kill a civilian, despite his own personal feelings: an NSS operative had no such reservations.

“So as you can see, our Border Service hit a few bandit positions in Georgia this month,” Moysisian stated, tracing a line along the Georgian border that was circled by his analysts. “They got a few of our guys, so the commander of the battalion there asked our assets in Georgia to see where they could strike back to send a message.”

President Assanian nodded along, reading into his file. Three companies went out and attacked several different positions, mostly small minor outposts and resupply bases used by Georgian border raiders. It was the largest such operation undertaken in the history of the Border Service. A quick, professional raid that caused a significant amount of damage. But the question now was what could be done in the future. Border raids had been causing more and more damage over the past few months, and the increase of refugees and drug smuggling was causing problems at home. The police in Gyumri were raiding weapons caches and settling ethnic feuds, while in Sevan there were drive-bys with machineguns. The former President, Joseph Vadratian, had chosen to handle it internally by putting down Russian and Georgian immigrants.

“Maybe it’s time we think offensively,” suggested Moysisian. “Our elements did a lot of damage and based on the information I’ve received, the Mountain Wolves’ lieutenants are starting to worry.” He looked back at the map and saw the village of Patara Darbazi. “One was executed for ordering those initial raids that caused our retaliation,” he added with a slight chuckle.

“What would offensive thinking entail,” carefully answered Assanian. He knew the NSS and their suggestions were often grey at best, and he knew that Moysisian wouldn’t be giving him the full picture even if he asked. Moysisian smiled again, adjusting the a roll on his sleeve that sagged a little low.

“If we could… figure out a solution to our Georgian problem, what do you think that could be?”

Assanian frowned, eyeing Moysisian and his casual posture. “I’ve been working on policy for the internal affairs portion of it but… we need all the options we can get.”

“What if we could have a Georgian government to take the brunt of Russia’s collapse for us? We’ve already gone into Poti to stabilize that port for our own economic interests and it’s worked out for us.”

“Have you been planning this?” asked Assanian, somewhat startled. “Going into another country and setting up a government?”

“It’s what the Persians did in former Azerbaijan,” pointed out Moysisian. “After the war, we have had no further problems in the Artsakh.”

He rearranged the folders to present one to the President. In bold, black letters on the top, it was labeled: “Plan Georgia – Offense.” It looked like a few dozen sheets of paper, along with maps and other figures, were inside. The President looked over it hesitantly: troops in the streets of Georgian cities, using Christian militias to secure areas of the countries against Islamists in the southeast. Politicians and organizations propped up by the NSS. Economic aid, propaganda to sway the people towards the Armenian state. The formation of an allied government built around a Caucasian identity. A union between the two states. They would be using the Georgians to absorb the refugees from Russia instead of the Armenians. On some level, it made sense, but it didn’t quite sit right with Assanian. “We’re going to invade another country and set up a government? That doesn’t sound like us,” he replied.

“What do you mean, not like us?” answered Moysisian. “We’re securing our people against the Russian criminal elements and Georgian bandits. Setting up the Georgians as a functional government instead of a wasteland gives us a buffer.”

Assanian continued to read through. Some of the details were not fully fleshed out or were left vague on purpose. He wanted to ask but he knew he had to spend more time reading over it. “This just sounds like we’d be extending too far. Meddling with other countries. I’m not sure if this is how I want to govern Armenia.”

Moysisian took another sip of his brandy. “I think that we’ve put together a good plan here. Poti is just a small case of it, a test undertaken by Vadratian’s administration. He wanted to see how it would work on a small scale and the Georgian Poti Regiment has been trained up for several years now. We’ve just started cycling Armenian officers out of it and replacing them with junior Georgians trained and fighting with the force. It’s working well.”

“I’ve read the reports on Poti, Marko,” replied Assanian. “It’s been making good progress and we’ve had tremendous growth from using it as a shipping port but… If we were to march on Tbilisi like this, it would be different.”

“At the end of the day, this is your decision to make. But we have included assessments there as well.”

Assanian looked back to Moysisian and put the folder on his desk. “I’ll look at it further tonight. Is there anything else you wanted to tell me, Director?”

Moysisian shook his head and gathered up his coat. He offered a goodbye to the President and excused himself from the room where a guard escorted him to his waiting car. Inside the office, Assanian looked through the maps and thought. He had issues with taking control of a country like that, but what Moysisian was saying made sense. Five years of term could yield positive results but he knew it would be expensive and difficult. It took long enough for Armenia to get back on its feet, and it could very easily be overextended when it came to helping out another country. 1960 was the first year that Armenia could begin paying back at least some of its massive loans to Persia and Europe. But it was a valid suggestion, one that he would have to consider. Having someone else deal with the drugs and crime that Russian immigrants brought would be better for the Armenian state, and would offer the country some respite to begin solving the problems that had already manifested.

But Assanian was still not positive. Moysisian’s enthusiasm for foreign intervention concerned him, and it was something he wanted to discuss with the Councilmen of the Revolution. The founders of the Armenian Separatist Federation, or at least the few who were still alive, formed the Council as an unofficial organization to assist politicians when problems came up regarding governance in a post-revolutionary Armenia. He knew that they would make time to speak with him, especially on a topic like this. Their insight would help him make a final decision.

Before he left for the night, Assanian tossed the folder back to his desk. He straightened his tie, tucked in his shirt, and threw his jacket back on. Turning towards the calendar on his wall beside the desk, he picked up a marker and wrote down a note: Meet with the Council. Then he turned off the light and went home. The Georgia Plan could wait.

July, 1960 - Madrid, Spain

Delgado was sitting with his feet dangling in the water of a Palace fountain, his pants rolled up his knees, socks and shoes neatly stacked beside him on the ground. The clear water was rippling with the effect of the fountain, making his feet shimmer and dance in the distortion. The marble beneath him was cool to the touch and the shadow that fell across him, cast by the towering edifice of the palace with its hundreds of arced windows, was a welcome respite from the late afternoon heat of the day.

"Britain is demanding we withdraw from Portugal." Said General José Domínguez Prieto as he wiggled his own toes in the cool water. A wine bottle sat open between them and a pair of empty glasses still betrayed the hint of a red wine at their bottom. It was a very informal meeting, the type that one might expect to see between two men who had known each other for years. Prieto commanded the Guardia Civil and had been a major supporter of the Coup.

"Let them. They are in no position to do anything about it." Ana Bandera Gallego, the newly minted head of the Ministerio de Asuntos Exteriores y de Cooperación. She was also shoeless but her legs were tucked up beneath her, long dress cascading down to the marble flagstones. She had a wine glass, still half full, cradled in one hand as she spoke using the other. "Since the Great War they have done little to try and prepare themselves for another conflict. And their alliance with Portugal is not what it once was."

"Not to mention France having its Communist meltdown just across the channel." Responded Pieto. He and Gallego were married and had two sons, Francisco Javier and Antonio Bandera. They were fervent anti-Communists and had worked hard to support Delgado in his plans to take over the country.

"It's presenting us our own problems." Delgado added as he leaned back so his hands were on the marble, still idly kicking his feet slowly in the water. A single ray of sunlight had managed to make its way into a deep courtyard and he smiled slightly as two cats appeared as if from nowhere to collapse into the warmth. "Portugal is hardly secure. Lisbon and the major highways, little else. Communist groups are causing issues in Porto as we speak."

"How long until we can secure the rest of the country?" Gallego asked, glancing at her husband, then at Delgado.

"Guardia units are moving inland with the army to secure vital areas. I know that Francisco did not want this to smack of a military occupation so as soon as a region is secured, police are replacing army units." Prieto said as he slapped absently at a black fly that had landed on his arm. "As far as I know the Portuguese police are being more or less cooperative. Most of them are to stunned to resist right now."

"I have a special army unit being deployed to Porto to deal with the Communist forces there," Delgado grunted as he shifted, leaning forward to splash some water on his face. "I think it will send a message." Neither of the other two asked him what message that might be. They knew Delgado had a long history of dealing with trouble quickly and violently. It usually served to shock his enemies into submission.

"What are we doing about the British?" This question was directed at Gallego. She took a sip of her wine before replying.

"Telling them to stay out of it. I hinted that any action on their part could lead to the incarceration of thousands of their countrymen down here on holiday and seizure of millions of pounds worth of British owned properties." She smiled slyly. "They didn't like that, but with their empire on the verge of collapsing everywhere, they are stretched thin as it is."

"The Germans?"

"Care even less. Portugal fought against them in the Great War and I suspect they are glad to see the British taking some heat from us."

"The Americans are staying on their side of the pond as usual. Though Ethiopia has just slammed their borders shut to America for some reason." Gallego shook her head slightly. "Ever time I think I have figured their Emperor out, he does something like this."

"Just America or are we cast out as well?" Delgado asked sharply, looking up at the two.

"Just America, and again, I don't know why,"

"Interesting. Alright." Delgado picked up the wine bottle poured himself another measure, then another for Pieto. "To success in Portugal." He held up his glass in a toast and the three drank.




July, 1960 - Porto, Portugal

The streets of Porto seemed to hold their breath as the sun began to sink below the edge of the Atlantic Ocean. In the "Old Town", the bodies of seven Spanish soldiers lay sprawled on the cobblestone, their blood having pooled and somewhat dried following their deaths. Five had been killed during a gunfight, the other two shot in the back of the head execution style. To the young Communists who sheltered in the Café Majestic it felt like they had won a victory. Seven Spanish soldier dead, one of their own number wounded. It was better than the army had done.

"To the revolution! It begins tonight!" Yelled one young man as he raised his glass to the crowded mass. Others cheered and drank with him. Many were armed with rifles, some with handguns, a veritable arsenal that included grenades and even a rocket launcher. Though no one knew how to use it.

Near the front window, rifles in hand, sat two Portuguese soldiers. Their unit was one of a dozen or so who had ignored orders to surrender and had fought back against the Spanish. They smoked thin cigarettes as they watched the falling darkness, the bright street lights outside giving the ancient square the type of evening that any couple might enjoy, but not this night. Not even the cats and dogs, habitual to any major city, seemed brave enough to venture outside.

"Comrades!" The young man who had called for the toast stood on one of the heavy wooden tables. Long mirrors lined either side of the Cafe, giving it the impression of holding far more people than it did at that moment. "Soon we shall be joined by our fellows from across the city and we will march on city hall! Porto will be the heart of our new Communist nation!"

More cheers shook the rafters as people drank deeply of their "liberated" spirits. Some shared long kisses, others laughed and threw dice on the tables. The only ones who did not seem quite so thrilled were those who wore uniforms, most of them clustered toward the front of the Cafe.

"Idiots. The Spanish will not let this pass. We should move now, while there is still time." Muttered one soldier and his friends grunted their agreement. As if moving by some unspoken command they all slowly began to make their way out the door and in to the street. They would take matters into their own hands.

The night air was cooling already but it stank of fear. Not literally of course, but everywhere they looked the windows were closed and curtained. No couples strolled on the stones, no peddlers played their bad guitar in the gutters, and no other lights shone from businesses around the square.

"Look!" One said, his voice strangely loud in the silence. He was pointing to the East and his friends, looking down a long narrow street, were able to catch sight of the aircraft that was moving slowly over the city. It was a massive Spanish Dirigible, lit by the dying sunlight, its two huge gasbags glowing an almost golden yellow. They knew that they were looking at the ultimate expression of Spanish power and, even as they watched, the tiny shape of a fighter plane dropped away from the underbelly of the Dirigible. It circled once and then sped out over Porto. The watching men remained huddled in their group as the airship released even more aircraft, each one dropping away from the belly of the gasbags like bullets from a magazine.

They were so mesmerized by the sight that it took them some time to take notice of the sound of an approaching engine. Laughter and shouting still came from within the cafe behind them, and this new sound was approaching from the west. They warily spread out over the square, kneeling behind whatever cover they could find. It was true they expected friends but the sight of the Spanish dirigible had reminded them that the enemy was far from gone.

The engine grew louder and a small truck appeared at the edge of the square loaded with gun waving students who wore the red band on their arms. Some looked terrified, others excited, but all of them were glancing over their shoulders and it was then that the soldiers realized the street behind them kept seeming to glow in fits and bursts. Then a smell hit them, coming from the same direction of the truck. A horrible acrid burning smell.

"Flame throwers!" Screamed one of them men in the truck as the vehicle careened into the square. It came to a halt and those packed inside boiled out like angry insects to take up positions around the square. The Old Street ran through the middle of the square, the only way in or out of the square.

The soldiers looked at each other in panic. Portugal had never used flame throwers, nor had they ever seen one in action, but one hardly needed a first hand account to understand what flame could do to the human body. They begin to retreat toward the far end of the square. They had barely reached the corner of the first ancient stone building when a bullet slammed into one of their number, throwing him backward like he had been on the end of a rope and someone had yanked on it.

"Sniper!" A soldier shouted seconds before another bullet shattered his shoulder, sending him to the cobblestone with a horrible scream. Those inside the Cafe could hardly ignore the sounds from outside and they started to boil into square like a swarm of ants. Shouts, screams, and some shots rang out, before the Cafe was stripped of its tables to create makeshift barricades, windows were smashed out and the rag tag band of Communists took up position anywhere and everywhere they could. The truck, their only vehicle, was tipped on its side to block the Western entrance.

Some of the rabble began to pound on the locked doors of the homes that overlooked the square but no one came to let them in. The square held its breath.

More flickering light came from the Old Street and the "whoosh" of a flame thrower in action told them that the enemy was getting closer. The sound of gunfire was loud now and it seemed to be coming from every direction. Communists added what they could to their barricades, passed around ammunition and booze, then settled in to wait. A few tried the Eastern edge of the Square again but a machine gun rattled this time and more bodies were thrown to the ground. They were surrounded.

Several figures suddenly burst from an alley down the Old Street and began to run for the barricades, arms pumping, feet pounding the cobblestone. One tripped, reaching out to grab another and together they both fell, tumbling in the street. Before they could stand a tongue of flame shot from the same alley and engulfed them both. Their screams were like nothing anyone in the square had ever heard before. Skin melted from their bones and the smell of burnt hair filled the air.

The rumble of a heavy engine became evident now as the front of a tracked vehicle came slowly out of the alley. Dark figures ran next to it and a fusillade of gunfire erupted from the Communist barricades. Several of the Spanish soldiers were thrown backward, one crawling to safety in a doorway. The others lay still. Communist cheers sounded from the barricade.

To the students it seemed a victory, to the soldiers who had joined them, it was a futile move. "We should have surrendered." One said as he fixed a new clip into his rifle. "The Spanish wont be taking any prisoners now."

As if in tune with his thoughts, the armoured vehicle that appeared began its slow turn toward them, metal tracks loud on the cobblestones. It had no turret, just a solid body with a fixed nozzle on the end. It completed its turn and began to roll toward the barricade. Bullets bounced off the heavy armour and sparks showed in the gathering darkness as the rounds hit home.

On it came, a remorseless, unstoppable beast, engine rumbling, the nozzle strangely silent as the machine drew closer and closer. It was no more than twenty feet from the barricade when the barrel suddenly began to glow. Then fire, hot and blinding in the gathering darkness, incinerated the barricade and those crouched behind it. The dead had one chance to scream and then the air was sucked from their lungs by the heat and they curled in on themselves until they were no larger than a child as the fire played over them. The truck exploded as its gas tank caught fire.

The Communists were losing their nerve and many were running for the Eastern edge of the square, better to die by bullet than fire. But here too fire now erupted as men on foot advanced on the square, the long lines of flame scorching the stones of the buildings and the street. Screams filled the air, the smell of burning flesh was overpowering, and those who had not died on the barricades retreated into the Cafe once more. Chaos reigned as they sought to try and escape through the rear door but they were chained shut, a common enough practice to prevent thieves. They were trapped.

The square outside had fallen silent again. Here and there flames still flickered from the dead and dying, a few storefronts with wooden frontings burned as well but no one seemed inclined to deal with that at the moment. The tank drove over the burning remains of the truck, the steel screeching pitifully as the metal chassis was crushed beneath the tracks. The tank halted in the middle of the square, its nozzle aimed at the Café as Spanish soldiers filed into the square, hugging the shadows and doorways as they did.

Those inside the Cafe had finally killed the lights and waited in silence, pressed as far back as they could go while some of the more enterprising ones smashed away valiantly at the chains that trapped them in place.

"Should we surrender?" Whispered one young woman.

"No," Said another. "The doors are almost open; we can escape still. If they want to wait, let them."

The tank engine roared loudly and the tracks creaked then clattered as moved forward. The huge metal frame smashed easily through the glass and wood of the Cafe front. Glass exploded over those concealed within as the tank halted. There was a collective intake of breath which seemed to hold forever. And then the tank unleashed hell.

Fire poured over the packed Communists. Soldiers appeared on either side of the tank with their backpack mounted equipment and added their flames to the blaze, directing their streams into the smaller corners and behind the bar. Screams, so many screams. Some turned their guns on themselves rather than burn to death, others placed a grenade at the base of the door which served to kill those standing nearby but did blow the lower half of the door off. They fought to get out, punching, kicking, biting, anything they could to try and escape as the fire crept into the kitchen and toward them.

Two eventually managed to make it halfway out the door before the fire caught them, and their screams echoed in the long alley that had before suffered little more than the muffled sound beyond.

No corner was ignored as the Spanish exhausted their supply of gasoline. Then, and only then, as their weapons died in their hands, did they retreat from the Cafe. The building was well on fire now and panicked voices cried out from upstairs windows. Spanish soldiers allowed those residents to flee, and, once they had collected their dead, they left the inferno to the fire fighters who were arriving on the scene. News of the attack would spread swiftly and so with it the promise of Spanish revenge for any attacks on their soldiers.

7:34 PM

Kobayashi always marveled at the coordination of his countrymen when it came to the subway platforms. Like a beautiful ballet, packs of people exited and entered the cars with minimal touching, so minimal it was almost non-existent. Men in uniforms and long sticks walked up and down the platform, guiding commuters with their sticks like conductors. Kobayashi was among the last to squeeze on the car before the doors shut.

Even though work had ended at six, plenty of salarymen were packed in the car as it rocked down the tracks. That didn't surprise Kobayashi and made him smile slightly, recalling the days when he himself had been fresh out of university and worked long hours to try to get ahead. That was before his wife and family drew his attention away from work. The sudden thought of them wiped the smile from his face. He wasn't here to walk down memory lane. Tonight, he was on a mission.

Two stops later, Kobayashi stepped out with two dozen others. Again, in the synchronized display of order, they left the train and dispersed along the platform as a pack of newcomers stepped up. Kobayashi climbed the steps out into the street and turned his collar up. It was chilly for July, a good twenty degrees cooler than usual. He wasn't the only one wearing a jacket tonight, which worked in his favor. Nobody would think twice about the middle aged man in the trenchcoat. Kobayashi reached into his coat pocket and clutched the gun resting there. It wouldn't be long now. Maybe a few more hours.

---



9:34 PM

Dokuro Abe looked at the lights of Hiroshima with a hint of revulsion. He rode in the backseat of a taxi and smoked a cigarette. The driver knew exactly where to take Abe once he flashed the tattoos on his arm. It'd been six years the last time he set foot in this hell hole. He thought then that he would never have to see the place ever again. Once you got called up to join the Inagawa-kai's Tokyo operations, you went and never looked back.

"You a big Yakuza?" the driver asked from the front seat of the car. "I always drive Yakuza around Hiroshima, but I never seen you before."

Abe was struck by the old man's straightforwardness. Yakuza were treated with a certain amount of deference. They no longer existed, but Abe always assumed the samurai of old were granted the same respect. For this old man to point out that he was a Yakuza, and then to ask how important he was, was something nobody who valued their health would do.

"Where do you--"

"My son," the old man continued. "He big Yakuza in Hiroshima. Goro. You know Goro?"

Abe cursed silently. Of course he knew Goro. Everyone in Hiroshima knew Goro. He'd been a mid-level player when Abe left, but in the six years he'd be gone Goro climbed the ladder and became the city's top Yakuza. If the old man was Goro's father, then of course he could do whatever the hell he wanted.

"We're here," the old man announced. "Pleasure district."

Abe started to hand money over the seat, but the old man held a hand up.

"Yakuza, no charge. Especially out of town Yakuza."

Abe said his thanks and the old man wished him well. He climbed out the taxi and stepped on to the street to look around. Hiroshima's pleasure district still looked the exact same. It was filled with neon lights, Japanese ads for western products. Massage parlors of soaplands stretched down the street as far as the eye could see. Yakuza in flashy suits patrolled the streets with girls in short skirts and bare-midriffs. A police car sat parked off to the side, the cop behind the wheel napping with his cap shielding his eyes.

"Hideki," Abe said with a sigh.

Two days ago, Abe got the news. His brother Hideki was dead, killed by persons unknown, and Abe was needed back home. Both their parents had been dead for years and Hideki's wife was too grief stricken to take care of the arraignments. That meant Abe was the only one who could take care of family business. He planned to do that and then some. Lighting up a cigarette, Abe started down the street he swore he'd never walk down again in search for the nearest cheap motel.

---



Keijō
3:31 AM

Shinzo looked through his metal-rimmed eyeglasses at the four young men on the floor. They were all Korean, all naked save for their skivvies. All four were on their knees on the dirty concrete floor, looking dirty and bewildered. By contrast, Shinzo looked immaculate in his black three-piece suit and perfectly parted hair even though he hadn't been home in two days. The chrysanthemum button on his lapel let everyone know that he was in service of the emperor. Along with him were six soldiers, four Korean and two Japanese. Shinzo led all six of them in the raid that netted the four men.

"The four of you are accused of treason towards the Emperor," Shinzo said in Japanese.

He laughed when all four did not react. They looked at him curiously and shrugged, saying in Korean that they did not know Japanese.

"Yes, you do," Shinzo said, again in Japanese. "You all speak Japanese as fluently as I can speak Korean. It is not listed anywhere official, but it is known by me. The same way that I know..."

Shinzo stepped forward and pointed a long, bony finger, at the chubby young man to his far right.

"Mr. Cho here has dandruff so bad that he has a prescription shampoo."

He moved down the line, pointing his finger at the other three men.

"Or that Mr. Kim cheats off his classmate in engineering class, or that Mr. Park's bicycle has a rusty chain, or that Mr. Song has a massive crush on the girl in his university study group. Yes, when it comes to your lives there is not much Kenpeitai doesn't know."

He stepped away from them and adjusted his glasses, giving them a warm smile.

"Continual denial of both your language skills and crimes will only incur my wrath. Now, let's start again. You four are accused of treason towards the Emperor."

Shinzo reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pamphlet, two actually. One was written in Hangul, the other in Kanji. Both pamphlets were written in bold red font. The inspector pretended to flip through both of them casually, the warm smile still on his face.

"'Friends of Korean Sovereignty?'" He raised an eyebrow and looked over at them. "It's a bit too sugary for my liking, but what do I know? You're the experts on treason."

Cho, the fat one, started to wilt under Shinzo's gaze. To their credit, the other three stood strong. Shinzo nodded and three Korean soldiers stepped forward with their rifles. They slammed the stocks of their rifles into the stomach's of the stoic young men. They all gasped and fell backwards, holding their stomachs in pain. Shinzo made eye contact with Cho. Back when he'd been a robbery detective, Shinzo always knew that the quickest way to break up a band of thieves was to find that one weak link and exploit it for all it was worth. Cho, the chubby kid with the bad dander, was his weak link.

"Mr. Cho, we are going to play a game," he said. "Tell me all you know about this little group of yours, and you and your friends get to live. Resist--" Shinzo snapped his fingers all all six soldiers raised their rifles and pointed at Kim. "And we kill one of your friends for every thirty seconds you don't answer. Thirty, twenty-nine...."

"Fuck him," Kim said in Korean. "Don't answer him! Fuck the Emperor, fuck Japan. Freedom for Korea!"

"Twenty-six," Shinzo scowled. "You know what? Fire!"

Gunfire echoed through the room as six bullets tore through Kim's prone body. Cho and his compatriots yelled in shock. The soldiers worked the bolt actions on their rifles and moved their sights towards Song.

"Forgive my impatience," Shinzo said in Korean. "But I wouldn't be doing my duty if I let such an insult pass unpunished. One friend is dead, Mr. Cho. It would be a shame for us to kill Mr. Song before he has a chance to act on that crush of his. Thirty... twenty-nine."

"Wait!" Cho cried in Japanese. "I'll--"

"Shut up," said Song. "Tell this man nothing, Cho. He's still going to kill us."

"He's right," said Shinzo. "Treason is punishable by death. No exceptions. But the choice is yours as to how far that punishment goes. With such extreme crimes as this, it makes us wonder how deep the subversive streak runs in your blood. You all have families -- fathers, mothers, brothers, and sisters -- and we know exactly where it is they live, where they work, and all their little secrets. The same way we know everything about you. The choice is yours, gentlemen: Do we cut out the infection at the bud, or do we go in and chop down the whole tree?"

Shinzo adjusted his glasses and watched the three remaining young men talking rapidly among themselves in Korean. They were a little too fast for Shinzo to make out the entire conversation, but he caught the gist. Cho and Song wanted to cooperate, Park still refused. Growing tired, Shinzo snapped his fingers and all six soldiers went in on Park with their rifle butts. Cho and Song looked away as their friend was brutally beaten by the soldiers. Shinzo called them off when he felt like Park had had enough.

"Do we have a deal?"

Both Song and Cho nodded.

"Excellent. Get Mr. Cho and Mr. Song some clothes," Shinzo said to one of the soldiers. "We have many things to discuss."



4:00 AM

"Give me money, old man!"

Kobayashi backed up against the wall. The boy with the switchblade couldn't be any older than sixteen with his pockmarked face and greasy hair. He was dressed in tight denim jeans and a leather jacket, his hair done up in a poor imitation of a western style pompadour. His eyes were wide and dilated. Kobayashi was sure he was high on something. It had taken him hours to get to this point, walking around in the rough neighborhood and looking confused. Plenty of people stopped to ask if he needed help. He was surprised that it had taken this long for one person to finally take advantage of him.

"Be calm," Kobayashi pleaded. "I have in my pocket, please."

The kid grinned, pressing the blade of his knife against Kobayashi's cheek. The cold metal against his skin caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand up. He could feel the adrenaline start to race through his body as he stepped back. The blade dug into his cheek and cut the skin as he pulled the revolver from his pocket.

"Here!" He said with a growl, and opened fire with the gun.

Four shots found themselves lodged in the boy's chest. His wide eyes went wider with shock as he fell back and crumpled to the ground, the knife clattering to his side. Kobayashi put a hand to the cut on his face and examined it. It wasn't bleeding too bad. The cut was deeper than he'd like, but easily bandaged without the aid of a doctor. He stepped over the boy's body, ignoring the wheezes and last gasps of life coming from his mouth. He'd be dead in just a few minutes. Kobayashi let out a sigh of contentment as he quickly walked away from the dying body.

Somewhere, he heard a police siren. They'd be in the area soon enough, but too late. They were always too late. Kobayashi knew that first hand. But it didn't matter if the police took all night to get here. One more scumbag was off the street, one less person to prey on the good people of Japan. Tonight marked the fourth time Kobayashi had taken a life. All of them had been muggers and thieves like the one tonight. Some would call him a murderer, but Kobayashi thought of himself as an exterminator.

And for the first time in his life, he felt like he was in control. He applied pressure to the cut on his face and whistled a happy little tune as he stepped down the subway stairs to catch a train. A police car, its sirens wailing and lights flashing, raced by on the street as he disappeared into the underground.

((Collab with Wyrm))

What is it you call the dead when they come alive? They were ghosts, or ghosts of corpses, bloodied, bloated, and grey, dressed in tattered leathers, boots rotting off their feet, pus oozing through the holes in their broken bodies. Blood poured like water from a crater in the stomach of the big bearded one, and his eyes were white and clouded. A smaller man with a torso peppered in bloody spots walked beside him. But their leader, that... that thing, he was the worse of all. The top of his head had been blown off entirely, shot away as if by a howitzer shell, stringy gore and broken skull like eggshells in the pulp where his brain had once been. There were no eyes anymore, and blood poured from his goblet-like top as he walked. These ghouls, night-visions of a horrific unknown dream, the fevered imaginations a wrinkled debtera might tell children to warn them away from cemeteries, they walked together alone in a desolate desert landscape. They were Highway Rangers. She knew it. Whats worse, she felt like she recognized them. The world around them, rock and dust and the bricks and planks of forgotten homesteads, seemed to fracture and break like pieces of glass as they walked, rearranging all around them, a landscape uncertain what it wanted to be. The creature with half a head still had lips, and they seemed to babble something, random cracking sounds interspersed with the sick gurgling of a drowning man. The sounds came together into words which she wasn't sure about. The words became ideas, and formed into something familiar in her mind until it became a song. It was as if the creature had grabbed hold of something in her subconscious and yanked it out of her.



It started as a cracked sentence, but soon it picked up a melody, and a band, and the ghouls walked in harmony with the song.



The landscape broke below them, and their walk turned seamlessly into a descent. Fire lapped from below them. They were walking down a staircase like a basalt formation, and it led straight into the pit.



The fires burst forth and blackened the dead things. Blood boiled over the half-head of the singer, pouring over the top like Victoria Falls. The creature smiled, seemingly at her, though she didn't think she was there for it to see. It licked its lips, face basking in rising hell-light, and a grin curled across its peeling face.

She woke up.

----------------------------------
Mid July: Madrid, Spain
----------------------------------

Taytu was recovering in America before politics happened to her. Her brother chose to overreact, and she'd been sent out of the country to Rome where one of the best doctors in Europe was prepared to help her, but fever overtook her over the Atlantic. Instead they landed in Spain, a country she knew little about, as infection ravaged her and made it difficult to think, or to remember.

How silly would it be to die over this? A bullet wound from some commoner in the American desert?

Her ribs felt like gelatin. She stayed still, afraid to move, afraid to cause the pain, though the entire back of her body felt as if ten thousand little pins and needles were trying to push her up and force her to move. She fell in and out of consciousness, aware only of the odor in the room, a mix of her own sweat, of soap, and a sickly dank scent like rotting paper in an old library. The walls were the yellow of old parchment, the mattress thin on a harsh metal frame. Her nurses were nuns, women dressed in thick white cotton, their habits hiding their hair, their pale faces having the pudgy softness of sexless creatures who'd given up on themselves long ago.

Her dreams were horrible. They were shifting deserts and plagues of the dead. She dreamed of the death of family members, of the disease that ate her father, of forlorn battlefields littered with brutalized remains left behind the angels of war to rot in the open air. She was aware of Noh Mareko, appearing occasionally, talking to her, saying nothing she could remember. What she mostly remembered was that rotten paper stench. It seemed to grow, become mixed with a putrid smell like rotting flesh. How much time had went on like this? It seemed like months, though she'd lost track somewhere in Nevada. She was relieved when a nun helped her into a squeaky wheelchair and pushed her out onto the balcony. The pain was fading by then, but the medicine dripping into her veins from a glass bottle hung on a pole kept her numb and only half conscious. How long had that medicine been there? It was in this state she saw the sun for the first time in what seemed like a year. Her face felt flush in the intense heat, and the light hurt her eyes and made her squint.

There it was all in front of her. Madrid, that antithesis of American ambition and futurism. Europe had deflected the alteration of their culture coming from across the Atlantic, swallowing the modern world and regurgitating it into something more fitting to old dignities. The high rises and flashing commercial wonder of New York City was narrowly reflected in a different light, replaced with somber neo-gothic architecture, a city of high rises like cathedrals and basilicas to material need, the streets neat and orderly. It was, essentially, a good catholic city, the church spires hardly distinguishable from towers of industry and finance. This gave it a dignity, but also an Imperial harshness.

She came back slowly over the course of the week. She learned she was at Hospital de San Sebastián el Mártir, not far from the city center. Sleep was the only thing she had to do most of the time, but twice a day the kindly nuns helped her outside, and she spent a moment watching the city. Airships came and went slowly, the native transport of a culture that saw leisurely slowness as a natural part of dignity. She noticed the soldiers in the street, and noticed how nobody else seemed to notice them. Madrid was crawling with uniformed military men, guarding crossroads, checking papers in front of government buildings, stationed on busy roads just... watching. She knew something was happening, a slight impression, something she'd heard in her sickness, or perhaps just intuition. But what was it? Spain didn't seem to mind. It went by casually, the people perhaps slightly slower and more venerable in their way then Americans, but casual all the same.

Noh came back to her in her room. When she saw him, the airiness of her situation went away. She felt grounded to the world again. Vulnerable.

"What am I doing here?" she demanded of him. Her voice was weak. She could feel it, and it bothered her.

"You had an infection." he said. She'd already knew that, but she looked thoughtful as if this was new information.

"I didn't make it to Rome." she stated.

"No."

"Where were you?"

"It's hard for me to get through."

"Through?"

"The blockades. Soldier blockades. I'm a foreigner, so they deny me entry most of the time. They are real tough around here since... well, you don't know about it."

"What?"

"There was..." Noh bent down, his expression pensive, maybe a tinge afraid. "The King has replaced his government. The military has helped him."

"There was a coup." Taytu said blandly.

"Shh! We are guests."

"We are dignitaries." she said, "And I've just been shot. Do you suppose everybody wants to put a bullet in me? It's a coup. They won't want to cause an international incident."

"I do not know. I wouldn't want to know. There is a rumor a German nobleman was murdered."

This piece of information made her pause. A smart revolutionary, one who had the competence to be a true statesman, will leave a foreign dignitary alone. No reason in raising international ire. But the problem with revolution is that they don't guarantee deserving leaders. What sort of creature might be lifted out of the gutter, their idea of government based on fairy tales and things they read about in books, to be made King until Darwinian nature intervened and plucked them from the throne? She might be caught in a burp of history, unlucky enough to be put to death by a someone forgettable.

"Have you informed the embassy?"

"They know you are here and are doing what they can, but I get it they are confused."

Confused. Naturally. It was a revolution. Who could you trust?

"Tell them I'm awake." she said, "I want to speak with the Ambassador. Whats his name?"

"Dejazmach Wendem Cherkos."

The name was familiar. She could put a face to him. A nobleman, not a man she knew well, but still a man she knew. "Get him. I don't want to be stuck in this country much longer." Noh left her in the company of the taciturn nuns.

Silence has a sound. Its like hushed air, and the long echoes of every little thing nobody pays attention to in a normal setting. She was awake now, anxious, uncomfortable with this strange atmosphere. With no radios in the building, she could hear whispering old nuns from the other side of the hall. She heard moans from fellow patients. Sometimes, when the silence grew so loud the air could be heard like static, she swore she could hear screaming. Tortured souls? No wonder these people were Catholic. Or was she dreaming this too?

Still, she was feeling better. Healing was no longer a problem. She was left in a strange despair that seemed ridiculous to her. Bored, not five minutes after Noh had left her, she struggled to hike her gown up her side so she could see the wound that had cost her so much pain and time. It was there, just above the jut of her hip bone, looking like some strange formation on the moon. Her entire side was discolored and bruised black around the webbing formation of scar tissue, at the center a brutal scab. Seeing it made it sting.

"No no!" a nun rushed in. "No no no!" The camel-faced woman grabbed her hard by the bottom of her gown and tugged down with some force, and Taytu realized she'd exposed more than just her hip. But what did it matter? She glared at the nun until the unhappy woman retreated, leaving her alone again, in the quiet with her wheeling thoughts.

An image appeared real quick and unformed in her mind of cracked lips and blood. Her heart twinged with fear. Was she going insane?

She couldn't just stay here. Noticing the wheelchair in the corner, she made a hasty decision. She pulled herself out of bed, her limbs feeling suddenly weak as if she were old and invalid, he side bursting in artillery shells of pain. When her bare feet felt the cold linoleum floor, her legs seemed to beg her to put them back in bed, but she persisted, and rose like Lazarus from the dead. The pain followed her march to the chair, feeling as if she were being folded sideways. She imagined herself to look like a leper, haggard, skeletal, an entirely broken woman, but none of that mattered so long as she could reach the shining excellence that was that ancient wheelchair. She sat in it, propping her good side against the bar, letting her spiking pain subside.

When she was comfortable, she started to roll. It was work, especially dragging the awkward pole and bottle with her so it didn't tug at her arm. The wheels whined with every turn, and her arms were shaking, but she kept it moving until she was in the hall.

It was a well kept hospital for all its depressing faults. The walls and floor were clean and maintained, decorated with the occasional crucifix or muted painting of a praying saint. She wheeled herself past nuns and white-coat doctors. They didn't seem to mind. She passed a young soldier standing guard, brown uniform and cap, in front of a closed door. What was that about? The coup? It didn't matter. She was looking for outside, for a world beyond the smell of old paper and ether. Her blood seemed to know where it was. She followed it and the memory of sunlight on her skin.

When she found the door to the balcony, it gave her energy, and she turned the wheels with more vigor. A kindly old nun opened the door and she was out. The Spanish sun struck her immediately, and it made her feel well again. She was outside! On the street below she could see soldiers. Someone somewhere was strumming a guitar. It reached her like a sound she wasn't supposed to hear, overcoming the car noises in the busy street, hitting her ear as if it were just around the corner. A yellow and black checkered airship hovered lazily over the hills to the north. She closed her eyes, let the sun shine its cozy orange light through her eyelids, and smothered the anxiety inside herself.

Somewhere, at some time, a church bell started, and a dozen more answered all at once. She was vaguely aware that she was cold. The world faded away.

She was in a small sort of airship at night, standing on an outdoor platform made of steel surrounding the balloon, a number of soldiers with her, floating just above the treeline. She knew she was an American, but how that had happened she didn't know. They were all holding heavy rifles. A grizzled veteran standing next to her was singing to himself.



The moon was gone, and the darkness was nearly total. The landscape was dark blotches and shadows against a deep dark blue.

"Wake up." a gruff voice whispered, "When we start, we'll be sitting ducks. Toast or be toasted."



"Is that? That's them! Toast them!"

They all started shooting at shadows below. She could vaguely make out the reflection of their fusillade against the sides of trucks.

"Cajun chickens!" one man screamed manically, "Bok bok bok bok!"

The singers voice became something of a shout.



She became aware that some of the dark figures scrambling beneath them were Highway Rangers. Her finger pulled hard against the trigger. So hard that it hurt.

Enemy gunfire pinged against the armored gut of their airship. But something heavier belched further ahead, flashing like a red star in the black swamp, and moments later the air behind them burst into flame.

She woke up, breathing heavy, the night completely silent around her, sweat on her brow. It took her several seconds to realize it was another nightmare. She was in Spain, in bed, safe, but she knew there would be no sleeping again tonight. She stared at the shadowed ceiling and listened to the drip of liquid from the bottle hooked up next to her. The drip had a rhythm, like a metronome keeping time for a silent orchestra. It seemed to go on forever until she disappeared from it.

The next morning, she was wakened by a worried looking nun. "There is someone here to see you." she said, "Are you well?"

Noh. She didn't see him, but he must have got the ambassador through. "Yes." she croaked, pulling herself up. The nun grabbed the sheet and pulled it up to Taytu's neck, then scurried off. There wasn't a wait, the person was just outside the door, and it wasn't somebody she recognized.

The woman who stepped through the door and in that sterile white room was as out of place in Spanish Madrid as Taytu herself. There was an air of confidence to the woman that Taytu almost envied as a hovering nurse was shooed out of the room with a stern word or two in broken Spanish. Her visitor was, almost unbelievably, a black woman. Even beneath the politely ankle length dress and high collar Taytu could still see that this woman was incredibly fit and found herself returning the broad smile.

As she swept into the room the faint smell of roses came with her, cutting through the sterile smell of disinfectant. She was pretty, well dressed, but in a way that Taytu recognized as being entirely forgettable. It was no accident, of that Taytu was sure, and in her experience only one group of people dressed like that, intelligence agents and spies.

"Your Majesty, I am Sara Reicker. I bring you the warmest regards of Viceroy Delgado and be apologizes for not being able to attend to you personally." The woman spoke flawless Amharic, though her dialect was slightly off, she was clearly from somewhere south of Ethiopia, Rhodesia maybe. She bowed her head slightly, enough to be polite. "How are you?"

"Miserable." Taytu complained. "This isn't the quality lodgings I'm used to."

“It is a shame then that your companion didn’t disclose your true identity to us sooner.” Sara smiled broadly, a smile that failed to reach her eyes. “The Viceroy has placed a small palace at your disposal if you wish.”

"Am I free to leave this country if I choose?" Taytu said wearily.

Sara looked confused for a moment. "Of course. Why would you not be?"

"I'd like to meet with the Ambassador from my country. Can that be arranged?"

"Your majesty is not a prisoner. You have but to ask the nurses to use a phone. Since you seem intent on ignoring my generous offer, think about it, and call me when you have made up your mind." Sara stood and then placed a stamped card on the table. It bore only a phone number and the words Foreign Office. "Until then, your majesty."

"Wait." Taytu said, throat dry. "I didn't deny anything. I want to meet with my ambassador. Here is fine. So is this palace."

"Then I will send word for him to meet us there." Sara had paused in the doorway but now turned back again and barked something in angry Spanish. The nuns appeared quickly and Taytu could not miss the hint of fear on their faces. They conferred for a moment Sara, their strangely pale faces in stark contrast to her black one, then they nodded and hurried into the room to help Taytu dress.

----------------------------------
July, 1960 - Rhonda, Spain
----------------------------------

Isabel Gemio was what folk liked to call a "Private Eye" in America. She was hired for small jobs usually, find out if someones wife was getting fucked by the baker, if a son was sneaking into the all girls wing of the school, maybe to tail an employee who was believed to be stealing from the company, etc. It was all small potatoes, but she enjoyed it well enough and the pay had allowed her to purchase a fine apartment directly overlooking the cliffs of Rhonda, nothing but four hundred feet of air between her balcony and the valley bottom.

She had a few pet projects on the side, mostly celebrities or politicians she was interested in. She followed their activities in the news, enjoyed books written about them, and corresponded with people the world over to build as accurate a picture as possible of their lives. One of her pet projects, a man she was secretly in love with, was Grand Viceroy Francisco de la Cal Delgado. She had met him once many years before when he was a lieutenant in Valencia. It had been a military function and they had enjoyed a few minutes of conversation, and while he had clearly moved on to bigger and better things, she still fantasized about him showing up to make her his bride.

Her home, a neat little two bedroom apartment that she shared with her dog and two gold fish, had a small office that looked out over the valley. The desk inside was always neat but her filing cabinets bulged with current open files and whatever her current fascination was. Truth be told, if she was honest with herself, she wasn't far off from being a stalker. At least she didn't write them letters and sit outside their homes. Small consolation.

On this particular day, as her heels clicked on the cobblestone streets and she exchanged waves with her neighbours, she was clutching a thin manila envelope. One of her correspondents, knowing her interest in Delgado had called her and told her that a document she just had to see was in the mail to her from Brazil. For a week she had stopped in to the post office every day until, at last, the envelope arrived.

She passed the small market near her apartment, dodged a police car that was rolling slowly down the street, stepped over a gutter flowing with someones pool water, and took the three steps up to her front door in one leap. She fumbled for the ancient looking key, managed to force it into the lock and pushed the blue door open so she could hurry inside.

The door slammed behind her as she made her way into her small office. Her dog, a fat French bulldog named Phillip, was curled up under the desk in a sunbeam. He barely opened an eye as she hurried in, then gave a long sigh, stretched, and settled down again.

The envelope was placed on her desk with care. She took the time to remove her shoes and jacket, putting them in the hall cupboard before pouring herself a glass of water. Then, and only then, she returned to the office and sat in the chair before her desk. The cool wind from outside pushed through the half open door to bring a blast of fresh air to her.

In that moment, as she stared at the envelope, she felt a strange sense of foreboding and couldn't help but look around to make sure she was alone. It was foolish but her friends tone over the phone had been intense and hurried.

"Isabel, I have sent you something that you must read. It will shock you, I promise." There had been the sound of shouting in the background and then a heavy pounding sound. "Goodbye Isabel." The line had gone dead.

She picked up a letter opener and carefully slit the edge of the envelope open. Inside were two sheets of yellowed paper, as if they had been exposed to humidity at some point. She turned them over carefully. Both were single sided and bore a water mark on the back for the SÃO PAULO Hotel and Spa, in Brazil. The front of the documents bore the same water mark on the top, along with the contact information for the hotel, its address, and a list of handwritten guest names with the date of arrival, departure, and what rooms they had stayed in.

Why on earth would she had been sent hotel guestbook pages? They had clearly been torn from the register and she smoothed both pages carefully. She downed half her glass of water and then took a closer look. The hand writing had been somewhat smudged or faded due to rough treatment but she was able to discern a few things right away. The first page was dated May 31, 1954, so just over six years ago. The first names at the top of the list were those of the Portuguese Royal Family. Duarte Nuno, Duke of Braganza, the Duchess, and their three children, one of whom was to be the new Queen of Spain, Princess Mariana Braganza. They had stayed for a week it seemed, but when the rest of the family had left the Princess has remained for several days. That was not so strange, certainly not enough to warrant the panicked phone call she had gotten.

Turning to the second page she began to scan down the list of names. There were plenty she did not recognize but half way down she found a name that caused her heart to stop. The date was June 3, 1954. Next to that date was that name she knew only to well. It couldn't be. She glanced across at the check out date. It matched that of the Princess perfectly.

She looked at the name again. The sudden shouting, the heavy thudding she had heard in the background of her phone call, it all suddenly seemed to make sense and her room suddenly felt very cold despite the summer heat. She glanced involuntarily at her door as if to assure herself it was locked.

She read the name again and it seemed to stare back at her.

Francisco de la Cal Delgado.

@Letter Bee



3:30 AM

Fuji Shimabuku sat on the porch of the big house and looked down at the lights of the city. He couldn't sleep. He never could when he was back home. Home not just being Okinawa but here, the big house on the hill. The place was filled with ghosts from the past, ghost and a legacy he had always been trying to outrun. For over four hundred years, Fuji's ancestors had ruled the Ryukyu Islands. That run ended nearly a hundred years ago. The old kings of Ryukyu were now a distant memory to the world. But Fuji's family would never forget that they were once independent of the Heavenly Sovereign and all that he stood for.

He stepped off the porch and took one last look at the house. Fuji wouldn't be back home for months. The old man who served his parents as groundskeeper would make sure nobody broke into the place and ransacked it. Not that he would mind. The relics inside the house mattered very little to him. To his mother, they had been priceless treasures. She had a glass case mounted on the wall. Inside of it was piece of scroll some great-great grandfather or other had written a dispatch on. Swords of the old kings decorated whole walls along with photographs of them. The crown of the kings was on display in the parlor. It was a ridiculous looking thing with colorful beads running up and down it. To Fuji, it was like growing up in a museum. It was why he'd left as soon as he could.

Okinawa was quiet this time of night. At least this part of town. The majority of Fuji's crew were busy spending their money on all the pleasures of the red light district across town. That meant they'd be stumbling back to the boat, hungover and penniless and ready to put in work again. He couldn't expect much more out of them, really. They were a motley crew made up of Japanese, Chinese, Filipino, and a few oddball Asians from other places. He even had one American, an older man who claimed to have served in the US Navy during the Second Civil War.

Fuji passed through the market, now closed for the night. The vendor stalls were shuttered and locked. The markets here in Okinawa, along with all the markets in Taihoku and Manila, were how he made his money. All the vendors were hungry for product and didn't care where it came from. They didn't pay top dollar for it, but it was all profit from where Fuji and his men stood.

It took only a half hour to get to the docks. Like the majority of town, it was quiet. The boats moored to the dock all slowly bobbed with the currents coming in from the ocean. He found her in the slip where they'd docked three days ago. She wasn't much to look at, but the Arō was the closest thing Fuji had to a legacy. A real legacy and not some half-remembered stories and rusty swords. She wasn't much to look at. To the world at large, she appeared to be a rusty commercial shipper designed for roll-on/roll-off cargo. But the truth was her hold was filled with weapons, everything from belt-fed machine guns down to balasong knives. With a smile on his face, Fuji began to climb the netting on the side of the Arō. He was home at last.

Fuji saw no point of romanticizing the crown of the Ryukyu Kingdom. He had never known what it was like to rule Okinawa and he would never know that feeling, so why waste time on it? Besides, he wore another crown. This one was secret and could not be worn. There were no gaudy headdress with beads on it. It was not a crown given, but a crown taken. A crown earned.

Fuji Shimabuku was the pirate king of the South China Sea. He did not recognize no sovereign's authority but his own. He believed in no radical ideologies. His outlook was a simple one: I will take whatever I please until someone stops me.

---



Urajiosutoku
10:00 AM

Lieutenant Commander Kishimoto Nagumo pulled back on the yoke of his plane and brought the craft off the ground. The Mitsubishi-R77's single engine roared as Nagumo made it climb higher and higher into the sky. The weather was perfect for flying, clear skies with only a few clouds off in the distance. With his free hand, he strapped on his oxygen mask while he elevated and banked the plane to the right.

The city below him came into view. It wasn't much to look at, none of the buildings were above twelve stories tall, and several were covered by construction crew scaffolding. Further down was the harbor and the waterfront with its boats. Merchant ships were gliding through the Golden Horn Bay towards the docks while an assortment of IJN ships were moored farther out to sea.

It had once been called Vladivostok by the Russians. After the Japanese conquest, it had been renamed Urajiosutoku. The city was still almost all Russian and Eurasian, the few Japanese that resided there were either military or government officials. Nagumo was one of them, calling the city home for the past five years. Everyone else always rotated back home after six months to a year, but Nagumo always stayed. He used what little leverage he had as a member of the Kazoku to block orders to return him. He had no desire to ever return to Japan again. There was nothing there for him except an old man's tired dreams.

Flying over the city, Nagumo pointed his plane towards the border. Most squadron leaders assigned their newest flyers to reconnaissance duty, and Nagumo was no different. But he also took at least one shift a week. It made him look good among the rest of the pilots, but it also gave him a chance to remember why he'd become a pilot in the first place. The sky was the great equalizer. Up here, things like military rank or noble standing didn't matter. It was just a man in a tube of metal, violating the laws of nature. And when it came to combat, nobody would show him deference because he was the son of the great count. And that's just how Nagumo wanted it.

He identified himself on the radio as a friendly as he entered Korean territory. The radio operated confirmed his identity and allowed him clearance in the clipped, bored cadence all air traffic controllers used regardless of their country of origin. Nagumo turned north and aimed his plane towards the Chinese border. Ostensibly, the patrols were to look for any potential attacks from the Cossack Mykhalov and his forces. But the naval high command always commanded the patrols skirt right to the edge of the Chinese border, as close to actually crossing over as the brass would dare. The unspoken message was clear: As vigilant as they had to be against Cossack raids, the Communists threat was never far away.

Nagumo flew through Korea parallel to the Chinese border. He saw the usual encampments both sides had built up near the border. As far as he could tell, the Chinese forces were the same as they always were out here. That seemed to fly in the face of the rumors he'd heard back in Urajiosutoku. According to some loose lipped sailors, the Chinese were massing their forces along the border in preparation of the invasion of Korea. Nagumo laughed to himself as he began to redirect back towards home. It wouldn't be the first time a sailor told tall tales, and there was no way it would be the last.

"Shogun to Tempura Six."

Nagumo raised an eyebrow and keyed the radio mic with his foot. Shogun was the call sign of the Amagi, Vice Admiral Hoga's carrier division flagship.

"Tempura Six," Nagumo replied. "Go ahead, Shogun."

"Air support is needed thirty miles north northeast of Urajiosutoku. Cossacks have a transport convoy pinned down and you're the only plane in the air we can dispatch."

"I'm on the way," said Nagumo. He redirected his course and increased the throttle on his plane. "Tempura Six out."

---



Prime Minister's Office
11:35 AM

"Intelligence sources inside China have confirmed that the Communists are preparing to invade Russia."

Inaba Chiba blinked rapidly in surprise. He sat the head of the big wooden conference table. Minister of War Aoki and the rest of the military clique sat to his left. Director Yamashita and the Kenpeitai delegation sat at his left.

The top secret meeting was supposed to have started right at eleven, but Aoki and the general staff were late. That didn't shock Aoki at all. In his two years as prime minister, every meeting Chiba had with them almost always started a half hour behind schedule. It was only a bit ironic that the men so renowned for their accuracy and precision could never keep an appointment. By contrast, Yamashita and his intelligence officers were always ten minutes early regardless of the circumstances. It was a comparison that seemed to sum up the differences between ruthless, autocratic, and unassuming Yamashita and the ostentatious generals who seemed to be more peacock than man.

"How solid is this?" General Ueda asked. "How much do you trust this information, Yamashita?"

"It's bedrock," Yamashita softly said. "A long time and valuable intelligence asset."

Chiba saw the three military men bristle in excitement. He knew exactly where they was about to head. He started to talk, only for Minister of War Aoki to shoot a bony finger forward.

"Then now is the time to strike south," he hissed. "If China keeps their eyes towards Russia, then no one will be watching the Philippines."

"We can begin to amass troops into Kyushu," said General Kubo. "Give me two months and I will have an expeditionary force ready to invade."

"That's rash," said Chiba. "Very rash, give how little we actually know. I know you all have had your sights set on the Philippines for years now--"

"With the Philippines, the Empire would have a major foothold in the South China Sea and a further inroad into Southeast Asia."

"We retracted from Russia because of over extension," said Chiba. "But now we're strong enough to take all the Philippine islands?"

"Russia is a quagmire," said Yamashita. "It's a vast land of quicksand. Watch as China gets sucked in. I am no expert on military affairs, but I will say that the Filipinos are much more open to submission than the Russians. They are a weak, confused people who took advantage of the United State's weakness and now think they are a major nation. Delusions of grandeur. I blame the Spanish influence."

"I do not disagree that the Filipinos can be easily bested," said Chiba. "I only worry about war with China."

General Kubo pushed out his chest in defiance.

"The Three Humiliations were a generation ago. All three of us know their stings well, we were junior officers at the time who have learned from our mistakes. The Communists do not stand a chance."

Chiba sighed and rubbed his temples. He knew it was fruitless to argue with the military clique about this. It was only though the Emperor's intervention five years ago that they did not continue deeper into Russia. There was a clear divide between the civilian and military sides of the cabinet, and Chiba did not have the authority to reign them in as prime minister. They all reported directly to the Heavenly Sovereign, and they all served at his the pleasure. Or, in reality, he served at the pleasure of the Genrō.

"Do you have any thoughts you'd like to add, Count Togai?"

All eyes fell on the far corner of the room. He'd been silent all through the meeting, but Count Ōkubo Togai had been intently observing. Befitting his status as the deity, the Emperor did not attend meetings. In his stead he sent the Count. As the Genrō, Togai was the power behind the throne. He was the closest advisor the Emperor had, and he was a fan of the military. There was speculation that Togai was the de facto ruler of the empire, making decisions in the Emperor's name. From what Chiba had witnessed of the Emperor, it would be a fair assessment to say that his imperial duties were not a top priority with the man.

"We must have a strong Japan," Togai croaked out. "The Heavenly Sovereign's ancestors have dictated that so goes Japan, so goes the rest of Asia and the world. The Communists have rose only because we have allowed them to. Either Asia will come under our control, or China's. A clash is inevitable, Prime Minister."

Chiba ground his teeth. He once learned a French word that summed up the meeting perfectly. Fait accompli. That was all this meeting was and Chiba was powerless to stop it.

"Very well," said Chiba. "Very well. Then it is decided. Just do not blame me when the Fourth Humiliation comes."

---

"Socialism. Many might have heard of it's tales and it's exploits, it's many ways of belief and it's many ways of use. To some it has meant purpose, drive, freedom, future. The most it has come to symbolize anarchy, chaos, destruction. A force of ignorance against the 'rightful' ways of order and life. In my time in this world, I have come to acknowledge that no political idea - no matter how noble, must suffer from both to be a political ideal. Although, many might ask what is socialism in it's basic form? In the beginning, it was an idea. A simple idea."

"An idea that had been created during a time, when progress was outpacing our morals. When development was going faster, than kindness for our fellow human being. But, that is merely it's creator. Karl Marx. Many names accompany the man - visionary, fool, educated, idiot. In the Russian Empire, I am sure his name is likely most hated. For it was his ideas, from which the Russian Revolution began - under the purpose of establishing a Socialist Utopia. I admit, I had been one of many - a Bolshevik under times, when food was few and life seemed worse by the generation. We had gained many names after such an event - heavy of which was coward and traitor."

"I will not deny this. I was young, barely of age to enlist at that - yet I was old enough to read, think and feel. What was told to us, and what we could see happening before our eyes and to our families - told us, that what the Tsar was speaking wasn't all truth. While the rest of the world kept on progressing we were still stuck in the times of nobles and peasants. In my youth, I felt I could change my homeland - to perhaps make it better for family and for others. In that regard I don't consider myself a traitor - is it treasonous to wish for a better life for yourself and all? I guess...that is the naivety of youth..."

"As one might ask, why did we do it? Bringing both suffering and chaos, to Russia for many years and likely for many decades furthermore? The truth is likely most illusive - I don't know. In those times our lives weren't any better than those of our parents or grandparents. It wasn't perfect, yet we lived - sadly corruption and bureaucracy kept our lives in such a state for many generations. Though there existed many great Czars, they weren't enough to keep the powder keg of a nation we called from exploding. You can add as many fancy titles and words to your name and your nation as you wish - but it wouldn't change the fact that Russia, my Russia was broken."

"The Czar was like any king of old. They ruled with absolute authority and absolute rightness. The whole nation moved with their authority, its armies were like their fists and our factories and farms moved by his dictation. Unfortunately the sad truth is, thou the Czar might be the ruler of all - their power and crown was still ordered by a mere human. A man or woman, whom could make mistakes, make bad decisions and be subject to anger or failure. Sadly, in our case - when the Czar suffered so did we. When their ideas turned sour, we paid the costs. When their armies died in the Great war, our men suffered. When their agents hunted socialists, our people were killed."

"The notion of the Czar could be best stated by one Englishman, Lord Acton: 'Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Great men are almost always bad men'. In the Revolutions of 1917, us few whom supported the people like Lenin - trusted in the ideals, they spoke. Brotherhood, equality, freedom and self-determination. Our lives had suffered, thus likely the choice was made to replace the Czar and the ilk whom had left our people astray. I myself, believed in the notion of mass protest. If enough people demanded change, surely even the Czar could be reminded of his mortal chains?"

"Sadly, it failed and in doing so - we gave the man, more authority than ever before and our message and ideals were turned into literal heresy. That were both hated by the Czar, the Church and by anybody else that would dare strike without feeling retribution. I admit, some of our people had likely ideas for violent overthrow of the Czar and his aristocratic kind. Some of us hoped for a better future. Although, afterwards and the years since I will admit, I might have very much misjudged the actions of our own leaders. Power corrupts as they say."

"Years after the 1917 Revolution failed, we have had many over the years - all of which had been crushed under the boot of the Imperial Army. In such acts, I have gained my own wisdom - the iron-boot of the Czar isn't worth trading for the unstable elements of revolutionary socialist ideals. I might sound a bit hypocritical. Criticizing the same elements, to which I belong to? Yes, I do. Like there have been many good Czars. I do think that some ideas are worth studying, not to be discarded due to the actions of others. Every man and woman should be given a chance to make their own decision on it. Since socialism, in its most basic - is an idea and wish to ask. To ask, why can't a worker be paid his fair share for his work?"

---

Amani Yukarev soon set down the pen, that he had been using. Soon enough finishing another chapter, in his book - namely, Journeys of a Socialist Worker. Sixty years it had been, since he was born - all those years, and here he stood. Namely as Chairman Yukarev, in an official capacity - the leader of the Arkhangelsk Socialist Union. The desired dream of namely Vladimir Lenin, Julius Martov, Leon Trotsky and many other political leaders of the Socialist Revolution. In his years, he had come to grips with how flawed many such men had been and their ideas for the future.

How would have socialism been better - when they had advocated the same ideas, that the Czar had used against them. Though Amani wasn't any stranger to fighting for your life - he had come to understand, that change couldn't forced by boot or revolution. Hadn't Karl Marx himself advocated for a steady evolution? While back then, violent overthrow might have seen as many to be the only answer - the honest truth was, it hadn't accomplished anything. In trying to incite change they had several times been answered by iron and blood. Although instead of learning from the acts - both the Czar and the Socialist Revolutionaries had kept on fighting. Instead of backing down, both incited more hate and destruction. He almost considered it ironic, that the end of the Empire hadn't come from their designated enemy - instead it came from another direction entirely.

Yukarev shook his head at the idea, as he rose from his seat - slowly fetching out his pipe from inside his coat and lighting a smoke to clear his head. In his old age he had a lot to think about - namely he was in charge of oblast that had become a state in itself. It had no Czar or Imperial Army to rely on - nor goods or people from other regions. At the current moment it was the blacksmith of its own fortune.

Those thoughts made him walk over to the nearby window, as he allowed some cool air to brush against his face - as the cold air was punctuated with some puffs of hot tobacco smoke. Outside the city of Arkhangelsk was operating in a modest fashion, as it was - people were simply trying to make it day-by-day for the past eight years. Even the meager ruling of over a million people took many hours of work both physical and mental. In this cold north, there was always the need for food to feed the people, clothes to keep the covered and fuel to keep them warm. For such a remote location, one had to give people credit on securing their source of food and ways of clothing themselves.

Although, in these times fuel was harder to come by. While wood could fuel the rural villages and remote locations, for the few cities that existed fuel was needed and rationing and usage of such was always a constant requirement. Not just for the homes, but also for the equipment and machinery that delegated the lives and livelihood of several thousands. Life here was hard, but Yukarev could at least take comfort in the knowledge - that people were able and willing to work together for a common good.

Yukarev knew that things kept on moving beyond these frozen forests and lands - contrary to the ideas, he wasn't an ignorant socialist nor a raving revolutionary. He had no desire, on expanding or using Arkhangelsk to 'bring revolution to the proletariat'. As it was, he neither trusted himself with such power nor the idea, that revolution would bring freedom or equality through suffering. He was too old to believe those ideals anymore - for him, Yukarev was content with the simple knowledge that Arkhangelsk and its people could simply life their lives in peace...and he could also smoke his pipe also in peace.

----------------------------------------------------
Late July: Swahili People's Republic
----------------------------------------------------



The voice came wrapped in static through the cockpit radio. Murungaru grinned. It was a familiar voice, the deep dramatic roar of Chairman Lutalo, coming over the airwaves from Revolution-Town's own tower. Finally, after a long time in Kisumu, Africa's red army was coming home.

Lake Victoria spread out forever under the three big-bellied seaplanes, Chinese made Féi é. These were the largest prop planes Murungaru had ever seen, more like airships in size. They produced a deep-throated bumblebee hum that pervaded their steel fuselages. The outsides were scrappy and dented, save for the massive red stars on their sides, and the communist graffiti covering their easy to reach underbellies like barnacles do on ships. They were so large that the cockpits could fit several dozen people. Murungaru stood next to Li Huan, behind Agricola and his co-pilot, watching with arms crossed. The radio was completely swallowed by some unintelligible message, a static stew.

"Look!" Li Huan shouted. Her stiff Houist uniform made her appear younger by contrast, and her voice was high pitched and bubbly. "Land!"

"That's the city." Agricola agreed. Murungaru saw it, a pearl on the horizon guarded by swampy islands. Agricola grabbed the radio's microphone. "Revolution Town, this is Red Leader, code 1917, are we clear to land?"

There was a pause. "Yes Bwana. Welcome home!"

Agricola nodded as if the man on the other side could see him. "Reds, we are coming in. Let's bring these fat birds down one at a time, comrades. One at a time."

A pause.

"Red 1 copy that, comrade."

"Red 2 copy."

The propaganda radio came back, now playing music. Murungaru smiled when he heard an American song, one he recognized from a record collection they'd taken in Mombasa. He'd sent it ahead on a small plane loaded with special loot, a first taste of conquest for Revolution-Town. It was played now as if Communism had liberated it, made this music its own, another thing saved from those coastal ruins of capitalist decadence.



"We're bring her down. Sit down, hold on." Agricola's German-accented English sounded thicker than usual. Everyone obeyed.



"Here we go." the vessel rattled as it descended, steel chattering. Murungaru doubted whether it was safe. Everyone looked quietly at one another, hands wrapped tight around whatever they could grab.



The craft shuttered as they powered down and came closer to the water. Agricola guffawed. "Landing on smooth water is dangerous. But good thing for us, these things won't let the water be smooth."



"Why is smooth water dangerous? I thought that was good." Li Huan yelled. Her small voice barely overcame the engines.



"When the water is like a mirror you can't see where it is, just the reflection of the sky. But look." They all looked out and saw how the plane's massive propellers disturbed the lake below them, sending white sheets rippling toward the shore. Tan Egyptian geese took flight in every direction escaping this new monster bird.



They came closer, and closer, the engines slowing down more. They seemed to hover over the water for a good long while. Then, all at once, the craft shuddered worse than before, skipping over the water, helping to slow it down. They felt as if they were being jerked forward. Steel whined.



They came to a stop in front of the marble walls of Revolution-Town. It was a strange sight, like a theme-park version of ancient Rome, a manic cluster of gleaming white buildings crammed into a square mile or so on a peninsula guarding the bay into Kampala. It'd been rushed together in that sweet grace period when the revolution was at its zenith, before the Anarchists and Reactionaries rended everything apart and brought civil war to the People's Republic. On some of the marble was painted the faces of great revolutionary leaders: Karl Marx, Friedrich Engels, Hou Sai Tang, James Lutalo. These faces were tarnished by the spray from the lake, and from the hot African sun, but even though they were pale and chipped in some places, they still looked on, watching the southern horizon with determination, perhaps looking out for lake-born reactionaries. There were opening in the walls that led to the beach, places where floating docks jutted out. Those places were crawling with people, pushing out trawlers and boats and make-shift rafts, ready to receive what the pregnant-bellied seaplanes birthed.

They were drifting now as the plane turned around, facing the direction it came, it's comrade planes circling above.

"We must thank Comrade Hou for the seaplanes." Murungaru said dispassionately, turning to Li Huan, her wide eyes and wider smile warming his heart.

"What is the first thing I should see?" she asked.

"What?"

She blushed. "I'm sorry. You think I'm silly, but... this is just so magical! A city in the jungle!"

"Let's go see it. I'll tell you what to look for." he said. She went in front of him, following the pilots.

They walked out onto the wing, stepping carefully on the slick steel surface. A seaplane circled above while another lowered for a landing, creating two conflicting droning roars that drowned out all other sounds. The lake gave off a wet, fishy scent. Below, boats and rafts took to the water, piloted by casually uniformed soldiers and men in civilian dress, moving like sharks in the direction of the hatches. A rope ladder was thrown down, hovering over a small boat. They descended.

Work began immediately. Soldiers hiding in the hold of the craft joined their lake-born comrades in unloading the loot. There were crates, and piles, and bundles, and boxes. The larger items, mostly furniture or vehicles, were carried out one at a time. A Handwerker Familienwagen was pushed onto a log raft by a half dozen people, the raft bobbing back and forth, nearly tipping and taking the car with it.. Murungaru saw that the ocean spray had power-washed away the graffiti from the fat gut of the plane, leaving only smears of paint and the dripping communist star.

"Look!" he heard Li Huan call out. He looked up and saw who had captured her eye. Standing at the edge of the docks was the figure of Chairman James Lutalo, the sun gleaming off his polished breastplate. Murungaru felt about this reunion the same way the working man in the trap of capitalism must feel when coming back to their exploitative boss. It was the price he had to pay. The price of revolution.

Lutalo saluted as the second plane slowed to a stop further down the coast. With a megaphone, he accompanied the salute with a familiar hymn.

"Arise you people from your slumbers
Arise you prisoners of want."

Lutalo didn't really sing, more like barked, but the soldiers drilled to this song did sing it, belting it out in manly voices like a warcry.

"Humanity in revolt now thunders!
Now ends the age of cant!
Away with all your superstitions!
Enslaved masses arise, arise!
We’ll change all the bad traditions!
And fight the dust to win the prize!"

At the refrain, everybody joined in, and the entire lake rang with voices louder than the third plane touching down behind them.

"So comrades, come rally!
And the last fight let us face!
The Internationale unites the human race!"

There was a cry, shouts and ululations, celebrating the song as if by merely singing it caused everything it it's lyrics to have already happened. The singing stopped just as they reached the mossy edge of the dock.

"General Secretary Murungaru! The people welcome you!" Lutalo bellowed.

"They honor me." Murungaru replied. They were brought up onto the dock, Lutalo helping them personally, big hands pulling them up one at a time.

"I am humble to meet you, great Chairman Lutalo." Li Huan bowed. Lutalo, standing nearly twice as tall as the slender Asian, seemed to inflate at this greeting.

"Revolution-town welcomes you, little prize." The Chairman said. They walked into the compound, along a path of stone.

"There is not a thing like this in China." Li Huan complimented.

"You like it? It is the vision I had for the people, and the people have made it so."

Murungaru felt burning jealousy in that moment, and that jealousy chipped away at the edifice of Revolution-Town Lutalo was so busy praising. He saw how the buildings seemed compact, sort of squeezed together and stunted in side as if they were miniatures of real monuments. He saw the Parthenon-style structure called the Temple of the People's Will, which Lutalo had ordered constructed out of limestone and white dalati marble, but when it turned out not white enough to his liking, he had the beautiful stone whitewashed, the paint now chipping on the humiliated edifice.

"These are the homes of our most important party members." Lutalo pointed to a row of six colonial style homes.

"Mine is the second from us." Murungaru interrupted, placing his hand on her shoulder. "If you go there, I will be with you soon."

"I want to see more!"

"Soon, little prize." Lutalo interrupted, "But there is important business for us to conduct."

"I'll take her." Agricola said. Murungaru nodded and watched as the aging German led the beauty away.

"Murungaru, I sensed you were worried I would take your girl?" Lutalo teased.

"You have sensed the wrong thing, Mister Chairman. I am only wondering now what business you are talking about."

Lutalo went from playful to somber. "Come then and follow me, Mister Secretary. We have bad news. I don't want to tell it, but you have to hear." They went inside Senate of the People's will, a compact and rather bland romanasque building who's only outstanding features were its dome and a number of inexplicably placed carvings of laurel sprigs.

Inside was no bigger than a classroom, designed as a stepwell of stone benches leading down to a likewise stone podium. It all was the same color, an image harsh on the eyes broken only by the red ceiling with its Houist star, and broken by the solid figure of Paulo Madada, party treasurer, standing near a bench.

"We are all here together!" Lutalo announced, "The great brains of revolution, eh? This is good. We have a problem to work out." Lutalo pulled a charred piece of wood from a holster Murungaru had assumed to hold a pistol. "This is a gift our enemy left for us." he slammed it on the bench, leaving a black charcoal smear.

"You carried that thing with you?" Murungaru asked, "What kind of joker do you think you are? We did not need a show!"

"Shush, mister Secretary." Lutalo said. "This was left behind by the Freedom Army of God. They burned the village of Nabiswara, and they crucified all of the Muslims they could capture and sent everybody else fleeing. Three revolutionary soldiers were murdered."

Murungaru said nothing. He felt like he'd been shot in the gut.

"This is the second raid the Freedom Army of God has conducted south of the Victoria Nile." Madada added.

"Why would they be so aggressive?" Murungaru finally said. He felt himself going hot. He wanted to march out now, to bring war to the religious freaks. Lutalo seemed to catch Murungaru's flaring temper, as the Chairman's eyes lit up too. "Our enemies are becoming one thing. If we wait too long to destroy them, they will overpower us." Lutalo said.

Murungaru slammed a fist onto the nearby stone bench. It made no sound. "This is what comrade Marx warned us about the anarchists. They have no theory. They will fight everything we do and destroy the revolution!"

"Are we so certain Hondo-Demissie has anything to do with this? It could be a coincidence." Madada warned.

"Perhaps it is a coincidence, though I doubt it is..." Murungaru said, "But what does it matter? Either our enemies are working together and Hondo-Demissie has betrayed the revolution, or they are not working together but Hondo-Demissie is looking the other way as reactionaries do great murders. In both situations the answer is the same. Our enemies must be destroyed! We marched on the white people in Mombasa, though they had many friends and the world was against us, and we wiped their fortress from the face of the earth..."

"Fine work." Madada said "The world hates us for that. They point and say 'look, they are communist and black so they are savage, and this proves it!'"

"You do not have the balls for revolution!" Murungaru shouted. His voiced echoed through the small marble room.

"Let us not fight each other." Lutalo said, "We do not need this sort of thing, no? I agree with Murungaru. We need to destroy our enemies. But our enemies are crafty. It will not be an easy war."

"The problem is at the source." Murungaru said. "The Freedom Army is evil, but it will crumble. The real evil is the anarchists. We must focus on Marcel Hondo-Demissie. We must destroy him and unite the left! Then the reactionaries will fall."

"I would like revenge for what they did to me at the Nabakazi river." Lutalo smiled, slapping Murungaru on the back, "I was hoping that was what I would hear! Come then. Madada, do we have a unanimous agreement?"

Madada shrugged. "I have a feeling this is an incomplete plane. But you are the warriors, so I bow to your decision."

"Let's wipe that little booger out of the jungle then, eh?" Lutalo laughed.

Murungaru said nothing. His blood was hot. He wanted to go back to his home, to find Li Huan, and to have her like he'd never had a woman before. He wanted this so bad he was nearly shaking. After that, it would be time to plan a war. Then something came to mind.

"Yes." he said, "I know the tools to do it. There is a friend to the revolution..." he paused for a second, "There are medicines that make warriors fight like supernatural things. I know how to get them."

Sao Paulo, Brasil

Four Days Later

Isabel Gemio stepped from the battered green and yellow Chrysler Hemmings taxi and into the cool night air that was finally descending over Brasil after the sun dipped below the horizon and the temperatures could take a break from the low thirties. The taxi driver, a dumpy middle aged man, hurried around to the rear of the taxi to pull out her bag and place them on the sidewalk. She handed him the equivalent of twenty pesetas, a five hour ride from the Zepplin Terminal in Rio De Janeiro wasn't cheap, and waved goodbye as the car coughed its way back into the flow of evening traffic.

The Sao Paolo Hotel and Spa was an impressive colonial era building with white washed sides, large verandas, and a huge variety of plants and flowers set in hundreds of hanging baskets or overflowing from large garden boxes. The steps, long and bordered by low yellow lights that cast a warm glow on the white paving tiles, rose several levels to the front of the hotel. It was an upscale hotel, arguable the finest Sao Paulo had to offer and she was thankful for the power of the Spanish peseta here.

A coloured porter appeared in front of her and slung her bag over one broad shoulder before escorting her up the steps and in to the hotel lobby. It was not a massive space, nowhere near the style of hotel found in most of Europe, but it was certainly functional and well appointed. There were a few other guests in the lobby, a young German couple, two British couples, and a single man who was sitting at a nearby table with tea, biscuits, and a paper in front of him. He gave her a cursory glance and a smile before returning to his reading.

"Good evening." She said as she stepped up to the reception desk. A small Brasilian woman, perhaps an inch or two shorter than Isabel's 5'6, smiled and nodded a greeting. "I was hoping to find a room for a few days, please."

The woman nodded again. The peg board behind her with keys on it indicated that at least a few rooms were still free and she requested a ground room that was promptly selected and the key passed across to the porter who was waiting patiently nearby.

"How long will you be with us?" Asked the receptionist.

"Not more than three or four days I should think..." Isabel's voice trailed off slightly as she caught sight of the single man watching her again from his seat behind her. He caught her gaze in the reflection and looked away quickly.

"Excellent. Breakfast is at 8am. Luncheon at noon, dinner at 6pm, and a later supper for 9pm. If you need anything, please fill out this card and leave it outside your room." The receptionist continued, clearly having missed the exchange of looks.

The porter had already made his way to her room with her bag and the key, opening the outer doors to allow a wash of evening air thick with the smell of the forest in to her room. He took her offered tip, touched the brim of his tall hat, dropped the key into her palm, and vanished down the hallway again.

Isabel took a final look down the hallway toward the lobby before closing the door with a click and pushing the deadbolt into place. She removed her travel clothes, a classic white dress and hat commonly worn by most women. It would not do to attract attention to herself in a strange land. She kicked her slightly lifted heels into a corner and then did a quick twirl in front of the full length mirror. She'd always wanted one but they were abysmally hard to come by in Spain for some reason.

She opened her suitcase and drew out a pair of loose fitting mens pants, a long sleeve shirt, and a hat that would allow her to hid her blonde hair beneath it. The one advantage to mens clothes were their lack of any sort of real tailoring, it was easy enough for a woman of her size to pass unnoticed in most places as a male labourer and she had had plenty of practice over the years during work contracts.

She regarded her appearance in the mirror for a moment, then doused her light and stepped out onto the patio, closing the door behind her but not locking it. She waited as her eyes adjusted to the growing darkness. She could hear giggles coming from somewhere nearby, and the more frantic moans of someone fucking on a patio above her. She smiled slightly in the dark and then swung a leg over her balcony, paused for a moment, and then dropped into the shrubbery. She broke several branches as she landed and froze at once but her exit did not appear to have interrupted the rhythm of the people above her.

Taking careful steps she moved through the brush and onto the edge of the manicured lawn, skirting the perimeter so as not to be a shadow against the light that was being cast across the green expanse by the hotel. She reached the edge of the roadway and looked around carefully. There were several cars parked along the street and it took her a moment to make out the shape of a man sitting in the front of one. He was slumped down slightly but there was no doubt that he was watching the front of the hotel.

She waited until the man lit a cigarette and then slipped down the hedge along the sidewalk until she could turn the corner and lose the unknown sentry from sight. Again she waited but when no car or footsteps hurried after her she straightened up and, adopting a working mans swagger, she began to make her way in to town.

The hotel vanished behind her as she entered a residential neighbourhood. The days newspapers were stacked for recycling in some places and she couldn't help but frown slightly at the smiling faces of King Juan Carlos and Princess, no, Queen Mariana, as they looked into the camera. The Queen looked beautiful in her long white wedding dress, and the King handsome in his dress uniform that everyone knew meant nothing. Isabel stopped here and picked up the paper, turning the pages as she looked for any other useful news. Nothing local jumped out at her but on the fourth page, titled "Overseas Edition" she saw a picture of a Spanish soldier using a flame thrower on a warehouse somewhere in Portugal. Delgado didn't screw around it seemed. The article went on to say that Spanish authorities had promised amnesty to any rebels who laid down their arms, and a horrible death to those who had not. A short blurb about the British demanding Spain withdraw from Portugal followed but the next page was missing she could not finish the story.

The paper was tossed back in the pile as she walked deeper into Sao Paolo proper. The address for her friends home was not actually to far from the hotel but Isabel did not take a direct route, she knew better than that. It was the middle unit of a row of town houses. She had never actually been, but the address had been on the envelope she received. In fact, she had only met this friend in person once and knew her only as Jomi. The two had met in the United States four years previously when attending a conference for Private Investigators. They had hit it off, spent the night together, and then continued to stay in touch by mail.

Isabel turned her final corner onto Jomi's street and almost stopped dead in her tracks. She didn't even have to check house numbers to know which one was Jomi's. One unit was dark as the falling night, its front door had been kicked in, and a Polícia Civil car sat out front with two officers who were smoking and joking between themselves. They hadn't noticed Isabel yet and she acted quickly, pulling off her cap and tossing it into the brush even as she shook her hair loose so that it dropped just past her shoulders. She unsnapped two buttons on her shirt, tucking the extra material into the back of her pants so that her breasts strained against the material and exposed her cleavage.

"Boa noite oficiais!" She said in a sing song voice as she drew closer. The two looked up and quickly stood, tugging on their uniforms and pushing their caps to even more rakish angles.

"Boa noite senhorita." Replied the taller of the two. He was a handsome man, maybe a few years younger than herself, his skin the dark brown that she found so appealing in men. "Can we help you?"

"I live just up the way," She gestured back the way she had come. "And I was wondering what happened to Jomi, we usually lawn bowl together and she did not join me today. Is she okay?" Isabel did not have to feign the concern she felt, nor the anxiety in asking.

The two officers exchanged looks and then the tall one swallowed slightly. "I am very sorry Senhorita, she is dead."

Isabel knew that her face mirrored her genuine horror and sadness and as she took a step back. "How?" She whispered.

"Home invasion. We arrived to find the door smashed in, her home ransacked, and she was found dead in the back garden, strangled." The officer said gently. He looked as if he wanted to hug her, to comfort her, but knew it might not be proper.

Isabel sat on the hood of the police car and wept into her hands. It was as she had feared. The two officers waited as she cried softly to herself for a minute, one of them handing her a handkerchief which she accepted with a hiccuped "Thank you."

"Did you catch who did it?" She asked at last, aware of how cold the evening seemed to have gotten.

"Yes!" Said the officer with a smile. "Well, sort of, he was a well known street urchin, he was shot and killed by Police two blocks away after being found with some of her possessions."

"Thank you." She said, standing at last and handing the officer his handkerchief back. "I must go and tell my family. They will want to know as well."

The officer nodded in sympathy and wished her well as she walked away. She turned the corner, ducked back to retrieve her hat, and made her way back to the hotel, all the while glancing around her as she went. It was just a little to pat. She remembered the sounds of shouting in the background of the hurried phone call from Jomi. Whatever had happened had involved more than one person.

She easily made her way back to her hotel room, slipped onto her balcony and tried the door. It was locked. Someone had been in her room.

"Miss Dratcheva, the Emir will see you now"

Aysha Dratcheva lightly dusted off her skirt as she got onto her feet. Her arrival in Grozny had been a rough one. Two days prior, a skirmish with Ichkerians resulted in the complete destruction of a major road leading from Argun to the capital. Escorts were capable of keeping a traveling party safe between cities, that was until they entered the Emir's demesne. These were lands where no teip was granted direct access.

Aysha followed the usher at a distance as they made their way through the courtyard of the Emir's Redoubt. When the Russians abandoned Grozny, the Chechens were quick to retake the city, and slaughter any Russians left within. What was left of the kremlin built in the city's heart was turned into another aul first, the inventive Chechens quickly reshaping the Russian fortress into their own image. Warlords holed themselves up in the fortress as Grozny changed hands like a whore being passed around. What was once a reflection of the Slavic domination of the Caucasus was no longer anything of its former self, and the kremlin was a reflection of this. Where once stood Byzantine onion domes, and murals of Christ and the saints, now saw calligraphy and verses of the Qu'ran inscribed into the walls.

Aysha was caught by the lifelessness of the courtyard as they walked through it. Empty plots of dirt divided by cracked stone pathways. Twisted bodies of flowers curled lifelessly, clinging to steel cages that once held their bodies as they grew. The death-filled courtyard complimented with stone engravings of flowers and birds all over the walls and pillars of the once flourishing center. Her concentration was broken with the loud creak of the usher opening the door to dark office on the other side of the court.

Behind the door was a large, robust man dictating something to a scribe, who was fast at work codifying his words into a twisted, neigh unreadable script. Duq'an, the court hand. Even for herself, she found the penmanship of this secretary difficult. A sudden sharp call to attention drew her head back to the man at the desk. His hand extended forward, motioning for Aysha to take a seat in front of his desk.

"Assalam Alaykum, Miss Dratcheva. How are you this day?"

Aysha made a small motion as she sat down, "Valaykum Salam, Alhamdulillah." She glanced up and spoke again. "You are Mr. Osman Masaev?"

"Indeed" the man replied, as the secretary bent over to the side to grab a new bottle of ink, motioning to the warlord for a moment's pause before he could return to the stenographing. Osman cleared his throat before the scribe motioned to him once more, and he resumed speaking. "I assumed you would have a wali with you"

Aysha coughed slightly into her hand before speaking once again. "Ideally I would have, but circumstances left me unable to afford to bring another with me."

Osman replied monotonously, "It does not reflect well on a woman who may potentially be in service to the Emir to be associating with men freely." He leaned forward as he spoke again, "She may be too loose to be trusted as his secretary."

"I assure you, Mr. Masaev, I have come as promptly to your service, being only in the company of men in my own teip the whole time."

Osman nodded sagely as he scanned her up and down. "Miss Dratcheva, may I ask you, what do you know of Emir Ramzan?"

"The Emir?" Aysha said, pausing to probe her mind. "I know he is young, that he took over from his father. But I cannot say more, I know not even what he looks like?"

"Of course, Miss Dratcheva, that is no accident. Ramzan prefers his image to be outside of the mind of the people of Grozny, that they know him through his associates. That the name Ramzan Umarov brings images of armies and order."

Osman motioned for his scribe to cease recording and stood up.

"Follow me, Miss Dratcheva, I will take you to him."

Aysha stood herself up, once again following Osman from a distance as he led her through another decorated corridor to a large, gilded door. Motioning to the guards, he had them open up a door.

"Commander, I am pleased to introduce the candidate for your secretary. Miss Aysha Dratcheva, a young scribe from Argun."

Aysha blinked a few times as her eyes set onto the Emir. She had heard that he was young, but she did not expect him to be as youthful as he was. The young man pushed himself back from his desk, walking up to the pair that had entered into his chambers.

"Marsha Oyllah to you both," The Emir gestured to them, as both Osman and Aysha made a movement of respect towards him. Ramzan glanced over at Aysha, who was tense, keeping herself restrained and at attendance in the presence of the Emir. "Miss Dratcheva, Aysha, please" he said quite informally, "relax, you don't have to keep up that high society shit around me."

Aysha's face contorted into an expression of shock and confusion at these words. This was the Emir? A man so young he didn't even have full facial hair yet. The long blond hair hanging out under his navy blue train conductor's hat and his large, round eyes gave this military commander an even more boyish look.

"Aysha, please sit wherever, you look uncomfortable standing like that." Ramzan said as he strutted back to his desk, "You too Osman, loosen up a bit" he added in, turning around as he stopped and pointed at the Grand Warlord as he pulled out a chair and reclined back into it.

The Emir's chambers were perhaps more befitting of a child than they were of the supreme military commander of Chechnya. The walls of the bedchambers were intricately decorated, with paintings of animals found in the mountains of Caucasia, and depictions of trains across them. Trains were a theme, as it was immediately obvious to anyone that locomotives were a favorite of the young ruler. Even on his personal desk stood a small toy train on wooden tracks, with a wind up key placed into the hood of the train car.

But what stood out the most to Aysha wasn't the trains, it was the other toy he had. Plush animals in glass cases in the far end of his room, meticulously groomed and posed in their containers. Beanies, a line of cheap childrens toys filled with plastic beans and stuffing. They were relatively popular, but Aysha never knew anyone could like them this much. Enough to have them in cases, and in displays.

"Do you like them?" Ramzan queried to Aysha, catching her attention. "They were a chore to collect. Beanies are rare enough as it is in Europe, let alone in a war zone like this." Aysha stared blankly at him as he continued. "I give my soldiers special bonuses if they bring me back a Beanie when they siege and capture a place. A real weapon in place of a Scorpion, Stinger or some other pipe-gun. Osman says I shouldn't ransom weapons for toys, but I can't just afford to be giving out what precious little professional firearms we can salvage, now can I?"

Aysha remained silent, prompting Ramzan to push her further.

"I'm sure you're wondering why I've called you here, aren't you?"

"I was told that you were in need of a scribe," Aysha responded, "That is why isn't it?"

"Yes, of course" Ramzan replied, "But it's more than just a note-taker, oh no, no, no. I need someone who can help me with something spectacular. I'm in need of a very talented individual who can lend a hand in making my dream come true."

Aysha tilted her head, "I'm not sure I understand"

"I'm sure you do, at some level," Ramzan responded, before twisting the key in his toy train a few times, letting it go around his desk as they spoke. "It's hard running a country, miss, especially a place where, as they say, it's more guns than government. I have a few pet projects I'm looking to get off the ground as we start bringing this unruly mess under a true leader instead of a bunch of ragtag men with pipe guns and stolen carbines. Warlords are not an effective basis of government, and I'm looking to phase them out. But I can't do it alone."

"So how do I fit into all this?"

"Simple, Aysha. You will be my second body, my new pair of hands and my second brain to start planning out how to fix this mess and get everything going to unite the mountains."

Ramzan grabbed onto the train, stopping it. "Trans-Caucasia"

"Excuse me?"

"Trans-Caucasia, Aysha. The conquest of the mountains, and the technology to break through the once impregnable walls of our enemies." Ramzan lifted the toy up, shoving it into Aysha's face. "Trains, woman, trains"

"Trains?"

"I'm looking to build the first comprehensive system of trains to cross the mountains of this land. To unite the Caucasus both figuratively and literally. I need an organized mind to help me plan this out. I've already got the foundation working in Grozny, but I need to expand outward, and give us an advantage in movement over our enemies in Ichkeria. With any luck, we could expect to take the south, and drive that Egyptian and his fundies out of the northeast with ease if we can conquer the mountains. And once we have that, we will be uncontested, unchallenged in our supremacy over the Caucasus."

Ramzan grinned widely, "And you, Miss Aysha Dratchva. You are the cornerstone of our success!"

Madrid, Spain

Juan could feel his heart hammering in his chest as he escorted Mariana down the long marble hallway toward the Royal Chambers that had been set aside by Delgado in the greatest Spanish palace of them all. Cazadores, dressed in traditional yellow uniforms with red pleated sleeves, silver breastplates, and Morion helmets lined the long hallway, halberds at dutifully ceremonial angles, pistols mounted on their thighs.

The portraits of ancestors stared down at him as they went and lanterns flickered in the breeze that always seem to curl through the palace, the electric lights had been turned off for effect this evening. His court shoes were loud on the marble, offset slightly by the tap of Mariana's high heels beneath her dress.

She was next to him, leaning on his arm, her white teeth flashing beneath long black hair and deep brown eyes as she smiled up at him. Her dress, which fit her as if it had been sewn onto her body, left little to the imagination and he was already mentally undressing her as they passed between the twin line of statuesque Cazadores. Juan was happy, even seeing Delgado at the wedding had not ruined his mood. The Dictator had not arrived until after the ceremony and well into the evenings course of events. His arrival had been to minimal fanfare and he had simply wished the newlywed his congratulations and then vanished again.

The smell of Mariana's perfume was intoxicating and he leaned in to take a deep breath even as she laughed and pretended to slap him as he did so. He could have sworn one of the Cazadores cracked the barest smile as she did. He pulled her closer to him, hand encircling her thin waist, possessing her as his. He could think of no prettier bride worthy of his station.

The doors at the end of the hall were pulled open by a final set of Cazadores. The room beyond was the ante-chamber of the Royal Apartment. It was a huge space and Juan could see the servants standing in a neat line as they waited for their masters. The room would be perfect, of that he had no doubt. He had done little himself, that was beneath the King after all. This night he was going to dominate Mariana as Spain had dominated Portugal. Already he planned to tie her arms above her head and fuck her like she had never been fucked before. It was possible that she was a virgin from what he had heard, and that only excited him more.

As they swept into the apartment the servants bowed in unison, turned, and filed out of the door which closed behind them with a heavy hollow boom as the sound echoed down the long hallway they had just walked. Juan stepped forward to pick up a bottle of wine from the table that overflowed with gifts from their guests. Mariana on the other hand had made for the bedroom and he mentally kicked himself as he quickly put down the wine and hurried after her.

She turned at the door and he reached for her, intending to take her into his arms. Instead pain exploded between his legs as she kneed him viciously in the groin. He gasped for air, clutching at her and then collapsed with a thud to the floor as she stepped back. His hands went instinctively to cup his balls as he curled into the fetal position, staring at her in confusion. In return he only saw disgust and naked disdain.

"Do not touch me, pig! You will not share my bed. Sleep on the couch!" She hissed the words at him as she slammed the bedroom door in his face.


Sao Paolo, Brasil

Isabel cracked her door slowly with the key she had taken, allowing it fall open without stepping into the door way herself. No sound came from within the room. She waited for what seemed like an eternity, though was likely less than thirty seconds, until she was certain she could detect no movement from inside.

When she did finally enter the room it was on her belly as she slid over the doorframe like a snake, eyes sweeping the deep darkness of the room. A line of light showed under her door where it led into the hallway and it cast just enough for her to be sure that no strange boots waited for her. She lay still once again, watching the light but nothing moved across it.

Slowly she stood, made her way across the room and to the door. She pressed an eye to the peephole and scanned the hallway. She white walled space was empty save for a porter who was collecting dished from outside the door of the room across the hall. He paid her room no attention as he walked away.

Satisfied for the moment that she wasn't under direct observation she snapped on the small lamp perched on the desk near the door. Her room looked much as she had left it. Her travel dress was still draped over the chair, her shoes beneath it. Her bag was on the bed as she had left it and it took her a second to realize that it had been resealed, she purposely left it open. She opened it slowly. All of her things were still neatly folded but certainly not in the order in which she had put them in when she had been packing inside her room on the Graf Zepplin. There was no doubt about it now, someone knew who she was, though maybe not why she had come.

The sound of a foot scuffing outside the room made her step quickly to the door again and press her eye to the peephole. It was brief but she caught the shape of a man moving off quickly down the hall toward the far door. She hurried back to her suitcase, pulled out a new dress, some comfortable shoes, snapped off the light, and repeated her earlier drop from the balcony into the brush. She changed quickly in the shadows, carefully using her "work mans" shoes to dig in the garden big enough to bury her clothes.

Dressed in her new outfit she stepped out onto the sidewalk and began to walk toward the hotel entrance. The man she had seen earlier in the car looked up startled as she went by and she pretended not to notice him. She climbed the stairs to the hotel lobby and loudly greeted the porter as she stepped inside. Glancing to her left she saw the man who had been in the lobby earlier pretending to tie his shoe outside her room. The look of confusion on his face as she appeared in the entranceway was nothing short of fantastic as he glanced her, then at the door, before standing and walking toward her. She gave him a friendly nod, which he returned, and stepped up to the front desk.

The woman behind the desk, different from the gentleman who had checked her, in smiled warmly.

"Evening ma'am. Are you a guest?"

Isabel nodded as she placed her hat on the counter and leaned forward so she was standing on her tip toes. This had the desired effect of distracting her watchers with her calves as her dress rode up higher than usual.

"I am." She said loudly. Then dropped her voice to a whisper. "Please pretend to give me my room key." She raised her voice again. "Room 21." The key had been beneath her hat and fell onto the other side of the desk with a quiet jingle.

"As yes, here you are." The front desk staffer covered her confusion quickly when she saw that the key had been dropped with a twenty Peseta note. She plucked the keys up, pocketed the note with a practiced hand, and passed them across to Isabel with a smile.

"Thank you. I don't suppose you'd be kind enough to have someone come around to my room and pick up my laundry do you?"

"I will see to it myself ma'am."

"Thank you!" She smiled cheerily and began to walk down the hallway.

She had barely slipped into her room and slipped off her shoes again when a knock sounded. She opened the door to find the front desk agent standing before her, a worried look on her face but she spoke slightly louder than one might expect.

"I thought I'd grab it now, miss."

"Thank you, come in." Isabel stepped back to allow the agent into her room. The woman immediately leaned forward and whispered frantically, worry plain on her face.

"That man in the lobby was asking about you. I didn't tell him anything so he became angry and said he was going to get the Police!"

Isabel felt her heart skip a beat. "Okay, thank you." She passed the woman another fifty peseta note. "Take this, and this." She quickly handed over the travel dress from the day. "I won't be coming back for it, so keep it if you like."

She shooed the woman out of the room, with another thank you, and moved quickly to her suitcase. She neatly slit the inner lining, pulled out several hundred peseta's and slid them into her bra along with a passport of a different name. Her hand bag she filled with a change of underwear, a small Polaroid camera, and her actual passport, which she would keep until she was forced to get rid of it. She regretted leaving the suitcase, she was terribly fond of it, but she could buy another.

In two quick steps she was out the balcony door again, over the edge, and was already beyond the lights of the hotel when the first of the police cars flashed past. She couldn't leave Brasil yet, there was a mystery to solve.

Metropolitan Police HQ
3:21 PM

Detective Inspector Matsumoto shook a cigarette free from his pack of Cornell's and passed it across the table to the man. Shin Nishimura's bald head gleamed in the harsh light of the interrogation room. Matusmoto supplied a match, Nishimura mumbling his thanks as he inhaled his first puff. Matsumoto glanced towards the two-way mirror on the far side of the room. He nodded while Nishmura's eyes kept darting up at the microphone bolted to the ceiling above their heads, and then againd own at the manila folder resting on the table between them. The folder, along with a glass ashtray, were the only items on the table.

"Western brand," Nishimura said, observing the cigarette and making a face.

"I served abroad in the Army," said Matsumoto. "In China, they were all over the place so I developed a taste for them."

Nishimura shook his head. "Give me Red Apples any day. But a man in my position cannot afford to be picky."

"You know why you are here," said Matsomoto. It was not a question.

Nishimura shrugged. "You think I did something."

"We know you have done something, Nishimura-san."

Matsumoto took time to light his own cigarette, ignoring Nishimura's further protests of innocence while he did so. He stayed silent and stared across the table at the man. He wasn't much to look at, Nishimura. Thin with a bald head and a beak like nose, a thick salt and pepper mustache resting underneath the large nose. Late thirties to early forties judging by the graying facial hair.

"Aiko Saito," Matsumoto finally said. "Does this name not sound familiar?"

Nishimura apologized and said, "It does not, Inspector."

"Perhaps you are better with faces than names?"

Matsumoto wedged his cigarette into his mouth and opened the folder. Inside were glossy black and white crime scene photos. A half-nude woman, stripped from the waist down, rested on the ground. Her arms were akimbo in the grass. The last few shots shots were in so tight it was easy to make out the marks encircling her neck.

"Meet Aiko Saito. Her body was found in a park in the Shibuya Ward two days ago. Does her face appear familiar?"

Nishimura shook his head. The fingers holding his cigarette began to tremble. Ashes fell on the table. Matsumoto closed the file and wiped ash from the table.

"The girl's mother reported that you would often call on her. As did her friends. The mother and the friends both say that you were promising the girl a job at the laundry you run. Is this not correct?"

"Yes," said Nishimura. He nodded vigorously. "I remember the girl now. She wanted a job at my laundry, yes. And I was in the process of creating an opening for her. But I have not seen her in several weeks."

"Did you offer her a job if she would have sex with you?"

"What? No. Inspector, I am a married man. I love my wife--"

"You wanted to fuck her," said Matusomoto. "But she was a virgin and she didn't want to. So you took it. You fucked her in her cunt. You fucked her in her ass. Then you killed her. You strangled her with your bare hands."

Nishimura dropped the cigarette on the table. "What? No, I didn't do that!"

Matsumoto stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray on the table. "Nishimura, you are a rapist and a murderer. You disgrace your race, your country, and your Heavenly Sovereign with your actions. You wanted to fuck her. Only, she didn't want to. So you took it. You fucked her in her cunt. You fucked her in her ass. Then you killed her. You strangled her with your bare hands."

"No! No! No!"

Nishmura began to openly weep and bang his hands on the table. Matsumoto sighed and stood up. He looked towards the mirror and nodded again. The door leading into the room swung open. Matsumoto's junior officers walked into the room. Six young men in cheap suits, the only thing their paltry salaries could provide for them. They each carried a bamboo cane in their hands. Nishimura sobbed at the sight.

Matsuomoto spoke over the man's sobs. "Nishimura-san, these fine young men serve me. We are Room #1 for the Tokyo Metropolitan Police's homicide division. We are the best."

The young men cheered, raising their canes in the air.

"In the year since I took over, we have solved every murder thrown our way."

Another cheer. Matsumoto smiled while Nishimura began to shake his head violently.

"I did not do it! I did not murder or rape anyone! Please believe me!"

Matsumoto nodded at the young men. Two of them moved the table out of their way while the rest walked forward with their canes. Nishimura began to scream as the young detectives lashed out.

---

4 PM

Nishimura smoked a fresh cigarette with bloody, shaking hands. One of the junior detectives had to light it for him and pass it across the table. Matsuomoto looked back over at the two-way mirror and nodded. He heard the buzz of the overhead microphone as it came on and started to record.

"Tell me about the girl."

"I wanted to fuck her," Nishimura said in a neutral voice. His face was a mass of welts and bruises. His shirt covered in blood. "Only she didn't want to."

"So what did you do?"

"So, I took it," he said. "I fucked her in her cunt. I fucked her in her ass. Then I killed her."

"How did you kill her?"

"Strangled her with my bare hands."

"Thank you for your cooperation, Nishimura-san."

Matsumoto stood and walked out of the room. One of the boys would see to it that Nishimura would be escorted to a cell for a hearty dinner and a chance to recover from the interrogation. With the confession, he would be hanged for his crimes in less than a month's times. The Empire had no use for criminals, murderers and rapists especially. The wheels of justice were fast moving. The quicker the criminals were put to death, the easier it was to move on from their crimes.

The incident had not been publicized, and neither would be Nishimura's arrest and execution. His death would be filed as a simple heart attack or cancer or natural causes, the same with the girl's murder. That was if either deaths were recorded at all. Statistically, the Empire had the lowest murder rate in the world, and Tokyo was heralded as the shining example of imperial efficiency. To be a subject of the empire was to be safe from things like hunger and murder. At least officially. The truth was, this case marked the twelfth one for Matsuomoto's room this year. His room was one of four, and the other Inspectors reported similar numbers for their rooms. That meant over fifty murders in Tokyo in seven months. Safest city in the world, indeed, thought Matsumoto.

Room #1 comprised of seven desks. There were three pairs of two desks facing each other. Matsumoto's desk sat in the corner, facing everyone else. Posters and bulletins written in Kanji and Kana were hung on the wall alongside wanted posters. The rest of his squad was busy processing Nishimura, so Matsumoto was surprised to see another man in the office.

"Superintendent Mori," Matsumoto said with a bow.

Mori leaned against Matsumoto's desk while he smoked a cigarette. The superintendent always wore a black suit and tie with a white shirt, something no one ever did unless they were attending a funeral. Everyone called Mori Andāteikā-- The Undertaker -- behind his back. His pale complexion didn't help combat the nickname.

"Congratulations are in order," said Mori. "I caught the end there, but I know what the results were. Another confession from Room #1."

Matsumoto bowed again. "Thank you, sir."

"I know you are still wrapping up one murder, but I need your expertise on something else."

Matsumoto raised an eyebrow. Mori sighed and blew smoke from his mouth and motioned to follow him. They left the office and climbed the stairs up to the eighth floor. Matsumoto had never been on this floor before, but he knew the offices of the Major Case Unit and Organized Crime Bureau were housed here. Mori led him to a room halfway down the corridor. It was almost like Matsumoto's office downstairs only bigger. Thirty-two desks were grouped together in pairs of four, while two supervisor's desk sat off to the side on opposite ends of the room. The only difference was the cork board.

"Take a look," said Mori.

Matsumoto stepped forward. Atop the board were photos of three young men. Under them were written their names, dates of birth, and dates of death. The youngest had been fifteen, the oldest nineteen. More information was pinned further down the board, autopsy reports and ballistic reports and field interrogation summaries.

"Three murders," said Matsumoto.

"Four," said Mori. "Another young man was gunned down last night."

Matsumoto nodded towards the board. "All in the last two months."

Mori grunted. "We are assembling a task force to investigate it. Homicide, Organized Crime, and Major Cases are all contributing men, and I have been chosen to lead. With your record, you are the best candidate to serve as my second in command. As soon as the paperwork on Nishimura is finished, Room #1 will report here until further notice."

Matsumoto bowed again. Inside he felt excitement, but the bow was for modesty sake. It would be unbecoming to laugh or smile or even celebrate in front of a superior.

"When do I start?" Matsumoto asked.

"Now Inspector." said Mori. He pointed to boxes stacked in the room's corner. "Start reading up on the last three murders."

If having performed the critique you ask, “Then what is it that makes the superior society?” then the critique comes to its inevitable, final conclusion. That a society, where the state power is divested in the bourgeoisie method, which is to say that state power is made individual power, so long as the individual possess the capital is flawed, but at least better than the feudal society where all power and economic access to it is invested within the king, the Emperor, or their selected magistrates. The conclusion finally, having evolved from either is the socialist society, where the economic means distributed among the people as their own property, shared collectively as equals, does power manifest from the people itself as preached by the bourgeoisie western, liberal tradition. But also so too might we find the ultimate manifestation in the Chinese tradition.

The removal of the oppressive barriers of bankers and dukes, freeing the people, allows them the full power of their individual life to study and exercise the philosophy and ethics of life, to see the harmony and righteousness of a free and balanced existence. Should institutions as money be removed, the pursuit of material greed through money, and thus the abuse of other's labor too fade from the social consciousness and be replaced in the observation of the social merit of the self. A commitment can be made to the self and to the community as a family, a proper wisdom explored, and a true progress made.

The ideal society from here thus springs. The power of demagoguery and Pseudo-Emperors is replaced by the democratic interests of and activity of the people through the shared investment of belonging in, labor within, and innovation for the greater community. That indifferent leaders should arise, safe in knowing that in letting it be the expression of the whole while build Xiétóng xiàoyìng – synergy – in the whole. And that in the end, the disinterested leader exists as a guardian from the external threat, or should rarely happen the internal threat.

But this disinterested leader should not be the sole figure left. Because even in his guardianship may he act against the interests of the whole in claims of its defense. In doing so we recognize the possibilities of the decay of the leadership role through the privilege and access this gives. And like the old Emperor, or even chieftains of other times the disorganization in checking his power from below leads to him seizing power from above when brought into contact with external bribery, for as long as the Revolution is less then global there will be its enemies from outside the Revolution that will seek to derail it through their own material means. These enemies being the last bastions of the reactionaries and the final vaults of the capitalist or offer sweet honey to distract men from venerable life.

So thus do we have a national body, a congress of the people. And the legal practice, its courts. Who like in America, and freed from the power of monopolized economic power reach its freest and most pure condition as an aspect of the people in the government. One where the people will be free, hold its leaders to account, and will find the pursuit to their liberty, equality, and communal bond and commonality fruitful and enjoyable.

But still though, the most astute observer might ask themselves: if the economic freedom of man is achieved, then what will prevent the most ignorant of farmer from influencing the passing of ignorant law without virtue? And he would be right. But this is in itself the beauty. The recently liberated peasant may not understand the world he is in, but the experience of it over time will temper and train him as he trained his body at the plow with the oxen. Or in the heat of the factory with the urban proletariat. But being able to determine their conditions at work, their reward and their freedom to work however long they present themselves with an opportunity many of our ancestors throughout our history had only dreamed of, and that is to study and pursue self improvement.

Thus, education is paramount. The education of the people is to not just provide them with the technical skills to perform a certain task, but an education to teach the people the means by which to understand, to analyze, and to think of the world. The progress of history is that of a conversation, and in a liberated society all become a part of the conversation. As an individual is to be equipped in his life with the skill to perform a role allotted to him or by himself, so too should he or she be equipped with the faculties to partake in the historical progress, to understand the historical canon, and to participate in writing its continuing chapters.

The availability of and the improvement of the educated faculties of the nation will be the first step to put a people as a whole down the long road. All shall be sages in total liberation. For it is in China, that those who knew the poetry built the bridges that stand for a thousand years.






Stepping out onto the the porch, Hou stood watching the rolling sea. A cup of tea in his hand. The sun had only just rose and the eastern sky was still burning with an orange light. He stepped up to the railing and leaned against it watching the gulls patrol above the sandy beach. Their squalling soared high above the waves as they preened their feathers on the sand or squabbled among each other before setting out to sea. Beyond, the white sails and narrow forms of fishing boats were prowling far out beyond the waves.

He was joined minutes later by his wife. Walking out onto the deck she laid out a tray with the kettle of tea and her own cup on it on a small wicker table between two chairs. Brushing her hand along her red dress she sat down, crossing her feet. “You going to join me?” she asked after a moment.

Hou stood leaning on the railing. Turning to her he nodded and went to join her, sitting down in the reclining chair and sipped his tea.

There were dumplings also on the tray, and a few other small snack cakes. He absentmindedly reached for one and silently ate the breakfast snack as he and his wife sat looking out at the morning sea. The reflection of the sun's dimming orange light sparkling in the waves like flashes of dying embers.

“I'm going to go into the city today, and meet with some friends at the tea house.” Hou Ju finally spoke, breaking the calm silence between them, “Are you doing anything?”

Hou shook his head, “I don't have anything to attend to. Not immediately.” he said.

“What about the war, the one just started in Russia?” she asked.

“No word on engagement in the north. No emergency. I'm not needed.” Hou asserted. He spoke calmly and matter of factly about it. He was not stressed about it, he was not concerned. Late last evening an update had arrived. For the most part, it sounded like a walk in the woods, “You going to send those letters back to the boys?” he asked.

“When I'm there I will.” answered Hou Ju, “I got them in my bag.”

Hou nodded, and sipped his tea. Another moment of domestic quietude passed, and the sun continued its rise. As the color of the morning changed from the soft warm orange and reds, to be replaced by the soft blue of mid and late morning the couple began to stir in their seats. The tea, now cold and mostly empty was taken back inside and Hou followed Ju back inside. Negotiating around, they managed to split the task of cleaning up the tea set.

As Ju was ready to leave, Hou summoned a security officer to accompany her, and she left for town. She leaving, the house stood empty, save for the security detail still at home. Sitting in a chair with a copy of Dream of the Red Chamber. Seating himself in his chair he looked up across the room to the guard that still sat at a table by the door. With a leg crossed across his knee, he leaned against the wooden end-table reading the newspaper. Hou read quietly to himself.



Hou read on for an hour more, silent and uninterrupted. He came to a point eventually where he looked up, and wondering about the time asked the guard: “What time is it?”

The soldier by the door looked up. He was a young man with shallow expression in his face, eyes sunk deep and cheeks that looked shallow through his protruding bones. It was flat and angled. He looked down at his wrist for the watch that hung there. “Quarter passed eleven, comrade.”

“I have an appointment soon, and I have yet to take my walk.” announced Hou, placing the book aside and rising to his feet.

“It's not until four in the afternoon.” the guard said pensively, confused over Hou's apparent sudden shift in priorities. He was also young.

“Nonsense.” Hou said, heading for the door and slipping on a pair of slippers, “Besides, I don't know how long I will be gone.” he opened the door, and stepped out the door. The guard, suddenly bewildered stood back, hesitating before shooting to his feet and heading for the door. His boots drumming heavily against the wood floor boards. When he reached outside, Hou was already on the beach, strolling genially along the tide line. Crabs, disturbed from their hiding spot were already flitting away as the old man walked through the sand.

There was no particular goal in mind. Or any destination. To Hou, this was a mental exercise, as much as gardening was. A physical activity that helped move the mind. He walked in a state of meditation, as the security guard caught up, joined by a few others who had just noticed. The hand guns holstered to their hips jostling as they jogged to meet up with the secretary, their steps impeded by the weight and softness of the sand. They held their distance from Hou as they caught up.

Groves of trees and stands of bamboo lined the shore atop high berms and dunes. Kelp and sea wood tossed up in tides or storms lay across the sand, drying in the open air. Thin hair-like grasses grew from the sand a distance from the shore, and the odd bird looked up at them. A few stray knots were spooked from their hiding in the beach grass or passively herded along the shore through the tide, before being fed up and taking wing with a chorus of high-pitched piping.

Over time, the natural emptiness of the region gave way to signs of pensively touched territory. A dog, distant and down the beach looked up at the approaching figures and began rooting through the sand on its own clumsy hunt for mollusks, turtles, or tasty morsels it might try to eat. As Hou and his entourage began to draw close, the canine rapidly slinked away, ascending the beach and over into try land. As well as him came the litter and debris of man, fishing buoys cut free and let to drift, drift wood boards, glass bottles and a few rags were scattered thin in a fanning pattern across the sand. Footprints began to appear, heralding they were coming close to where other men walked.

Seeing this, some of the guards began to head inland, finding a path to walk between Hou and anything to his right as he went. Beyond and above the hills and the dunes the stretches of rice fields came to view. The sound of distant train whistles sang through clear and open air. It had been close to an hour of walking, and Hou – as old as he was – showed no real sign of wanting to stop. Until suddenly he did.

He stood over a fish that had become tangled in a graying fishing line. It was cutting into its gills and lifeless and stony the corpse lay drying and rotting in the sun. The albatrosses had come to scavenge from it and parts of the fish carcass were missing, revealing the bone under the graying flesh. Now he had stopped, the soldiers formed a distant and loose half circle around him.

Squatting down next to it, Hou studied the carcass. His thoughts broken suddenly to absorb the line and the circumstances. He looked around him, the various detritus of fishing line and broken tackle littered the beach. Further ahead a landed or abandoned fishing boat lay lop sided. He began to formulate questions. How large were the catches in China? What was the history thus far in the rate at which fish were pulled up? Lost?

The smell here was an intermingling of sensation. Of the natural rot of fish washed ashore, the smell of the salt; these were normal to him, natural. But also here too the smell of fertilizer and of other things. A soft smell of coal hung distant, almost suggestively in its subtlety in the air.

He turned on his heels when he rose, heading up the embankment and stopped alongside a soldier. He looked over at Hou as the secretary looked out across a jigsaw puzzle field of rice paddies, separated by dirt paths between, some clearly reinforced with wooden planks and scaffolding. A few dark figures were in the field, harvesting or tending to the rice; it was hard to tell. Beyond the fields a gravel and stone berm ran across, a train track. It divided the fields from the small communal settlement beyond, hidden in a faded blue haze at this distance and further beyond the unmistakable towers of smoke stacks.

“Those must be the refineries.” the security officer said.

“Must be.” Hou answered. His voice sounded distant, still meditative. He gazed out over the fields and they stood there for a while. Hou turned quietly and headed off when he was done.

The walk back was in much the same contemplative silence as before. They trudged through the soft sand. The birds were disturbed. A light breeze rustled the trees and the bamboo. And Hou came home.

As Hou ascended the steps up to his house, a guard walked to the wooden railing and looked down. With a dry expression on his face she said down to him, “A message came from Mang Xhu while you were gone. He had something he wanted to talk to you about.”

“I don't doubt it.” Hou said, turning to her as he reached the top step. Her hair was wrapped in a bun behind her cap, pulling back at her face so the side of her temples looked pulled back too, “I might have something for him.”

The guard nodded, and she followed Hou back into his house. “I left it in the table in the parlor.” she intoned. Hou saw a delicate yellow file on the tea table.

“I'll have to check it later. I have an appointment.” said Hou. Without any particular haste he wound his way through the home. He said something about a driver, and one of the soldiers that followed him from the beach peeled off from following him. Stepping outside, he hung in the shade of a tree alongside the door as a black sedan with aggressively angled corners rolled over the loose gravel to him. The loose stones popped under the tires as it pulled up to Hou and he unceremoniously stepped inside. In the cool stillness, seperated from the warm summer's afternoon the car rolled down the drive, and through the forested gateway onto the main road.

Through the tinted car windows, Hou watched the countryside pass him by. Heading north, they eventually merged in alongside a train track. Separated from the road by several meters worth of thick bushes and stands of bamboo both ran a course north passed farmer's fields and communal enclaves.

Every so often over the long flat distance of the northern edge of China's Northern Plain, a rocking iron mule could be seen in a field, among several others on the far side of rice paddies or wild fields. There, an oil field. Elsewhere, an oil field. Scattered haphazardly around the southern part of the province, and running south into the next. The production of oil in China's north, impeded geographically by the southern mountains, socially by the willingness of the farmers to yield their land or not.

Farmers fields gave way to city, and soon the plain edifices of apartments gave way to the old Tianjin. The development of and influence of European interests in China came to full bare with streets enclosed by the flat plastered faces of European colonial townhouses. First for Hou came the red-bricked and castle-like townhouses and offices of the old German concession. Their stoic Prussian edifice brooding over the tree-lined side walks and cobble streets of inner old Tianjin. Mashed together within blocks, or even mixed entirely together Bavarian themes met with Saxon artistry and Prussian pride. The Germans, now long gone had been replaced with the Chinese who again moved back into their city here, replacing food stands for bratwurst from forty years ago with dumplings and rice noodles or street barbecue as factory and office workers got off their shift.

What came next was the old British concession, and it felt as if driving into London. A corner building that may have been a replica of the London stock-market, or parliament. With prominent colonial reach, it felt to Hou like visiting Hong Kong again. The noble and dour edifices of Victorian stature and superiority stood above the Chinese streets. English words still hung from the sides of some buildings, or chiseled into their corner stones. But they likewise shared common space with Chinese characters and script.

And the car kept going. Coming to the end of its journey in what had been the French concession. Here appearances held more at odds with the country they were in, let alone their neighbors. Salon parlors here, brightly painted solid color townhouses of reds, oranges, pinks, with white trim. Townhouses with balconies and flowered gardens. With the changes in French government, a relaxed policy towards the French had been taken lately, and French Communists had been trickling into their old colonial concession, hoping to be as if comrades. And thus lent the quarter a certain relaxed air as a coffee-house like policy swept into the local tea houses and wine shops on this tiny pocket of Northern China.

Tucked in that French quarter was the destination of Hou's trip. A hospital building, taking up a block of what had been ruins some twenty years ago. Constructed without expense, it was at odds with its own surroundings and leaned more towards a function over form. Though some pains had been taken to brush in its brutish simplicity in with the royal European aesthetic that surrounded it with gardens and courtyards with shrubbery and trees, it still rose up some seven stories, standing above the delicate surroundings of a misplaced Europe that hemmed it in on all sides. Hanging off the side in large red letters was: “Hospital Twelve”.

Hou's car did not take the front entrance, but instead went around the back into a service sector. Ready to take in the car, the shuttered garage doors were opened for him and they shut with a clamor behind Hou's car. The bright sunlight was cut off and the much dimmer sickly yellow tint of artificial light took over.

A nurse was first to greet Hou as he stepped out. Idle pleasantries were exchanged. There was a nervousness to the young woman's voice as she spoke with him, “Doctor San Huan will be ready in a few moments.” she told him as they walked to a service elevator in the corner of the underground garage. The smell of automotive fumes, oil, and hospital detritus was strong in the enclosed space.

Hou said nothing as they stepped in. A guard had accompanied him and he stood in the corner, hands wrapped behind his back and back set straight. They elevator jostled as they rose silently several floors until it stopped with a shutter. It opened up into a service hallway, a space for janitors and cleaning staff. The few who were there stood awkwardly and stunned silent as the leader of the nation stepped out with a nurse and a guard. Some of the older staff members made passing glances aside, and returned to their work.

In the main hall, an oppressive amount of white filled the world. The linoleum tiled floors, pearl white reflected the light from a white-tiled ceiling. The walls were not much better, though the sterile tyranny of the color was blighted only somewhat by faint geometric patterns in the off-white wall paper. An ivory wainscoting rose to about waist height. Walking down the hall, Hou felt he was the darkest figure in the building with his dark gray suit.

Nurses and orderlies in the hall stepped aside and bowed respectfully to the Grand Secretary, who returned the favor best he could while on the move. He could feel the weight of eyes on him as he passed open doors and windowed rooms. The guard following him was shifty and tense as they wound their way through.

By the end of their journey he was lead into an empty examination room. He was left alone on a wooden bench as the nurse stepped out and the guard waited outside. With his hands resting on his knees Hou sat alone in the empty room, idly looking it up and down.

It was sparse to say the least. Wooden cabinets hung from the ceiling above a simple wooden counter. They were the only things to break the starchy white color scheme in the room. Over head, hanging from a chord floated a suspended light-bulb in a tin shroud. Just a half inch separated from the ceiling, it let down a lonely light. A second hung over the door.

On the walls a small number of basic posters hung. All of them reminders for the basics. To keep one's hands washed, when to wash them, and for how long. The virtues of brushing one's teeth, and how to maintain basic hygiene overall. They were not decorative posters, and apart from some basic illustration were entirely all text. Uninspired, but informative in their intent.

Time passed uninterrupted for what felt like half an hour. But just shy of eleven minutes later the doctor entered. A young man with a broad forehead and short cut hair. He dressed in what was best described as being business casual, his white Zhongshan suit loosely buttoned, sleeves rolled back passed his wrist. He had in one hand a plain notebook, pens in his pocket, and a old stethoscope around his neck.

“Comrade Hou, how are we doing today?” the doctor asked.

“I am doing well, Doctor San.” Hou responded calmly.

“Very well. How are the aches in your joints doing? Better since last time.”

“I still feel pain in my wrists.” said Hou, raising and twisting a hand as he held it at the wrist by the other, “It's a dull pain, but persistent. I haven't been paying much attention to my hip, so I don't know about it anymore.”

“Well if you're not worried about it, I won't.” the doctor said, flopping the notebook on the counter and breezing through a few pages to the first empty one. He immediately began taking down notes. “I almost couldn't get in passed your guard. I was afraid how far I would have to go to prove I was your doctor.” he added, conversationally.

“It's a precaution.”

“I understand.”

“Listen, if you're still feeling sore in your hands I can recommend acupuncture.”

“So soon?” asked Hou.

“It's not like it's a new condition. Would you like to do it now, or...” he trailed off, inviting a response from Hou.

“Another day.” Hou responded.

“Very well. Anyways, can you open your mouth?” the doctor asked, putting on a pair of gloves

Hou obliged, opening his mouth. With the tips of his fore and middle fingers, San Huan reached in and pushed down on Hou's tongue, examining the color in the examining room's light and pulled it out.

Thus began Hou's routine checkup. He was obliged to blow into the doctor's face. His pulse was read and timed, finger taps against his joints to test his reflexes. With the stethoscope his lungs and heart was checked. All the while the doctor kept Hou talking, asking short questions about his present physical condition. His ears were checked, eyes checked. A small portion of blood was drawn on this visit. By the end, the doctor approved him with a clean bill of health, and negotiated an appointment for acupuncture in the next couple weeks, and for the next routine check up. Pending closer examination, a full report of health would be sent to Hou in the next week or two.

Without incident, Hou was out as quick as he was in. On the way out of town he had time to finish mulling over some questions. Satisfied with himself, he reached under the seat for a set of stationary and a pen kept there and set to write.

“Hue Yu,” he begun his letter.

“I request fishery reports through the years 1954 and 1959 if 1960 is not yet available. Pending that, a best estimate by your department would suffice for the current year. If at all possible, estimations for catch weight in the intervening years between the end of the Revolution and 1954 would be helpful but are of minor importance. I likewise would be interested in any regional reports you might be able to acquire for the coastal provinces in respect to local declared catches.

“If the matter can be expanded, I would like any information on recent stock studies and for your ministry to reach out to relevant universities for their information. Send all you can to me and wait for further word.

“Hou Sai Tang.”

He nodded as he peeled the succinct letter from the book of stationary paper, and folding it slipped it into his breast pocket. He would review it at home and finalize it before sending it off. In the mean time, he set to work beginning a new letter.

“Dear Brother,” it began, “How long it has been since we spoke person to person. But please, accept another letter. I may have returned to living by the sea, but fortune dictates I do not go out on it. How are the waters?”

He continued to write.



The engine rumbled as they sped along the barren unpaved road. Rocking sharply, the motorbike jostled over potholes and deep ruts carved in the dry brown earth. On either side of them, the vast Kazakh steppe rolled on into the distance, dry, dusty, and full of rocks. Grass, hardened and browned grew in the dry earth under a parched dry sky. But at least it was relatively cool. A breeze blew from the east, bringing more dry air. It was another clear sky, and the two nomads squinted in the bright clear sunlight as they rumbled ahead.

In their backs, their old Chinese license plate jostled with their other gathered effects. They had discovered they didn't need that, but hesitant to throw it out they had stuffed it away, pressing it against their clothes and sacks of food. They were beginning to run thin on something to eat, and there was an understanding between the two that they would need to stop and find a way to earn them some bread on the road. It was not dire straights, just enough that on entering into the next town they would need to probe around the best they could to find work.

For now, more of the road.

Keeping on the road south their migration south bound and west brought them to the end of the road. It did not abruptly end, but came to an awkward taper before the terrain began to meander downward. Guo and Chao who stopped the bike before they could drive it into the dry brush. Before them the steppe turned down into a gently flowing, deep, dark river. Its sandy brown and wine dark waters swirling as the currents rolled west. Staring across it stood stands of trees and more rocks scattered along the not-so-distant shore, there was no bridge.

“Well, that's nice.” Chao said, resting his arms across the handle bars of the bike. Reaching over from the side-car Guo cut off the engine.

“I wonder what the road was for?” Guo asked, “It seemed to be going pretty well there for a while.”

“Aside from the holes, you mean.”

“Of course.”

The two sat there, staring at the obstruction before them. Sighing, the two dismounted the bike and Chao found a rock to stash the bike behind. Walking towards the river Guo scratched at his raggedy Guan Yu beard, sand poured from it. Joining him, Chao caught up and walked down to about as far as either could, and looked down into the dark greenish-brown water.

“Why didn't they build a bridge?” asked Guo.

“No money.” Chao suggested. His opinion of the world outside of China was beginning to change. There was always a bridge in China. Old. New. It was always there. He didn't think he could miss bridges.

“And why the road ending here of all places?” Guo continued, his voice rising to a threshold of a shout. “Fuck this country! Their heads, it must be filled with water. There is nothing else that it must be full of!” he yelled at the threshold of rage and frustration. Chao could feel for him.

“I'm as mad as you are, but we're going to need to take it in stride.” Chao said to him hopefully. He put a hand on his shoulder, “And while we're here, we might as well stretch our legs.

“Fuck. Fuck, I guess you're right.” Guo mumbled discontented. Chao strolled down the hill, Guo following close.

“We might as well check things out.” Chao said as they went along. “We can decide on what to do later.”

“Honestly, my opinion is we turn back and see if there's any other way.” Guo suggested, “Find a bit of work, or something in the meantime. Or hell, steal a chicken or two.”

“Really now?” Chao called back, turning and squinting into the sun.

“I mean it.” answered Guo.

“You're crazy.”

“This whole thing is crazy.”

They stood at the bank of the river now. It didn't looks much wider than half a kilometer. But still, peering down into the water from the rocky shores gave them no impression on if it was here, or if there were any nearby shallows. Thorny brushes crowded the water's edge in spots, and the silver glistening of the afternoon sun stung their eyes as they looked into it.

“Where do you think it comes from?” Chao asked.

“What from where?” Guo asked.

“The river.”

Guo looked down at the water, and looked east. “I don't know. Home?” he said. He felt a sudden tinge of home sickness.

Indeed, the river they stood at sourced its waters from China. Flowing from central Xinjiang, the Ile river poured west into Kazakhstan, before turning north unhindered into Lake Balkhash. Through this vein, the two countries shared an artery from the snow caps of Xinjiang's southern mountains. The Karatal, Aksu, and Lepsi further north, rivers that they had crossed, likewise sourced themselves in China, tickling the very frontier of the Communist border.

Chao shrugged. He gazed distantly over the rocky, barren horizon in the direction the river came. But in the end it wasn't where they were going. The two walked along the river's course watching the slowly churning water. There was a half hope between the two of them they might find any hint or suggestion of a crossing nearby. But they couldn't find any. They walked two miles along it before turning back to search for their bike.

“Do you think this country has any bridges?” asked Guo.

“What do you mean?” responded Chao.

“This country, this nation – I suppose you can call the area that now – do you suppose it has bridges? Or is it like it was two hundred, three hundred years ago? As it was during the Ming? No bridges, only open land. How long have we been here and how many settlements have we come across? One. I'm unsure about Kazakhstan.”

“It was a Russian territory once, there has to be some bridge somewhere!” Chao responded, “We only have to find it.”

“And the road ended all at once!” Guo pointed out, “That sort of thing isn't normal. It shouldn't be. Who would come out here?”

Chao shrugged. “I guess people like us.”



Li Chao

July 8th, 1960. The year of the metal rat.

We have been on the road for a few days now. Since passing through that city we have passed by some traffic, but never much. It was persistent so long as there was farms. Mixed horse-drawn carts and motor vehicles. Nothing unlike home. Things seem without order though. We've long since hidden our plates, and no one seems to mind or notice. One this is for certain though, we are less equipped for speaking with the people here than we thought. Much of the signs are in what looks like Russian. None of us know any Russian.

All the same, we're continuing on south. Passing away from the city and through the hills we loose sight of the farms and we enter into empty wasteland again. I remember that this country used to be a part of Russia. But passing through it I don't see what the point of the Russians being interested in this land was. All Guo and I find is emptiness and little in the way of civilization. Further along the roads we see what looks like herds in the distance but there always far enough from the roads that neither of us can make it out. Deep down I am imagining this land being ruled still by the Great Khans of old. I suppose some old Mongol capital is in this vast wasteland, but we have seen no trace of it. But what would be the luck we do find it?

All the same, my impressions of Kazakhstan have so far not been positive. There is a certain lacking out here. More so that what both of us have expected from Western China. Our frontier had at the least a sense of order and belonging. But out here we feel not just alienated, but in our brief time in the city we feel there isn't much a sense of order or unity in the country. There is something tense in this land. I can not put my finger on it. But perhaps it is why the military is at the border, to observe it.

Imperial Palace
12:51 PM

"Door pounding woke Sam up. The hangover pounding his temples was even worse. He reached across the bed to find a bottle that wasn't empty. No dice. He stumbled through empty bottles and crushed cans towards the front door. He still wore last night's clothes: an unknotted tie and rumpled shirt with pants that had just a hint of puke on them.

'Samuel Bennett?'

Two men at the door. Meatheads in black suits and sunglasses. Très goon chic. Sam leaned against the door frame. Sam cut odds he could take them. A long shot at best. Sucker's bet on that. Instead, he nodded and lit up a smoke.

'The same Samuel Bennett of Samuel Bennett Investigations?'

Sam blew smoke rings. 'The one and the same.'

'We need you to come with us, Mr. Bennett.'

Sam cleaned his nails and yawned. 'Why is it these things always start with two dickheads in suits wanting me to come with them?'

One of the meatheads cracked his knuckles. The other popped his neck. Flexing and posturing were punk moves. Sam knew the way to scare a man wasn't by cracking your knuckles. It was by cracking his bones. He laughed and shook his head.

'If you two gorillas can get me a stiff drink then I'll go wherever you want me to go.'"

--

Nobuhito looked up from his typewriter and rubbed his chin. Like with most of his writing, he knew where he wanted to go. He had a vague outline and general idea of the story beats and would fill those beats in as he went. This would be his fourth novel featuring Sam Bennett, a hard-drinking private investigator who worked in an unnamed American city. A cheap publishing firm in America had bought the manuscripts and printed them as twenty-five cent paperbacks. The name on the cover was that of H.B. Jamison, the pen name Nobuhito used for his work.

The publisher's had no idea who he really was. The manuscripts he sent out came from a Tokyo post office box, the same with the small checks they mailed to him. The checks, which he never bothered to cash so they still sat in the bottom drawer of his desk, all together probably amounted to less than five percent of what he spent each year as Emperor.

He put his fingers back on the typerwriter keys but stopped when he heard approaching footsteps. Kiddo's chubby face appeared through the door of his private office. Nobuhito felt a slight surge of annoyance at seeing his private secretary. It was well understood that for three hours after lunch he was not to be disturbed.

"Heika," he said with a bow and downcast eyes. "I am so sorry to interrupt your private time."

"What it is, Kiddo-kun?"

"It is Count Togai," said Kiddo, his eyes still staring at the floor. "He is insistent."

Nobuhito sighed and removed his reading glasses. He had hoped to finish at least the first three chapters of his latest novel. But it seemed as if the adventures of Sam Bennett would have to wait until tomorrow. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and nodded at Kiddo.

"Let him in."

"Heika," Togai said as he entered. He bowed, but not as deeply as Kiddo and he maintained eye contact with the Emperor. "How are you this afternoon?"

"Fine," Nobuhito said, removing the first page of his manuscript from the typewriter. "Taking some time away from work to write poetry."

"Ah, I'd love to read some."

Togai sat down in one of the two chairs facing the Emperor's desk. He crossed a long, thin leg over the other and placed his weathered hands on his knees. The old man was the only person in the Royal Family who could remember Emperor Meiji at the height of his power and the struggles that came with the Meiji's new vision for Japan.

"Maybe one day, Uncle," Nobuhito said with a smile. "Once I am confident any of it is good."

The count waved a wrinkled hand dismissively.

"I'm sure it is fine, Your Majesty."

The Emperor grunted and looked at Togai with a raised eyebrow.

"So, you wanted to see me? I assume this is some Genrō business?"

"Yes," the count said with a nod. "I just came from a very productive meeting with the Prime Minister and the military men."

"Oh?"

"Yes. The Communists are invading Russia. The war ministers think that now is the time to conquer the Philippines."

"Of course they do," Nobuhito said with a sigh. "And I assume Prime Minister Chiba was not of that opinion?"

"Correct."

The Emperor shook his head. This fall would mark the tenth year of his reign. The majority of that time he had been pressing for governmental change. Inspired by the model of western governments, he wanted all facets of the Imperial government be overseen and administered by the prime minister, a prime minister appointed and held accountable by the Emperor. Easier said that done, especially when it came to taking power away from the old men who had grown accustomed to it.

"Do you not think they are too eager?" the Emperor asked.

"They remember well the stings of our defeats in China," said Togai. "They are eager to make up for the humiliations. The conquering of the Russian territories helped, but with the Philippines we would have precious resources and dominate the South China Sea."

"You seem eager as well, Uncle."

Togai bowed his head. "Yes, I admit that I am. I remember the wars with the Qing and the Russians, back when we were an empire on the rise. Now we seem to be one of stagnation, Your Majesty. Our future is an uncertain one."

The count let his gaze linger on the Emperor. Nobuhito could feel his face warming as it flushed. He knew damn well what the old man was insinuating.

"Be careful, Uncle," he said after a long silence. "You will always be my wife's uncle, that will never change. But myGenrō I can easily change."

Now it was Toagi's turn to blush. This in anger instead of embarrassment. The old man's hands gripped his legs tightly and he slowly bower his head.

"A thousand apologies. I misspoke. I am just worried about the future. Six years of marriage and no child--"

"You do not need to remind me," the Emperor said curtly. "And is there anything else besides the Philippines idea?"

"No, Heika."

"Then you may leave. I shall hear a proposal from the war ministry about the Philippines when one is ready."

Toagi stood, bowing deep this time, and slowly exited the office. Nobuhito watched him leave and continued to stare off into space after he was gone. The old man was right to be worried. He and Kiko had yet to produce a child, let alone a boy who could become heir to the throne. He was the last male descendant of the line, his father's third son.

Nobuhito was never supposed to be an emperor. His two older brothers had went off and learned at the right hand of their father how to govern and how to rule. They had gone to school to learn about politics and the military. He had gone to school to learn literature. His oldest brother reigned as emperor for all of two years before he dropped dead of a heart defect. No children so the throne passed to middle brother Kazuo.

At the age of thirty, Nobuhito finally began to learn about how to be an emperor. It was at the suggestion of the royal family. It was a long shot, Kaz was young and healthy and he had just married a young woman who would give him lots of heirs. But as healthy as his older brother was, he wasn't invincible. Kaz and the Empress were on the way to the imperial retreat in the north when their plane crashed in the countryside.

He was in Korea on a goodwill tour when he got the news. The governor-general and his entire staff kneeled before him, everyone afraid to make eye contact. That was when Nobuhito knew he was in deep, deep trouble. The man who was never supposed to rule was now sitting on the Chrysanthemum Throne. The man who wrote detective novels in his free time now ruled over millions and decided the fate of an entire empire.

Sighing, Nobuhito turned back to his typewriter. H.B. Jamison didn't have to worry about wars and a teetering empire. All he had to worry about was meeting his deadline. Sam Bennett's gin-soaked world of pulp fiction was the emperor's escape. He was rough around the edges, but the square-jawed detective always saved the day and caught the bad guy.

--

"Sam sipped booze out of a paper-covered bottle. The stuff was cut-rate, but there was enough booze to stop the headache. He sat in a study filled with books. Sam thought of a book he read in school once, it had a rich guy and a big study filled with books that were never read. He stared hard at a liquor cabinet in one corner. The sight made his mouth water. Scotch, high-grade grain alcohol. The real deal. It put his cut-rate drink to shame."

---



Urajiosutoku
11:34 AM

Nagumo flew the plane low over the hilly forest, the wings so close to touching the tree tops. He lined up the cargo truck in his sights and opened fire. The bullets ripped across the side of truck and sent a group of Russians scattering away from it. Nagumo pulled up and began to circle overhead. He could see a group of Japanese soldiers advancing on the truck, opening fire at the fleeing Russians. Above it all, Nagumo could see train tracks a few kilometers away from the dirt road where the truck was parked. He could see smoke off in the distance.

"Tempura Six to ground patrol," he said in the mic. "I have eyes on a rail line and what appears to be a locomotive approaching."

"Ground patrol to Tempura six, Confirm the locomotive," came the reply from the officer on the ground.

Nagumo flew higher and sped up. He saw a steam train traveling around the bend with a single boxcar attached to it. It was an older model, nothing like the gasoline powered trains the empire used today. It was technology befitting the Russians who had to steal and cobble together everything they had.

"If it's a friendly, it's one from the past. I think I found the Russians getaway vehicle."

"Roger that. Keep an eye on it and if you see Russians climbing aboard, open fire."

He copied and began to keep an eye on the action below. He saw gunfire erupting through the trees, inching closer and closer to the rail. Meanwhile, the train began to slow and expel steam as it arrived at what had to be a rendezvous point.

A few minutes later Japanese soldiers emerged from the treeline and opened fire on the train. Nagumo knew then that his part in all this was over. He had already started back to the city when he was ordered by air control to head back. He sped up and climbed higher and higher until the trees all blended together and the train and soldiers were long gone.

Over the horizon he saw the massive building complex located just twenty miles north of Urajiosutoku. It comprised twelve buildings, four giant eight story ones surrounded by eight smaller buildings. The eight small ones were barracks and bunks that housed prisoners and guards, the four large ones were the factories that helped keep the Japanese economy afloat.

Nobody had said it, but he knew the fleeing Russians had come from here. Officially it did not exist. Those that knew about it did not talk about it, but yet it was widely known by everyone in this part of Siberia. They called it The Farm. Like a lot of hard facts of Japanese life, they talked about it without actually talking about it. Everyone knew of the horrors that went on inside its barbed-wire fences.

Nagumo gave a half-hearted salute as he passed above The Farm. If it was as bad as they said, then Nagumo could at least sympathize with the escaping Russians. But they had surrendered and lost any claims they had to be treated as honorable men. Real soldiers died fighting or killed themselves before they could be captured. Cowards surrendered and were left to their fate.

He began final preparations to land and put the thoughts of The Farm out of his mind, focusing on landing without incident. He had work to do once he touched the ground. He had to write a report and be debriefed on what happened in the forest, schedules to review, daily logs to audit and mounds and mounds of paperwork. The life of a flyboy.

"Tempura Six to Ground Control," he said, keying his mic. "Requesting permission to begin final approach."

"Come on home, Tempura Six."

Chingiz counted his blessings every day that the Emir was in a position to keep food available for everyone. Chingiz made a tripe out from Gudermes every Thursday to the fishery, carrying away a few hundred pounds of fish to carry back to the city. But today was Friday; Chingiz had made the trip up to the farm the previous day, but Levi, the owner, was nowhere to be found. It was a hot day, even this early into the morning.

Moshe, the farmer's son, was out in the fields, tossing food into the ponds. The boy's eyes darted over to Chingiz, and he waved over to him to come to the ponds. He was familiar with the fishmonger, and knew why he was here. His father had gone a few days ago, yet had not returned. A day late was normal, but three days was an anomaly, to say the least.

"Good Morning, Moshe, has your father returned?"

The boy shook his head solemnly, "Not yet, we haven't heard anything from him."

Chingiz was concerned to hear this, it wasn't like Levi to just hightail it somewhere without leaving his family at least a note to tell them he would be gone for an extended duration. The merchant's mind immediately drifted off to the worst case scenario, and he swallowed hard, hoping that it was nothing, and that he was just off somewhere.

"I hope he will return soon," Chingiz mused, "How are you and your mother?"

"We are managing," Moshe responded, turning his head back to tend to the young tilapia. The fish weren't eating much, they seemed to be ignoring the food. "I'm concerned about the fish, these last couple days it seems like they don't even notice the food."

"Are they sick?" Chingiz asked

Moshe shook his head, "I doubt that, they're swimming just fine, they don't seem sluggish, and there's no algae that I can notice." Moshe simply shrugged his shoulders, "Are you looking to get your order in? I can get it done in time if I start now."

The Merchant nodded, and Moshe motioned to follow him to the back of the ponds. As the net was lowered into the pond to catch them, it became immediately obvious that something was wrong. Moshe pulled against the weight of the net, tugging and struggling, but the net not rising up.

"Something's in the net" he shouted, as Chingiz came to help him drag up the net.

As the two men struggled to pull it up, they finally were able to have the net breach the surface, with them dumping the contents into a tub to sort the fish.

Moshe immediately jumped back, with Chingiz gasping and turning away to avert his eyes, hacking and heaving at the sight. Among the fish lay, what one must assume was once a body. The bloated, blistering skin was ravaged, the marks of ichthyic mouths having cut chunks from the flesh, eyes sucked out of the sockets, replaced with gelatinous, putrefied blood. The blistered, bloated figure oozed as the fish squirmed, wriggling out from under it, bathing themselves in fetid fluids as they struggled, joining their guest in death soon after.

Chingiz ran back to his truck, breathing heavy to clear his nose of the rancid odor, his nose and mouth dripping with saliva as he struggled to keep from coughing and hacking. Moshe simply followed behind him, white and speechless, as he looked over at the fishmonger.

"I'm going to get the qadi" Chingiz sputtered out.


Supian was getting agitated at this.

2 Days ago, the suspect in the Sandek Murder was apprehended, a Chechen named Movsar Maskhadan. Maskhadan was a muslim, nothing unusual for a Chechen. However, his victim, Levi Sandek, an Ashkenazi Jew. Maskhadan had further complicated the situation, and pissed off Supian, by committing the heinous act in New Zion, an autonomous Jewish commune set up by the local warlord, Kharon Geteyev, for the local Jewish teip. Typical of Kharon, the lazy bastard.

Kharon set up a court hearing for Maskhadan with the local qadi. However, the Jews objected to the use of a sharia court, arguing that as the victim was a jew, and the crime transpired in Jewish territory, a halacha court was necessitated. Objections were raised, arguments made, but no consensus was reached. In keeping with the typical laziness of Kharon, the issue was transferred over to Supian, the Grand Mufti. The stake of inter-religious justice was at stake, and it rested on his shoulders. Seven cups of coffee were his companion in this decision process.

The Mufti pressed the bridge of his nose, the tension of this was creating a nasty headache. If the emirate was ever to emerge as anything better that some minor warlords, there needed to be better laws than letting every big man with a gun decide his own laws. Ramzan would do well to put the people to the book, and actually govern his state like an emir, like a true Islamic ruler.

It was far from the first time Supian had propositioned Ramzan for greater application of Islamic Law. The boy was, however, a youth with little interest in the words of an old man. Osman was the usual recipient of his remarks, when the emir could not be bothered to listen.

For Osman, the Gun was greater than the Quran. The damned kafir.

It was abundantly clear that Maskhadan was guilty. But the problem came, in Supian's eyes, in that while he was a murderer, the Chechen was a muslim, a believer in God, while the farmer was a Jew, a dzimmi. The Jews called for his death, for his blood to be spilled. And Supian, he could not abide the idea of putting a fellow muslim to death for this. It was suggested that he be put into the mines or the oil fields for the rest of his life, but slavery was not permissible for a believer either.

The Mufti rubbed his temples, seeking some relief from the tension. What could be done with a low-life like Movsar Maskhadan, a low-life but a brother in Islam. That was when and idea came to him.


Only the biggest pieces of shit ended up in the dungeons of the Redoubt. The locals called it Jahannam. Though that might be an understatement, for many said that for what they had seen, hell was cushy and comforting compared to the things in which Ramzan liked to put the worst criminals in Chechnya.

As expected, Movsar Maskhadan lay in chains, stripped of all clothes save a rough, burlap garment. The shackles left him sitting, lest he stand, struggle, and dig the steel braces further into his flesh. The wounds were starting to become necrotic, and the smell of decay was coming over him. The guards were commanded to keep him alive, but it was obvious they were doing the very bare minimum.

Locks turned in the wall, and the two soldiers stood at attention, acknowledging the Grand Mufti as he entered into the room.

"Movsar Maskhadan" Supian spoke, as the shackled man's eyes drifted up to him. "I have come with your final sentence."

Supian unfurled the document, as he read it out loud. "Movsar Maskhadan, for the murder of Levi Sandek, I, Supian Inarkaevich, Grand Mufti of the Emirate of Grozny, sentence you to 25 years in service to the Emir's Army, and to make a payment of 54795 Dinars* to Moshe Sandek, for the blood price of his father."

Movsar coughed, "You're having me impressed into the army?"

Supian spat onto the floor, "If only for the reason that Allah forbids me to just kill you on the spot, and that someone needs to pay for the blood on your hands." Supian motioned for the guards to free the criminal. "You will be put to some use in society, and you will pay the family with your earnings in the Emir's personal military, since someone has to compensate him."

The guards forced Movsar up to his feet, the mans calling out in pain as his festering wounds on the ankles bent, and they dragged him over to the showers. "So get ready, first thing tomorrow, we're shipping you out to Mozdok."

---

"A fair day at work. Despite the rather simple request, to some it might seem a very far away and difficult situation to grasp. How many centuries had our ancestors, fathers and mothers, toiled away on farmlands? Barely living from day to day and yet being dominated by Kings, Tsars, Emperors and Dukes. This isn't to bad-mouth the times of the past - simply a reminder to the people, that life long ago had been much harder. While one can argue, a peasant wasn't much educated then to make choices that would best benefit him - one can also say, that the 'lord' had no incentive of educating the peasant either. Just three hundred years ago, the Industrial Revolution started and with it a larger push towards progress and equality all across the social classes. For Russia, this happened only two hundred years ago and with bitter resistance."

"I ask many, how much do they work physically and mentally? How much do they create? How much time do they put into their work? How many times have they sacrificed their health for their work? After answering those questions, ask yourself this. How much are you paid and how much do you think you should be paid? Take the peasant for example - long ago, he was at the bottom of the social class. Poor and filthy. Yet, he produced the most important thing of that time - food for all. Thusly, one can agree that the peasant should be much more better off, than how he is. Sadly this isn't the case. Many times, we have workers of all shape and type - whom work hours upon hours, and are paid almost nothing. This is a notion, that is liable to be present in any country in the world - be they under a monarch, a democracy, a social republic or a communist one. It is rather easy to test for yourself. Ask the nearest person, how much do they earn and how much do they work."

"I will stress this though. This isn't me calling the 'Workers to Revolt'. No, this is merely an observation of the status of our world. Violence, though necessary isn't the best tool to be utilized in seeking social progress. Oftentimes, it might lead to the destruction of what you are seeking. Nor am I asking for the 'Bourgeoisie' to be overthrown - one has to admit, that those same people are people, like the 'Proletariat'. Or in simply, there isn't much physical difference between a worker and an owner. It is, that problems arise when the Owner tries to utilize his Workers as tools and not as people. Trying to engage in 'Revolution' merely entails you to return the suffering back onto the Owner - namely starting a cycle of vengeance. A Bourgeoisie is a worker like the Proletariat - only they have decided to utilize their mental power over their physical one."

"In my times, I have come to understand that while we are different. Each of us, have our own political, physical and mental differences. Same goes for the worker and the owner. One has decided to create income through risk, trial and his mind. While the other has decided to create his income through, labor, work and his body. Thus, trying to incite Revolution would in the long term, eliminate all great thinkers - leaving nothing but the ignorant and poor left. The worker and owner often times need each other, to work in unison would benefit both. To work against each other would benefit neither. A worker has taken the choice to work with his body - and thus has an obligation to both work yet also the right not to be exploited. An owner has taken the choice to work with his mind - and thus has the right to his share yet also the obligation to see his workers as people."

"Achieving unity is a hard and constant progress - as both worker and owner, try to slowly grab more for themselves. In some cases, the owner has more power, in other cases it is the worker. I myself, do believe that lasting change can only be achieved through dialogue and cooperation. Violence only fosters resistance. For both the owner, whom would see his workers less as people - due to the damage caused to him. While the workers, will see the owners less as people - due to the damage caused to him, too. Both, need to admit the faults of the other and both have to make sacrifices for such a goal. But such a goal of synergy might have better results in trying to achieve the Communist Utopia - than violent social revolutions, that leave the state more broken and worse off with a system that is more oppressive than the old."

---

Arkhangelsk was a rare city to be in, as it was officially part of Socialist Union - thus according to some of the more vocal socialistic states of the world - it would be void of any capitalist structure. But in all honesty, the opposite was true - while it was less prosperous than most capitalist states - it did have a system, that allowed even the lowest worker to have a somewhat decent standard of living and food in their belly, while not destroying trade entirely. It also helped to stimulate what little economy they had, in their region of the divided Russia. Plus, by nature the Union couldn't get everything they needed from within their own lands - thus they needed to trade with others and utilize some form of currency.

The first eight years, took some time in setting up some form of a stable currency. It was difficult, as they had to build-up a basic building block of a state from scratch and then have it worth something. Nowadays, the ASU utilized a currency called chevronets - namely a money that was begged to the gold standard. It was as good a thing as any, since it allowed them to trade and have their currency be worth something. Plus, it held a safety net for the people - in case things went awry, they had a way of of redeeming their worth. It wasn't the perfect system - but people could at least get by.

Thus was life Arkhangelsk - as it wasn't so much as they progressed, they merely lived. As far as things went, compared to the rest of Russia it was a good enough situation as any.

--------------------------
Late July: Sidamo
--------------------------

The wet season was over, and Sidamo bloomed green. Humid forests clung to the rolling mountains of southern Ethiopia, table-top ambas partially obscured by haze in the distance, appearing like apparitions from a fairy tale land. Floyd Switzer thought it was damned foolish to build highways in this landscape. Damned expensive at least. Perhaps he was just feeling a smidgen guilty about bringing modernity to a place like this. And perhaps, somewhere deeper in his mind, he thought highways were the darkest form of modernity.

"Here." Floyd said, looking down from the tailgate at Betty Lou. She wasn't the begging type, but she always made sure to be there when food was on offer. Floyd threw a cube of stewed goat to her and she inhaled it. "You've had enough" he reproved her, but she looked up at him with sad eyes and guilted him into throwing her another.

"Schweinhund! Hosenscheisser!" August Ibel shouted in his native German. His face went plum red, but Floyd had known the man long enough to know he enjoyed rage. He was the Foreman, and an Ostafrikan, a heavily tanned white man with buzz-cut grey hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. He yelled at a pair of native African workers who'd stopped their work to stare into the wall of forest clinging to the hillside. The men went back to work. August went to Floyd's truck, wiping the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his threadbare white long-sleeve shirt.

"They say they hear growling." August said, "Growling! Imagine that! In Africa! You think they would know this is nature since they live so close to it." Floyd said nothing. After a pause, August continued. "You have the shell shock, jah?"

"I've heard it called that."

"Well then you'll want to put your petticoats in your ears, those rocks are going to blow." August said, grinning sourly, looking up to where the African workers were fleeing the blast site. Floyd pulled a pair of rubber ear-plugs from the front pocket of his overalls and put them in. Several seconds went by he heard his own heartbeat echoing inside his skull. The explosion came to him as shaking and a dull punching sound. He flinched, paused as the sound faded to memory, and slowly unplugged his ears, breathing heavily.

"...that's why I have this." Floyd was surprised to see August had produced a long double-barreled shotgun.

"What is that for?"

"Whatever beasts are in these woods! These guns are brutal in the killing, but they are quite good. I know your Americans, you used them in your war, jah? Very brutal." he shook his head like he were reproving Floyd for it, "But animals? They don't have souls. No dishonor in using such an uncivilized weapon. I'd recommend it! Hah!"

Floyd got up, grabbing a bundle of small flags from the truck bed. These flags were essentially just sticks with pieces of colored canvas dangling from them. He walked up to where a pair of Africans were standing with surveying equipment and went to work. Betty Lou followed, eyeing the Africans suspiciously, growling in the back of her throat as she passed them. Together, they studied the hillside changed slightly by the day's efforts, using the flags to mark what would be done the next day. The road was coming together, albeit slowly, located in the middle of nowhere. They'd started the highway project in Sidamo, connected to Addis Ababa by only the old gravel War Road, slowing the process down. The rainy season had been especially brutal in this regard. Rain washed out parts of the war road on a regular basis, delaying the flow of supplies, the laying of fresh blacktop slowing down to an inch-by-inch crawl.

August watched the native workers clear the blast site, standing alone of a bare tuft of ground besieged by the highland wind. He paced back and forth, moving slowly toward where Floyd worked as if he was being pulled so slightly in his motions by gravity, if gravitational pull was given out by his fellow white men.

"You are American, jah?" August asked. Floyd knew he knew the answer, it'd came up only minutes ago, but he resigned himself to the plea for conversation. "Yes." he said.

"You hear about the Imperial decree about Americans?"

"Yep." Floyd had heard it. He wasn't disturbed. After all, he had no interest in leaving.

"You know the story of Theodore the Second?"

Floyd sniffed. He drove a flag into the ground where he'd been gestured to do so. "Maybe? I haven't paid attention to history."

August's face lit up. "Well, you see, two hundred years ago Muslim warlords overran the old Abyssinian Empire, and they entered a tribal period... a sort of warring states era. All the Rases were at war with the Muslim warlords, and they at war with each other. Then, a hundred years ago or so, a Christian warlord named Theodore came to power and united all the tribes and brought Abyssinia back together. He brought in European advisors and teachers to improve Ethiopia. So the Europeans brought new guns and ideas, but Theodore wanted more guns then they gave him. He wanted cannons. So he started writing letters to the monarchs of Europe, worried what would happen if his enemies received better weapons than him. He became paranoid, starting locking up the families of anybody he thought may be his enemy. Soon the entire country hated him, so he became more desperate for European weapons. He asked his European advisors to build him cannons. When they said they could not, he locked them in prison along with the Ethiopian nobles, and he tried to ransom them to the European monarchies in exchange for better weapons. You can see now how this is like the boy Emperor Sahle, jah?"

"I guess."

"Queen Victoria wouldn't have that. She sent an expedition to save their imprisoned countrymen. They came thinking it would be like a war, that they would have to fight their way into the interior, but when the British arrived they found the entire country hated Theodore, so the Abyssinians just guided the British to the mountain castle where the mad Emperor was hold up, helped carry their baggage and everything. And..." August tittered, "They brought the guns. Only, not to give over of course."

"Don't think it'll be like all that." Floyd replied. He watched worried as Betty Lou went up the hill, nose to the ground.

"I hope not. The British won of course. Theodore had to commit suicide."

Floyd was no longer paying attention to German. He put his hands to his mouth and yelled. "Betty Lou! Get down here!" His voice was harsh, causing some of the Ethiopians to stare at him, watching him for his intentions.

"There are things in those woods." the German laughed. "But do not worry. I have this." He patted his gun.

The sun went below the wood-line and the air cooled down. Worked came to an end. Women from the village brought fresh bread and vegetables for their men. Floyd watched the women, wearing homespun dresses, feet bare and caked in mud, hair wrapped in turbans and scarfs. There had been a time when Floyd though of finding a woman and settling down, living like a normal man. Seeing the simple relationships play out between the Ethiopians, the men smiling as they saw their wives or sister or whoever it was who brought food for them, reminded Floyd of what he was missing. His heart felt the pang of that loss. But nothing could be done. He was detached now, an observer in this world, not a participant. This fact, something he accepted as simply as he accepted gravity or Newton's laws, soothed the feeling of loss. He reached down and rubbed behind Betty Lou's ear.

Most of the men went home with their women, but some of the younger men stayed behind, camping near the freshly laid black top in spite of, or maybe because of, its acrid stink of tar and modernity. August and Floyd had their own tents away from the Africans, where they sat on folding canvas chairs with crates for tables. The two men opened cans of tinned meat, eating it with some of the bread given to them by the Africans. August shared a bottle of wine. The insect song of late afternoon serenaded them as they ate. August took an unmarked glass jar of white liquid. It looked like pus, and Floyd watched as August took some and spread it on his bread. It was strange, like watching a man spread jam on a steak.

"You want some?" August asked.

"What is it?"

"Hippopotami lard." he said, "It's sweet. A bush delicacy. I lived on it when I was in the Schutztruppe."

"No thanks." Floyd replied, looking to his own meal. The two men enjoyed a few moments of quiet. The silence seemed to itch at the German, because he soon again broke it.

"The Abyssinians are too friendly to the Communists, nein? The Commandant would have cleared BEA of their communists if the Abyssinians were not protecting them."

"I don't know much about the politics." Floyd gave a piece of gelatin covered beef to Betty Lou, who's wide eyes followed his every move as sharply as a sniper following his victim.

"They are children. I think that is the problem. They are men of course too, these negroes I mean. Real men. If you pit a single negro against a single white man, especially a European white man, in any game of manly skill, I will bet on the success of the negro. Every time. But as a society? Huh. They don't have that quite yet. There isn't the chivalric tradition. They didn't go through the history. That is how they are children."

"Abyssinia?"

"Abysinnia has the tradition. This is true. This is a real country I think. But the other negro countries are not advanced enough yet. They are still foolish. That's why they like communism."

"I've never been to Europe, I cannot make the comparison." Floyd wasn't looking up at the German anymore. He scratched behind Betty-Lou's ears.

"Europe is shit. The countries are too advanced, no longer make men. You go to Europe and the manliest men you'll meet are old soldiers who think hunting partridges in the forest park is a sport. In a few decades, they'll say reading a newspaper is sport! They have no country any more. Look at this. In front of us. You can't get this in Europe so easy! There, this would be polluted by many perfect little roads and manicured little inns, and industrial parks, and railroads crisscrossing and shit and shit and shit!. No, there is no real country in Europe. It's all in Africa, and the Americas. I know your people still have country. They still have men, no? Men like your Theodore Roosevelt? The white men of Europe are wasted. The true white man lives in Africa and America now. And... uh, the name of that place... Australia. There too."

"So America and Australia are the only civilizations?"

"And Ostafrika of course. And Rhodesia." The German raised his wooden cup. "To America."

"To Ostafrika." Floyd mimicked. He felt out of place toasting, but when in Rome...

They went into their canvas tents to sleep. Floyd slept with Betty Lou, while August brought in his shotgun, promising that he would be ready for whatever had been scaring the natives. It took a long time for Floyd to sleep. That was normal for him since the war. There was something unnatural about the darkness anymore, a feeling that it hid enemy operatives, or that any unfamiliar sound was the bombers coming back to repeat the massacre in Denver. How strange it was he dreamt evil dreams of things his own side did during the war. That was the way of the thing. What kept him up wasn't the politics after all. It was the creative bloodshed, the horrible industrial efficiency of it all. Sometimes he didn't feel like a man, but like a single stalk of grain, standing alone, open for anything to mow him down.

When he did sleep, it wasn't satisfying. His dreams were red and filled with bad memories. He relived the death of comrades over and over again every night. He knew they would only truly die when he did, and he resigned himself to that truth. But it was when the sound of bombs returned, when his head echoed with explosions that'd went silent decades earlier, that was when he woke up. He repeated this process several times a night. Every night. And he would do this forever. When the dreams were too much, he shot up, clothes soaked, the air around him humid and stifling except for the breeze through the open tent flap. He didn't weep. This was normal. Beside breathing heavy, Floyd did nothing but stare into the darkness, feeling alone, and feeling like this was the way it was supposed to be.

It took him a moment to realize Betty Lou was gone. He crawled out of the tent and into night-time Africa.

The wilderness was dark. There was no electricity for dozens of miles, and the only thing to light the night were the stars and the moon. He put on his boots, wearing only them and his long underwear. "Betty Lou!" he yelled. His voice was hoarse from sleep. He stumbled to the back of the truck and felt for a flashlight. The light flickered on. In the wild dark, the beam was strong and well defined, a thin strip of daylight in the middle of an endless nowhere.

"Betty Lou!"

He marched toward the forest, the light hitting the wall of deep green and stopping dead, hiding who knows what. Enemy patrols? He put that ridiculous thought of his mind.

He heard barking. His uncertain march became a gallop. Plants slapped him as he pushed his way past.

"Betty Lou!"

He heard her again, barking, growling, then a blood-curdling whine. She was crying. He heard something else. It was a monster sound, the slobbering growl associated with any man-eating creature in the dark. He held tight to his flash-light and ran forward.

"Betty Lou!"

He crashed through the underbrush into a clearing. His bare arms and face stung, and he was breathing heavy. Something out of sight growled, and the sound made all his hairs stand on end. The beam of light hit where red blood stained the muddy ground. Floyd's heart jumped into his throat, then sank down like the sun. Betty Lou lay motionless in that puddle, her fur caked in blood. He started to run to her, but the growl became a violent feline roar. His light shot upward, where he saw a leopard posed in a tree, mouth wide open, pink tongue and bloody fangs bared for him to see. He froze in spot and watched in horror as the cat hopped down, standing over Betty Lou's body, moving slowly toward the unarmed man. Its spotted fur was vivid, almost bright in the beam of the flashlight.

The natives had known something was here. He hadn't seen them camping when he came out to look for Betty Lou. They'd sensed the danger and went home, because they knew better. Floyd held his flashlight like a club. The big cat sounded like an idling motorcycle as it stalked toward him.

The forest exploded all at once. Floyd didn't have time to see what had happened. He fell to his belly instinctively, his ears ringing, images of fire and blood flashing through his mind like a slideshow project possessed by death. His hands crawled over the back of his head, checking for blood, pushing his face into the mud.

"Scheizkerl!" he heard a familiar voice. The cat growled again, but their was a second explosion. A shot! The old German was laughing.

Floyd pushed himself up and plucked his flashlight from the mud. The first thing he saw was the corpse of the leopard, its face blown apart as if it'd been caught by an airplane's propeller. He swept the light to where Betty Lou was, and saw the shirtless German crouching over the dog.

"Your hound's alive." he pronounced, "And a hunting hound too! Look what a prize I just bagged!"

"Alive!" Floyd said. He was aware of his heart beating again.

"It took a beating, but I've seen dogs be dealt worse by badgers and live to howl about it. We'll have to be careful moving her."

Floyd was over her. Her wounds were ugly bleeding gashes, hard to tell how deep they were. But she was breathing. She was breathing, and she was softly whimpering. "It did a number on you, girl." he said to her, running his fingers through the fur between her ears. "But you got it. Look over. You got it."

04:00 hours, Late July

She was nervous as she and partner took their places and waited for the soft flow of music to begin. It began with a soft touch of piano and drums a short moment later as they took a step forward and bowed. They circled each other, eyes locked. As the beat increased he stepped forward sharply and placed his hand on her back, her hand on his shoulder, and their free hands finally met. Together, they danced to the music, their feet flashing to the beat. As the song progressed she began to relax and allowed a small smile to form on her lips. Her partner was perfect. He wore wore a white spotless shirt, which matched her dress. His eyes, brown as melted chocolate, were deep and irresistible. One thing was for sure, she was enjoying her evening.

He turned elegantly, his body in tune with the quick music. Yet, there was a sort of harshness to him, like he was someone who shouldn’t be underestimated. She didn’t quite care at the moment. Was it because of the lemon cello? The romance associated with the tango? The beautiful African night? The warmth between them grew more powerful by the second. Her heartbeat was growing steadily along with it. The dance was perfect; everything from their breathing to how their feet moved in sync. If, by the end of this dance her breath had been taken away, she would know the exact reason why.

He guided her across the dance floor as if they were in a dream. He kept his eyes on her, yet still, he knew exactly where to take her. Every moment, every angle seemed to be planned in advanced. Nothing felt forced; she felt as if she was floating.

“Señor,” I whispered, “everyone is looking at us.”

He squeezed her hand slightly and smiled. “Really,” he chuckled softly, “I hadn't notice.”

She did not want him to say more. Her heart, her whole being was swept up in the magic of the moment. That was when she decided to let ago. Let her worries, her self-awareness, and her emotions go. Right here, right then, she was living. Nothing else seemed to matter anymore; she allowed him to take her anywhere he pleased on that dance floor. He went right, she went right. He sped up, she sped up. They became one with the song, with the dance, and with each other. He spun her with little effort, her fingers dancing with his as he turned her before pulling her close and quite suddenly dipping her so that his hot breath was on her chest and they came to a halt. Applause filled their ears. She couldn’t help but smile at him. It had been perfect.

They stayed that way for a brief moment and she inhaled his scent, the smell of the desert air, a hint of ocean brine, the starch of his uniform. Then he stood, bringing her with him so that she was pressed against his chest and she could feel his heart pounding like hers, a rhythm only the two of them could feel. She kept her fingers intwined in his as she swept one hand behind her back and guided him toward the nearby patio. Other couples were taking the dance floor now, few showing the same skill her partner had.

The night air felt remarkably cool on her face as the long white curtains dropped closed behind them, hiding them from the view of those inside. He must have felt her shiver for in an instant his coat was over her shoulders and he was behind her, his arms wrapping her in the warmth of his own body.

Below them the narrow streets of Dakhla teemed with throngs of people on foot and bicycle. Light spilled from dozens of windows and music from as many doorways as the tango clubs did a roaring business. She pressed her hips back against him and felt the bulge of his cock through his pants. He bent, kissing her neck gently so that she reached back to caress the back of his head with her hand.

In the distance she could see the white caps marking the beach where the ocean crashed into the white dunes of the Sahara Desert. The roar of the ocean mixed with the rumble of the crowds below and at that moment, in the arms of a Spanish soldier, she had never felt more alive.

"Perhaps we can take a walk?" He asked, his breath hot in her ear and she rewarded him with a open smile, her lips slightly apart. His English was accented and she felt her heart skip a beat at the tone. This was a true Spanish accent, nothing like that of her parents house keeper back in California. In answer, she drew his lips to hers.



07:00 hours

Morning came far to soon but he was gone before the sun rose above the Eastern sea of sand dunes. They had never shared their names, but that was why people came to Dakhla, to be whoever they wanted. Here, on the edge of the African continent, it didn't matter who you were or what your background was, you could be anyone, anything.

She had showered quickly and dressed in a two piece bathing suit called a bikini, the latest in a series of risqué fashions that had begun in Dakhla and spread across Spain, and in some cases the world. Wrapping a loose cloth sarong around herself she had made her way down to the hostel common-room for breakfast. A number of other bleary eyed guests were in attendance and one, a tall stunning blonde from Sweden, waved her over to a table by the window.

"Good morning, Brittany!" The blonde exclaimed as she sank down in the empty chair.

"Morning, Magda." She privately thought it was an ugly name for a woman who looked as if she was from the Amazon legends. "Are you hitting the waves today?"

The blonde headed nodded eagerly and one long leg crossed over the other. "Da, I vas vaiting for you." Magda wore a similar sarong, though it was a deep blue that matched her shrewd eyes as she studied her companion. Brittany pretended not to notice as she poured a strong Ethiopian Negus coffee popular in these parts

"That's very nice of you." Brittany said non-chelantly.

"Mhm..." Magda eyed her carefully, the blue eyes sparkling. "Did you have a good evening wis your soldier?"

Brittany tried not to look to guilty, but, then it occurred her, it didn't matter. She had come from California to Dakhla to do whatever she wanted and there was no need to feel shame about it.

"I did!" She said with a small smile. "He was very... Vigorous."

"I heard." Laughed Magda without any malice. "I am jealous. I vas not so lucky." She shrugged. "But perhaps I have better luck this evening." She toasted Brittany with her coffee cup and the two drank in silence for a moment.

Outside the sound of the ocean was unabated as it rumbled against the sand. The scream of seagulls was clear and it was evident that they were a minority in being up early. They had come here to surf, and that was what they would do.

Ten minutes later they were running across the long beach, surfboards tucked under their arms, the wood warm against their ribs, bare feet churning up the sand to leave lines of footprints behind them. The sun was slowly cresting the dunes to the East and bathing the beach in rays that were already hot despite the early morning. No one else could be seen on the long sandy stretch as they began to splash into the waves.

The water here was shallow, stretching out for several hundred yards without gaining more than five feet in depth, it was an ideal surf zone. Brittany gave a loud laugh as she drove her surfboard forward and dove on top of it. Life was good.