A few squeaks were let out as the rats took notice of the flickering heat lamp. A few of the rodents quickly lost interest, as they began running their paws through their head fur, or scratching themselves. The concerned squeaking resumed with the sound of the vivarium's lid being removed, as a large hand descended, grabbing a plump albino from the enclosure, as his fellow rats looked on in curiosity. The white rodent struggled as best he could, but the animal's efforts made little difference as he was carried off to the other side of the large room.

A single hand, clad in a blue glove, gripped the rigid corpse of the rat's predecessor, quickly tossing the deceased murid's body down a silver chute as quickly as the passage was opened, closing it as smoke began to rise from out of the shut vent. Unkown to him, the little white rat was going to be the next in a long line before him. The creature seemed to stop struggling as his feet met with the soft bedding in the tank, first scampering about in fear, but seeming to forget his concerns when the blue hand returned with a nice dish of water, which the rat was more than happy to greedily lap up.

Artem Kovalenko noted how quickly the animal took to the water. He had expected the culture would leave it unpalatable. Rat's were tricky like that, they were spoiled rotten by him. What animal would refuse the water for a minor taste, he had ruined these animals. Thankfully, they wouldn't be lasting long anyway.

Artem thought for a second, thinking of how he ended up like this. He didn't suspect, when he was a student back in Moscow, that he would end up being holed up by a teenage mad-man in the mountains, feeding bacteria to rodents. The Emir assured him that this research would save lives. Chechen lives. But Artem was no Chechen.

The research center was carved into the mountain face itself, a twisting labyrinth. Fittingly, the Emir's man for domestic projects called it the Zaqqum Research Center. The tree of hell, who's fruit burn the innards of the unbelievers. The name made the project seem more illustrious, more modern, than it actually was. One should not expect science-fiction weapons from a nation that must arm it's men with pipes full of gunpowder because a rifle is to hard to come by. Artem just sorted through whatever animal the Emir thought would be a good idea to let loose on enemy camps to try and take down a few guys before the real action started.

The death, the sickness, this was more a prison than a laboratory. The methods were primitive in the extreme, and more than just rats were dying every day. Hell would be a welcome change from being stuck here. At least if the Jihadis had got him back in Dagestan, he'd already just be done with this all. Having his head sawed off almost felt better than whatever gruesome fate awaited him in these tunnels.

At least some silver lining came. News arrived to the researchers that the capture of a group of Circassian bandits contained a potential breakthrough. A prisoner, who had discovered some mice that stowed away on the bandits' vehicle, was showing unusual symptoms. The jailers though him to have a flu and naturally did nothing about it. A week later, the bandit was hacking blood from his mouth with the increasingly worse coughs, and marinading in his own piss, turned bright orange from a mix of dehydration and blood. It was around the same time that everyone in his cell started showing the same flu symptoms.

The guards opted to shoot the men dead in their cells, but thankfully one of them had the foresight to send some blood, urine, and tissue samples to the center.

It was plainly clear to Artem that the culprit was an orthohantavirus. The rodent-borne nature, and the bleeding and renal failures, it mirrored the deadly so-called Korean Hemorrhagic Fever the professors loved to speak about, but he had yet to see a disease of this severity. He termed the pathogen as 'Circassia Virus', a new strain of Hantavirus he supposed to be native to Circassia. Perhaps his medical training would actually come into some use.

The animal would be farmed for feces until the virus finally claimed it as well. Artem could not help but feel a kind of pity for the creature, unaware of its fate as it happily lapped up water from its dish, unaware of the fate that befell not just it but all it would come in contact with. The Virus would need testing as well. The Emirate was never short on subjects. The Jihadis often found themselves integral to the naturalism they so reviled. He had come to hate it too, though he was no Muslim. The acts he had committed confirmed the absence of any God in this world. At least there was the relief of knowing no hellfire awaited him for these things.

The doctor, no, that term did not befit him in his own mind. A doctor is a healer, he had become little more than a bioweapon as much as the ones he helped create. He was no healer. He thought this as he watched the rat stand on its legs, beaconing him for food, and Artem obliging the pudgy little creature. It was going to die, but he didn't have to treat it like he knew that.

10:09 PM

It's not your hands searching slow in the dark, or your nails leaving love's watermark. It's not the way you talk me off the roof. Your questions like directions to the truth."

Dokuro Abe pulled out a pack of Red Apples and lit a fresh cigarette. He inhaled smoke and took in the surroundings of the nightclub. Girls in thigh high boots and miniskirts mingled with men at tables. Most of the men in the room were Japanese. A few of them were foreigners, Asians and westerners, who were clearly sailors. A young woman stood on the stage alone, strumming an acoustic guitar while she song in heavily accented English.

"It's knowing that this can't go on forever, likely one of us will have to spend some days alone.
Maybe we'll get forty years together. But one day I'll be gone. One day you'll be gone."

Abe expelled smoke and started through the club. The Naka-ku Ward served as the nightlife hub of Hiroshima, The Rose its crown jewel. All of the girls in the miniskirts and short shirts worked for the club. Their job was to get the men to buy the overpriced drinks and keep the party going. A man could easily walk out of the club after an hour, one thousand yen lighter.

He walked passed the tables and ignored the catcalls from the girls trying to get him to stop and buy them drinks. The heavyset man who guarded the door marked "MANAGEMENT" interested him far more. Abe stuck his cigarette in his mouth as he approached the man.

"I'm here to see Goro."

"No Goro here."

Abe smiled. The muscle cracked his knuckles. Abe saw that he was missing a pinkie finger and had to fight the urge to laugh. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and showed off the tattooed forearms hiding under the fabric. The big man raised an eyebrow at the sight.

"Abe Dokuro. Shategashira for the Tokyo Inagawa-kai. Goro knows who I am. Now, let me see him before you have to preform yubitsume again and lose your other pinkie finger."

The guard bristled at the dressing down, but he finally turned and disappeared behind the door. A few moments later, the door opened and Abe stepped inside. Goro's large figure sat behind an even larger cherry desk, a cigar in his mouth. A topless Korean girl sat on the desk, her breasts in Goro's face. Four bodyguards were sprawled on chairs around the room, their eyes transfixed on Abe.

"If it isn't the Tokyo Terror," Goro said with a laugh. "Everyone, leave us to talk alone."

One of the bodyguards began to protest. Goro cut him off with a sharp rebuke. "I've known Abe for fifteen years. I'm sure he has murder on his mind, but not in my direction."

The bodyguards started to shuffle out, every one of them giving Abe a hard look before leaving. The Korean girl finally left once Goro pinched her nipple and swatted her on her ample rump. When it was only them, Goro stood and walked towards Abe.

"My friend, I am so sorry about your brother."

Goro embraced Abe in a bearhug and squeezed. It was a powerful squeeze. Years ago Goro had been a sumo. He'd never had the skill to go pro, but he was more than capable of beating the brains out of men who owed Yakuza money.

"Who did it?" Abe asked, the first words he'd actually spoke since entering. "How do I find them?"

"We know who did it," Goro said, retreating behind his desk. "A goddamn yobo."

Abe sat in one of the chairs a bodyguard had been sitting in. "Why did a Korean kill my brother?"

Goro shifted in his seat and sighed. "I've been keeping it quiet, but we are involved in a conflict with competition. Koreans and Taiwanese with Triad support have been flooding the streets of the city over the last year. They travel here on so-called work permits, but almost as soon as they get here they're pimping girls and trying to crash our rackets."

"Hideki was a casualty of this war, Goro?"

Goro nodded and apologized.

"He ran one of our soapland bathhouses. The yobos are targeting the Water Trade. They have at least a half dozen soaplands and hostess bars dotted through the city."

Abe took a long drag off his cigarette before he expelled smoke. "I hear a lot of talk, Goro. What I do not hear is a name."

Goro leaned forward and stabbed at the desk with his finger. "Please, Abe. Let me find this man. You shall kill him, but I am the boss of Hiroshima and you are my guest. Honor dictates that you kill him, but my reputation demands that I deliver him to you."

Abe sighed and stubbed his cigarette out in a nearby ashtray.

"I'll wait for you to find him," he lied. "But do not take too long."

"My men are out there as we speak," said Goro. "Let them do the hard work. Go to your brother's wife and arrange perpetration for Hideki's body.

Abe nodded but did not speak. A grin slipped on Goro's face. "Besides, you are back home. Big city Yakuza like you should relax and enjoy yourself... at least as much as you can at a time like this."

He nodded again and stood, turning towards the door.

"Abe, wait. Stay here. Enjoy the club and the girls. Drinks tonight are on me."

"Thank you," Abe said with a bow. "You are most gracious, Goro. But I have matters to attend to."

"Abe... Abe!"

He ignored Goro as he left the office and started back through the club towards the exit. The girl on stage was in the climax of her song.

"If we were vampires and death was a joke, we'd go out on the sidewalk and smoke. Laugh at all the lovers and their plans. I wouldn't feel the need to hold your hand. Maybe time running out is a gift. I'll work hard 'til the end of my shift, and give you every second I can find and hope it isn't me who's left behind. One day I'll be gone, or one day you'll be gone."

The club broke out in polite applause. Abe looked over his shoulder at the club. Goro stood at the entrance to his office and watched him intently. Abe nodded at him before stepping out into the night.

---



Keijō

11:21 PM

Inspector Shinzo's stomach was in knots. He sat in the backseat of the chauffeured car as it navigated the streets of the Korean capital, worrying the band of his hat while his right leg shook. Shinzo was preparing to end his sixteen hour day when an urgent message came in to Kenpeitai headquarters. His presence was required at the General Government Building. Shinzo at least knew he would be be arrested or executed. When the Kenpei took you, it was always in the dead of night. K-Time, Shinzo and his colleagues called it. Always between three and five in the morning, when even the most dedicated night owl had bedded down for the night.

No, he was not worried about this being some governmental purge. Shinzo was worried that he was being called forth because something major was underway in Korea. Maybe there was an uprising in Pusan. Or maybe the Communists had finally invaded from the north. Everyone knew it was only a matter of time before they tried to drive Japan off mainland Asia and consolidate their power. Perhaps tonight was the night.

The car came to a stop outside the building. Shinzo thanked the driver and stepped out. He slipped his hat on and looked up. The colonial capital was impressive sight, designed in a neo-classical style with a large dome that made it look far more western than any other building in Keijō. Shinzo quickly hurried up the steps towards the large metal doors leading inside. A guard met him at the entrance and said he was expected. He led Shinzo through thee empty marble halls of the building and up to the third floor office.

"Good evening," the Governor-General of Korea said, standing to meet Shinzo.

The inspector bowed so deeply it seemed that his nose was parallel with his knees. This was the first time he had ever met the man, a former prime minister of Japan now serving the Empire abroad. Shinzo rose and looked at the middle-aged man with his steel gray hair and jovial smile. He wore a tuxedo and bowtie. Around his neck dangled the Order of the Chrysanthemum pendent.

"Pardon my attire, Inspector. I was at a reception this evening when I was pulled away."

The governor motioned towards a chair in the ornate office. Shinzo sat and waited for the governor to sit behind his desk and get comfortable.

"I am also sorry to call you in so late. I myself was given the news late and I decided tonight would be the best to talk. During the day, the walls have ears here."

Shizno did another polite bow, adjusting his glasses as they slid down the bridge of his nose. "Yes, sir. I understand this better than most. How can I assist you?"

The governor placed his fingers together and formed a steeple with them. His brow furrowed in concentration.

"What I am to tell you is only to be shared between us, Inspector."

"But of course. I would not be in the Kenpeitei if I did not know how to keep secrets."

The governor nodded in agreement and laughed. "You have a reputation as an effective and discreet Kenpei officer. You have been chosen for an assignment that requires both. This comes from the highest corridors of power in the Empire. From Tokyo itself."

"Well, I am honored by your kind words and trust," Shinzo said, another slight bow.

"Soo Jung Kim," said the governor. "Approximately thirty-one. Just her name and age, Inspector. That was all that I was given. She is a Korean subject somewhere in the country. You are to find her and put her under Kenpei custody. Once that is accomplished, report back to me."

Shinzo bowed again. Their business done, the governor rose and escorted him out the office. The security guard who led him up led him back through the empty corridors. Shinzo remained silent, his thoughts on whatever it was he was being asked to do. He had only a name and an age. Finding a Kim in Korea would be like trying to find the right needle in a pile of needles. And what had she done that people in Tokyo were so interested in her? Shinzo would never be so bold as to ask. Fifteen years in this profession taught him that those who questioned too much were either fired and disgraced, or worst of all they simply disappeared. As if they had never existed.

"Good night, sir," the guard said as he opened the backdoor of the car Shinzo had arrived in.

"Thank you, good night to you."

Shinzo settled in as the car took off down the street. His driver looked up at him through the car's rearview mirror.

"Home, Inspector?"

"No. Back to headquarters. Drop me off and you can go home. I still have work to do."

"The Farm"
2:14 PM

Dr. Yamada Kenji looked through the two-way mirror while his men worked. A metal table was the only object in the room. Yamada's side of the mirror was as equally spartan. He sat a plain wooden desk with nothing on it, save for the doctor's pocket watch and pack of cigarettes. Behind him were five young men in lab coats with clipboards and pencils. Yamada reached into the breast pocket of his lab coat and removed the well-worn notebook and stubbly pencil. He licked the tip of the pencil while he flipped through the pages towards the back of the notebook. He quickly jotted down the day's date. The twenty-second day of the seventh month of the tenth year of Chikara, the top of the sheet read in neat Kanji script.

Through the glass, two scientists in white lab coats and gas masks were busy strapping a Russian to the metal table. The Russian was naked, his pale and hairy body reflected harsh in the bright lights above. His eyes were glazed over from the sedative he'd been injected with. They had to use a double dose on the monster to get him to finally call down. At two meters tall, he towered over his Japanese captors. It'd taken nearly a dozen men with batons to get the brute down on his knees for the injection.

Once they were done, one of the men signaled to Yamada that they were finished with a quick thumbs up gesture. They hurried out the room and shut the large metal door with the wheel on it. The wheel spun as the vacuum seal suctioned itself into place and left the observation room airtight. Yamada made quick notations on the page about the Russians approximate height and weight before turning to his pocket watch.

Precisely a minute after the door had been sealed, gas would seep into the room from overhead vents. Yamada would not see it, neither would the Russian. He would smell it, but by then it was too late. Really, it had been too late for the man the second the guards came to his cell. Yamda wasn't exactly sure what the gas was comprised off. He was a psychologist and neurologists but not a chemist. He had a basic understanding that the cocktail in question was a powerful thiophosphonate but that was it really. The Russian began to feel the effects of the gas quickly. Yamada looked down at his pocket watch and noted the time as he wrote his other observations. Behind him, the other men scribbled their own notes.

Thirty seconds before symptoms.
Hyperventilating.
Vomiting and dry heaving.
Evacuating of bowels and bladder.
Intense muscle spasms.
Blue face.
Complete body spasms.
Death(?)
Elapsed time: two minutes.

Yamada closed his notebook. The Russian was dead, there was no question about that. His face was now completely black, his tongue a bright yellow. The junior scientists behind him wrote notes and softly spoke among themselves. Yamada held up the notebook. One of the men bowed and said his thanks as he took the battered book from his hands.

"Last page," said Yamada. "Write up my observations. Collect everyone's notes and tag them with the subject's medical history. File it with the rest."

The young man shuffled off with the notebook and the notes from the others. Every page in Yamada's book was another Russian. They had either been gassed, vivisected, impregnated, given a venereal disease, or exposed to the new biological weapons the Empire were creating. These men and women had no honor. Their surrender had negated any honor they had held. This was how they regained it. Each one of them did their patriotic duty, Yamada thought. Sacrificing their lives to help the Empire progress. They weren't Japanese by birth, but in their last moments the doctor thought of them as honorary Japanese.

Yamada reached for his cigarettes and lit a fresh one. He took his time, watching as two soldiers in gas masks entered the room and removed the dead body. They'd toss it into the incinerator along with the others who died every day. The young men watched their mentor intently as he flicked ashes on to the floor.

"Let's run it again," he told his staff. They all started to bustle through the room, taking notes and hanging on to his every word. "With another male of comparable height and weight to the last subject. Increase the dosage. I want to see if we can get our time down to under a minute flat between first inhalation and complete termination of all biological functions."

~Mariyinsky Palace, Kiev, Ukraine~
July 1960

"What is the meaning of this, Anastasiya?"

Anastasiya Solovski, the Hetman of Ukraine, looked dismissively on as she sipped her tea. "That's 'Your Grace' or 'Hetman Anastasiya' to you, Lord Denysenko. Kindly repeat yourself, but without the vague accusation and disrespect." She brushed a strand of her black hair away from her eyes.

The grizzled old man glaring balefully at her was none other than the High Lord of the Senate, Zynovij Trokmovych Denysenko. "Hmph. I asked, what is the meaning of this stunt you are trying to pull? The Belarusian war declaration failed today somehow, despite all the work we had put in to bringing the National Democrats on side, only to be followed with a replacement declaration of war on the damned Tartarians instead where some of my own party had been incited to defect. This smells quite clearly of your involvement."

"You very well might think that, Lord Denysenko. I couldn't possibly comment." She smiled cheerfully at him, as he grew redder still. "I merely give advice in regards to my ideas for the nation's future to its duly elected Verkhovna Rada. Its decisions are its own."

“You know very well, I’m sure,” replied Zynovij, acid dripping from his words. “This kind of meddling is highly intolerable and against the spirit of the constitution, and I’m sure my fellow nobility agree. Mark my words, we’ll be prepared for this kind of meddling next time. You are decidedly against the interests of the Ukrainian people, and we will not stand for it.”

“The Ukrainian people?” asked Anastasiya, head tilted slightly leftward. “Or just you and your hawkish friends trying to bring ruin to the nation through another protracted war?”

Zynovij shook his head angrily, and left without any further comment. The guards almost moved to stop him from exiting without proper procedure, but Anastasiya waved them back to their posts. She looked to the woman next to her with mild curiosity. “So what do you think?” Her maidservant, Yeva, looked grim.

“You’ve made another enemy this day... but I daresay you’ve made a few more friends, too. It remains to be seen whether one will balance out the other.”

---

In the war room, a number of generals waited patiently around the table for Anastasiya to arrive and give the meeting direction, until the door finally opened.

“Her Grace, Anastasiya Artemivna the First! Vsye pidnimaetsya!”

In response to General Ruslan’s direction, all rose and bowed at the Hetman’s entrance.

“Thank you, Ruslan Mykolovych. You may all take your seats.”
As all took their seats, Anastasiya remained standing in front of her designated place at the head of the table.

“I’ve called you all here, as you may have expected, for an operation to secure the peninsula of Crimea from the warlord Iskändär Fayzulin. I follow the philosophy that soldiers should always have the right to know why they are fighting, so I will tell you. You should know that this operation has two primary casus bellis: First, to obtain the former Imperial Russian Navy docked at Sevastopol. With our incredibly small navy, Ukraine is vulnerable to any assault by the Ottomans or any hostile European power that the damned Turks decide to let through. Securing this navy and refitting it will substantially bolster our naval strength, and potentially even establish us at the preeminent Black Sea naval power over the Ottomans themselves.”

“Secondly but no less importantly, the plight of the Ukrainian people in the so-called land of ‘Tataria.’ Though the population of the peninsula is predominantly Tatar and Russian, we estimate around 10-20% of the around 2 million people that live there are Ukrainian. Those Ukrainians who have not been able to escape into this nation live under a brutally repressive and discriminatory regime run by the victorious Tatars. I surely sympathize with the Tatar need for revenge against the Russians, but to include our own people in that number is something I cannot allow. I see it as my duty to protect all Ukrainian people, wherever they might be.”

With that, Anastasiya returned to her seat to first slight but then a room full of applause.

“She’s sure passionate, isn’t she?” one general whispered to another. The man he whispered to, clearly the youngest in the room with a sharply defined, handsome face, nodded. “But I respect that all the more.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Valentyn Vasylovich, the other senior general besides Ruslan, picked up where she had left off. “We’re gathered here today to discuss the operational details of this plan, which we’ve codenamed Operation Cherno. First, I will present my proposal.”

Valentyn stood up, and walked to the nearby wall, on which Crimea and its surrounding areas were depicted on a map, and made small marks at various points along the coast. “I highly recommend this be initiated by a covert operation. The Pryznyach would be best equipped to handle that. By making small landings across the island, we can create small beachheads on which to land further troops and catch them from behind and by surprise. I have no doubt that we can secure a substantial portion of the peninsula before Fayzulin even wakes up in the morning.” He smirked slightly at the thought.

Ruslan shook his head with grave disdain for what seemed to be the millionth time. “You sure are proud of your Pryznyach, aren’t you? But even a novice cadet learning about tactics can see the obvious flaw in your plan. If you don’t manage to catch them by surprise, what then? The Tatars have been on guard ever since the People’s Republic fell, they can see the writing on the wall just as well as we can. Then your precious special forces will be stranded on the beach, stuck and under withering fire. The only clear option is the obvious one: we attack head on with all our forces. We need to take the route into Crimea as soon as possible with as much force as necessary. The Tatars don’t have an air force, do they? We just drop a few bomb loads onto them as we’re coming across and they’ll scatter. These aren’t professional soldiers, they’re a band of gangsters. We don’t have to worry about a thing.”

Valentyn glowered back at him. “So you’re going to criticize my plan for relying heavily on an assumption, but yours relies just as heavily. What if they put up a determined defense? What if their anti-air proves sufficient? The highway into Crimea will be turned into a bloodba-“

“Leonid, you look like you have something to say.” Anastasiya’s voice rang out, disrupting the emerging argument.

The younger man near the back of the room smiled gratefully. “Thank you, Your Grace. How observant of you. I’m frankly… surprised you know my name.”

“I took the appropriate preparations for this office. Learning my subordinates’ names is certainly a part of that.” She smiled slightly. “Well? What is it?”

General Leonid leaned forward over the table to reply. “There is a way we can both secure the primary route into Crimea and prevent any chance of a stalemate situation like in the last war. I’d simply like to commit the First and Second Armoured Divisions as the primary offensive force, with infantry only serving a backup role.”

“You’re proposing this based on the results you obtained in the invasion of the Ukrainian People’s Republic, are you not?” Anastasiya replied. The other generals all muttered slightly.

“Colour me double surprised, but yes. By using the First, Second and Third Armoured Divisions as a concentrated force, we were able to decisively break the defensive line around Kharkov and trap a pocket of over 20,000 soldiers. A small success in comparison to the overall war, but here we’re dealing with a similarly small situation. By using primarily armoured and motorized forces, we may be able to succeed in achieving a similar level of surprise as with Valentyn’s plan while still ensuring a supply line to our troops. What makes matters far easier is that the peninsula is so small they will likely be unable to fully marshal their military until the entire country is already mostly under our control. Using the air force as Ruslan suggested will further increase the likelihood of success.”

Valentyn and Ruslan looked at him and each other, both at a loss for words at the dark horse that had entered the arena.

“That sounds like an excellent plan to me, Leonid, I thank you for proposing it. Obviously there should be further discussion, but can we all agree on this as a general outline?”

There was a general voicing of agreement, and ever so briefly Anastasiya winked at Leonid in approval before returning to business.

---

----------------------------------
Late July: Addis Ababa
----------------------------------

"You did the right thing." Emebet Hoy Eleni told her son. Sahle said nothing. It was bright cloudless day, but he felt hung over, his head throbbing with his heartbeat, his entire body sapped of energy. He stood in front of the Gebi Iyasu, his courtiers and guards all in formal clothing creating a solid line of royal formality, immaculate gold and beige.

"The Americans did a bad thing letting your sister be hurt." his mother added, goading him to speak.

"That's not what Desta says." Sahle replied. He looked straight ahead, across the eucalyptus shaded lawn. Beyond that was the stone-anchored iron fence protecting the palatial grounds from the road. Past the road, the hill declined toward downtown Addis Ababa, its hodge-podge of modern buildings bathed in equatorial sunlight.

"Desta is the serpent." Eleni said. She spoke in a hushed voice so Desta, standing ten feet in front of them, could not hear. "He sent your brother and your sister away."

"I sent them away." Sahle said. "To improve themselves."

"Desta put those false ideas in your head. What Emperor in history has sent his family so far away? What is in China and America that is not here? Besides assassins it would seem." his mother spoke in the tone a person uses when trying to restrain their emotions for the sake of tact. She seemed stuck between despair and conversational calmness, which sounded to Sahle like cruel sarcasm.

"It's a new era. The world has changed." he said. Every word felt like work and he resented each one she forced from him.

"Let the world change. We do not have to change with it. Don't let the world poison you and make you forget who you are."

The arrival of a caravan of staff cars cut off their conversation. The royal party came to attention, greeting the procession with the solemnity expected of Sahle's station, everybody taking a position like soldiers on parade. A warm breeze rustled the leaves of the trees and the tufts of lions-mane topping the Mehal Sefari's pith helmets. The cars crawled, matching the speed of the khaki-clad retainers marching alongside. Three slim banners, green yellow and red, hung above the fenders of every vehicle.

The first car stopped. A soldier opened the door and announced its prime occupant. "Ras Wolde Petros Mikael!" he shouted. The old Ras crawled out, dressed in a white robe and silk cape. His beard was trimmed. He held his hand out for his wife, helping her out of the car.

"Woizero Hiruteslale Giyorgis." The soldier announced.

She was the age of Sahle's own mother, wearing a conservative white dress with a silk shawl, and her hair was an impressive afro. A slender girl followed dressed in similar fashion.

"Woizerit Fetlewerk Wolde Petros." Her hair was pulled in tight cornrows to the back of her head where it exploded out in a thicket.

"He brought his entire family." Sahle whispered to his mother. Wasn't this supposed to be a political meeting? Another car cycled.

"Ras Giyorgis Temare Mengesha" the glum old man stepped out dressed in plain conservative robes. He was alone. The next car pulled up.

"Mesfin Issayas Seme." Sahle knew the man as the angry official who'd crashed his birthday party earlier in the month. The thin, boyish looking Mesfin scanned his fellow statesmen, his lips drawn tight and his eyes narrow and unwelcoming.

More men came. Meridazmach Zekiros Argaw, commander of the Army. Hector Santareál, the young Cuban who commanded the Air Force. They bowed as they processed past the Emperor and his mother. Desta spent a moment in hushed conversation with each one of them, allowing the Emperor to preserve his majestic distance. This was fine with him. His head was throbbing more than before, and the sun was making it worse. He did not look forward to the meeting.

"Make way for his Imperial Majesty." a page shouted. The guards escorted Sahle through the colonnade into the courtyard garden where dinner was served. The tables were set up in the grass next to the fountains, the menu offering a choice between filet mingnon or redfish, to be served with a lemon-asparagus vinaigrette and poached eggs. The menu wasn't particularly Ethiopian, but it reflected something common enough for the Imperial household: an intent to appear worldly, cosmopolitan. Ethiopia was a conservative country, its traditions rooted in the stone of its mountain hold-fasts and ancient churches, but they were aware they needed to communicate with the world around them. Time would inevitably wear down the mythology of the Kebra Nagast, and after that, the Imperial government would be left to trade on its merits alone, merits including its ability to act as the translator, a bridge between Ethiopia and the rest of the world. Imperial grandeur surrounded these political signals like the yoke around an egg. Perfume was mixed in with the fountain's water so the courtyard garden took on a pleasant feminine scent. The Emperor sat on a Dais overlooking his subjects, the lion Muse panting at his feet. A page came by and offered the Emperor and his mother canapés. She took one. He declined. "Wine." he asked. The page looked confused. Sahle snapped angrily in the page's face, saying nothing, and the page went off in a hurry.

"What is wrong with you?" his mother asked. Her mouth dropped and she looked at him with that matronly expression of alarm. "I don't feel like this." he said, motioning discreetly at the tables set in front of them "Any of this."

"You have your duty."

He said nothing. The page brought the wine and poured. Sahle grabbed the stem of his glass and drank deep. It filled him with its intimate warmth. When he put the glass down, he caught Desta looking at him like a schoolmaster who'd caught his pupil preparing a prank.

They plates were brought out all at once. They ate dinner, keeping to their own circles. Sahle fed half his filet mignon to the lion at his feet. The beast inhaled it, only taking a single bite. Down below, Sahle caught the eyes of several guests watching the lion carefully, and he puffed up as if the big cat's majesty was his own. He noticed Woizerit Fetlewerk watching it with rapt attention, her mouth hanging slightly open. She was a bony creature, not Sahle's type, but he saw a kindness in her eyes that warmed his heart, more akin to the type of affection he had for his mother rather than the kind he associated with his conquests.

When the meal was done, Ras Wolde Petros brought his family up to the dais, each one bowing in turn. "I am pleased to see you in good health, your Imperial majesty." He said, voice strong and confident.

"We are pleased to see our servant Ras Wolde Petros." Sahle said blandly.

"If it pleases you, this is my wife Woizero Hiruteslale, and my daughter your cousin Woizerit Fetlewerk."

"Your Imperial Majesty." the two ladies bowed. Fetlewerk smiled maybe a little too broadly. Her thin lips peeled back and presented more of her teeth than Sahle wanted to see. It made her seem young and awkward, like another little sister.

There was an awkward pause. Sahle took a drink. What was he supposed to do here? The whole day was turning out to be tedious. "We are happy to entertain the ladies." he replied politely. The answer didn't seem to please anybody except maybe young Woizerit Fetlewerk, who seemed taken away with the pageantry. They went away. Desta, who'd chose to eat with Issayas Seme, moved to the the table of Ras Giyorgis Temare Mengesha. Why couldn't Desta conduct this whole affair on his own? He had the ability.

"How do you like your cousin, eh?" his mother asked.

Sahle looked at her, the pieces coming together in his mind. "What is the meaning of that question?" he replied.

"Nothing. Well. You know what I mean. It is not wrong for a mother to want her children to be married! You are responsible for your bloodline! Why are my children carrying themselves like American reprobates? My daughter gets herself shot, my younger son is playing the tourist, and my eldest son will not be married. It is your duty to marry, and to marry somebody worthy of your greatness, which I can say your jezebels are not." She'd melted seamlessly into the rant, though keeping her voice low enough that nobody else could hear.

"This is a discussion for another day." Sahle waved his hand.

"You put your whole life off for another day." his mother got in the last word. Satisfied, she looked out in front, making herself as regal as ever.

Desta rose up and went to the dais, moving like water. He made a quick unthinking bow. "The guests are ready, and we have business to discuss. Shall we?"

Sahle stood up. "It is hard for us to send away the pleasant company of the ladies." he said, "But us who are men have business to discuss. Emebet Hoy Eleni wishes to entertain the royal women. We men shall retire to the throne room." The Queen Mother went down and joined the two ladies, leading them into the building, a retinue of servants following. Sahle led the men, guards flanking him, and they went into the door opposite from the one the women had entered. He was divided from the rest, and he rubbed his head as he walked, wondering if their council would be finished early enough that he might get away and make a visit to the Vin Rouge. They entered into the throne room with its dark colored walls and velvet draped furniture. The crimson throne and room below soaked up so much of the light that it gave off an almost dark-aged vibe. Inside were Minister of Foreign Affairs Benyam Felege, the moon-faced Treasurer Bejirond Medebew Fek-Yebelu, and the Minister of Justice Afe Negus Telaye Haylu, the latter looking like he could be Sahle's bearded older brother. Traditionally the Minister of Justice served as mouth of the King, but the force of Desta's personality had relocated that duty to the office of Minister of the Pen. Everybody sat down as if along an imaginary table with Sahle at its head.

"Bitwoded Desta, what business do you bring before my council?" Sahle said.

"Your Imperial majesty is to be congratulated." Desta started, standing up and delivering his speech like an actor giving a monologue, "I have spoken with his excellency Mr Bacon of the United States, and he has assured me the administration of President Norman is willing to meet some of our demands." the room didn't react with the much excitement, the mood drowned by the bigger issue hanging over all of them like a sword strung up by twine, but there were sounds of mild approval. Sahle himself smiled, but he didn't know what he was smiling for. It was at this moment that he realized something about the American scandal: what exactly had been his demands? His heart knew, but his mind wouldn't accept the answer, and so he nodded his approval if only to appear in control.

Desta went on. "There is a matter of the honor of the government that must be rectified." he said, "Mesfin Issayas Seme makes an accusation against your uncle and the commander of your armies, and it is a serious accusation."

"Speak, Mesfin Issayas Seme." Sahle said, shifting to a comfortable position in his seat. Sahle was never one for sitting up. Desta often admonished him for his slothful way of carrying himself, like a sack of grain that'd been thrown into place. When he was feeling up to his job, he did his best to sit up straight. Today was not one of those days. He slouched like syrup running out of the seat as the Mesfin took the center of the room.

"Ras Wolde Petros, Ras Giyorgis Temare Mengesha, Meridazmach Zekiros Argaw, and the ferengi Hector Santareál conspired to enter my territory and make violence against my people!" the Mesfin complained.

"Violence against criminals." Wolde Petros said, "I admit to that. Issayas harbors shifta bandits who do not recognize their Emperor as sovereign!"

"You lie through your teeth!"

"Behave like gentlemen!" Desta pleaded. His voice cut between the two statesmen like lightning, and they both quieted. "These are serious accusations to bring before his Imperial majesty."

"I bring evidence!" Issayas said, his voice high pitched and triumphant. "I have presented reports of the battlefield from my people, and images from journalists. It is bloodshed in my borders. And you have heard Wolde Petros admit to this violence! It is in the hands of Afe Negus Telaye Haylu."

"I have received it and can confirm, your Imperial Majesty. A number of shiftas were killed in a skirmish near the border of Begmeder and Wollo." Telaye said.

Issayas looked smug, smiling for the first time Sahle had ever seen

"I have evidence too." Wolde Petros stated. The room went silent. Wolde Petros took out a rolled up piece of paper and handed it to Desta. The Minister's face twisted as he read it, and it looked for a moment as if he couldn't read it at all. "What is this?"

"The Declarations of the Rights of Man. A French document from history. It has been distributed among the people of Begmeder, under the nose of the Mesfin." Wolde Petros explained, "The people who published it two hundred years ago went on to murder their King. The shiftas of Begmeder want revolution against you, your Imperial Majesty. We extinguished this rebellion. I am proud to say I did it."

"You have the evidence of this?" Desta asked the Afe Negus.

"I went to Begmeder to interview the Neftanya. They verify this information." Telaye said.

"I proudly fought with Wolde Petros." Ras Giyorgis stood up.

Meridazmach Zekiros stood up next. "I sanctioned the action against the shiftas."

Then went up Hector Santareál. "I flew against the shee-stahs." he said in heavily accented Amharic.

The four men seemed ready to pounce on Issayas, who looked like a mouse that'd been cornered. "This man is a harborer and friend to traitors!" Wolde Petros accused.

"Then arrest him." Sahle commanded. The four men grabbed the scrawny Mesfin. "Mercy!" he cried out, "They are the criminals! Mercy for me!"

"Wait." Desta ordered. Wolde Petros looked at the Minister of the Pen, then up at Sahle, uncertain what to do. "Have the revolutionary leaders been caught yet?" Desta asked.

"No." Wolde Petros said.

"So if we arrest the Mesfin of Begmeder, we risk the entire province going into revolt. If his government is so corrupt, wouldn't the guilty parties join this revolution? Might we not have a fully realized rebellion?"

"If we arrest this man the issue becomes clear, and his Imperial majesty can officialize an intervention."

"So we become a country that, having just closed our borders to America, then enters a civil war? Is this good for the return of commerce?"

"Commerce will return on its own time!" Wolde Petros said, "Are you so greedy you will miss a few weeks payments?"

"Your majesty," Desta turned to Sahle, speaking in a smooth tone, sounding as if his advice was so natural that it should be obvious to everybody in the room. "Return the Mesfin to Begmeder on probation, require him to root out this shifta menace. This is a quieter way of fixing the same error."

"Then that's how it will be done." Sahle said.

There was a moment like at the beginning of an explosion, where the air seemed to be sucked out of the room, everybody bracing for the impact. Wolde Petros became like a man on fire. "You cannot arrest a man and undo his arrest! This is foolish!" Ras Giyorgis, his hand tight on the Mesfin's shoulder, wore the expression of the angel of death. Meridazmach Zekiros looked disappointed. Santareál uncertain.

"The Emperor can do as he pleases." Desta said.

"This cannot be justice!" Ras Giyorgis added indignantly. "We demand the right thing be done for the men we lost in the field!"

"The field you shouldn't have fought on." Desta reminded, "Why did you not go through the structure of command?"

"To do so would be to involve the Emperor in scandals he does not want!"

"This is true." Sahle said, "I do not want these scandals. You have all made many headaches for me today. But I agree with Desta. We should keep it quiet, and allow the Mesfin to do his duty."

"So his Imperial majesty was wrong on his first decree?" Wolde Petros challenged.

"You are out of line." Desta said, his voice strangely quiet, like a pin drop breaking the tension of the room.

Wolde Petros bowed. "Your majesty." he said tight lipped, storming out. His faction followed with him.

"Thank you for your mercy, your Imperial Majesty." Issayas said, smiling warmly. When he left, the only men in the room were members of the Crown Council.

"That went badly." Sahle rubbed his head.

Benyam Felege, who hadn't talked throughout the entire meeting, spoke up. "I think your majesty did the best that you can do."

"Your uncle is too aggressive." Desta said, watching the door as if he could see through it. "He does not think of the consequences of his actions."

"He might have been right, in the end." Telaye Haylu spoke up, "I suspect Issayas will cause more trouble before this is over with."

"That is a future problem." Desta looked sharply at Telaye, "We don't need to compound our present problems. The Rases will be a handful after the way your majesty handled them tonight." Desta's eyes met Sahle's, and the Emperor felt himself withering under his minister's gaze.

"How I handled myself?" Sahle said, raising his voice higher than he had intended, "What could I have possibly done?"

"Not arrest the man, and then free him."

"You asked me too."

"You shouldn't have ordered his arrest so quickly."

"Well if you think you have this all down, I'll leave right now." Sahle said standing up. "You can do the work of government from now on."

Desta's lips tightened, and his renewed stare seemed to hold the Emperor in place. "Do not be foolish, your majesty. I need you here, and I need you to stay here for the Americans. Whether you like it or not you have the duties of a monarch that nobody else can do them."

"Anybody can do it. All I have is the pedigree" Sahle sat down, "Let in the Americans then. Let's get this over with."

"I cannot conjure them from thin air, your majesty. We will wait until they arrive."

Desta went to Benyam, and the two old men talked quietly to each other. The Afe Negus looked at the wall as if his mind were focused on something on the other side. Bejirond Medebew Fek-Yebelu, who had been quiet, pulled out a yellow paper-back book and read. Sahle didn't want to talk to any of them. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and listened to Desta and Benyam's whispering until it faded away.

Sahle didn't know he'd taken a nap until the harsh call of a page woke him up. "His excellency Jefferson Davis Bacon. Mr Bradford Carnahan. Ms Livy Carnahan." Sahle sat up, cleared the sleep from his eyes, and watched the three Americans march in. Bacon came first, wearing a smart white suit, his face tomato red. Bradford wore a blue suit and looked stony-faced at nothing in particular. When Livy came in, Sahle smiled unconsciously. She wore a yellow dress and matching shoes, and looked meek behind the two men. Sahle saw her steal a glance at him. They all made their bows, Bacon struggling, Bradford stiff and formal.

"What news do you bring, your excellency Mr Bacon." Sahle said.

"The American government apologizes for what happened to Le'elt Taytu Yohannes." Bacon said stiffly.

Sahle waved for him to go on.

"We want no conflict with Ethiopia, and President Norman has agreed to compensate you for your pains, so long as our citizens are allowed to move freely from your Empire."

"What is this compensation?" Sahle was aware of Desta's eyes on him.

"The American government has agreed to partially subsidize Ethiopia's agricultural imports through Boston's port. Their uncle Milford Carnahan has introduced this decision as part of a spending package that is fully expected to pass Congress. This offer has two conditions; first, you lift the restriction on free travel. Second, that it cannot be discussed in public. If the Ethiopian government brags about this, our government will be forced to withdraw the offer."

Sahle nodded. Is this what he wanted. Should he speak?

"We thank the American government for its reasonable response." Desta replied. The eyes that had been on Sahle looked to the Minister, and Sahle felt the pressure let off his shoulders.

"So are we allowed to leave, your majesty?" Bradford asked, his tone icy. Desta and Bacon's heads snapped back to look at the youth.

"Yes." Sahle said. "This is all I wanted." Even as he said this, he felt bad, defeated. By what? About what?

"Ms Livy Carnahan has agreed to work in the embassy for a time." Bacon said, "As a representative of her family. I am hoping the two of us will repair whatever damage might've happened between our two great nations."

Sahle looked at Livy, her pale skin and uncertain blue eyes, her red hair falling in waves upon her shoulders. She would stay. He sat up straight and smiled broadly. "We look forward to working with you both." he said, "I hope Ms Carnahan finds Addis Ababa to be a new home."

"I hope so too, your majesty." she said.

The Americans were dismissed, and filtered out of the room like a defeated army. Sahle pushed himself violently up from his throne.

"You did well, your majesty." Desta said. "The American crisis will not be a memorable thing."

"I think I did well too." Sahle said. He approached Bejirond Medebew Fek-Yebelu, an aging bureaucrat with a moon-shaped face, his features drooping as if he'd suffered a mild stroke for breakfast, though Sahle knew the man well enough to know that was just how he looked. "Your majesty." Medebew greeted. He'd been there for the entire meeting, and like so many meetings before, he wasn't used to being addressed directly by his Emperor.

"There is a purchase I want to make." Sahle said, "How much money do I have for property?"

"We may have to borrow."

"That is fine." Sahle wrapped his arm around the man's shoulder, "Let me tell you what I want."

Fallen branches crunched under boots. A stillness enveloped the forest. Distant birds chirped as the crowns of trees swayed in a light breeze. For all intents and purposes, the world became alien. Uninhabited almost. If it were not for the thin line of armed men advancing from the south, behind them a slowly advancing column of surveyors it would be as if this were the last corner of the world untouched by man, let alone any form of civilization. Here could have been a last bastion of nature untouched. But here had once roamed the clans of the Tungusic peoples, of ancient primal Siberians. Here were woods that Russian fur trappers and hunters had infiltrated. Raw land that had been broken by the hooves of a Cossack's horse, or turned by the paws of a Cossack's hunting dog. While the weathering of the hills and valleys by cold rains and freezing snows and chilly misty spring melts washed away the footprints, the paw prints, and the hoof prints, where plants and new trees had sprouted and grown it was not land entirely unknown to man, or of man. It was not virgin. But it had conquered some of man's lingering remains thus far.

There was a stillness and a silence among the squad that haunted Wu Hong. The group was wide spread, and difficult for any conversation. Though if the wind blew just right, and if the line was clear enough, and if there was little in the wall of a hill he thought he could hear the phantom of conversation from his sides. The other teams moving through the wooded wasteland, not too distant to be out of contact, but not so close to readily available. The entire situation, the daunting emptiness was foreign to him. It reminded him well that he was not where he belonged. He had grown up knowing people, where people were, and who they were. He perhaps had half that on his fellow squad mates, older veterans to be sure. The sort who certainly supported him, but he had not ventured for conversation. There was a half hope that things would be uneventful, he would return home a civilian again. Ready in the Imperialists ever invaded, able to defend home and country. But he never sought any greater role. And the greater will that put him there dawned on him in those forests and like them he was terrified of it. That somewhere in Beijing the scribbling out of a few words, a speech, and several signatures had wholly displaced him beyond where he had imagined he would go.

The Northern Army never did anything. But now it was proven false.

“You ever been to a place like this?” someone spoke up, Yu Huan. The massive metal backpack he lugged around rocking back and forth with every step he took, becoming clumsy as they walked through grass as high as their knees, passed thick bushes, and over fallen timbers, sometimes under. At each step the clatter of the components clicking together could be heard, the receiver and head piece rattling against the forest green siding as it continuously shifted around. “This entire place, this entire country, is like some sort of story book.”

“Oh, and what kind of story did you read?” Keung asked.

“I was sort of thinking of the Shui Hu Zhuan.” the radio operator said, “I almost expect us to stumble into a marsh next.”

“I don't fucking need that.” Lei responded, grumpily.

“Well if this is the Shui Hu Zhuan are you going to uproot a tree for us?” Keung said jokingly.

“Why do that when it feels like I already am. Have I not proven myself?” Yu Huan said sarcastically. There was dry laughter between the men and they trudged along.

“I'll tell you what, if we come across any mountains I'll be sure to name Ju Gan Song Jiang. It would seem almost fitting.” Keung remarked.

The sergeant, walking ahead looked back at his men and shook his head. He said nothing and instead hoisted his rifle up higher and kept walking. It didn't stop the conversation.

“Or you know, on the same thread perhaps these Russians were here to fight are like Song Jiang. Considered that? Maybe we'll beat them hard enough they'll acknowledge us as the good guys and join us in campaign.” Keung continued waywardly.

“Who, pray tell would be the invaders we will fight as a single force?” asked Yu Huan.

“Well, clearly the Wokou.” Keung explained, “It only makes sense. They invaded our country, and theirs. They are the invaders. It'll be a grand brotherly fight.”

“You keep dreaming.” Lei bemoaned under the weight of his packs.

“Am I not allowed to?”

“Now when I don't want you to.”

“You're not terribly fun.” Keung complained.

“Neither is this conversation.”

They stopped sometime passed mid-day. Yu Huan relieved himself of his radio and began the process of reporting in. Ju Gan and Cheng Bao joined him, helping out to try and come up with a rough idea on how long they had been walking and roughly deciding where their neighbors were in relation to their own march. It was a quiet conversation. The rest of the group was let to dig into the packs for their rations, a pre-cooked canned rice that had begun to congeal into a gelatin. It wasn't eaten with any point of pride, it got the job done.

Finishing, they took the time to take inventory on what they had left. Still plenty, as they figured. It was in the end an excuse to stay seated and let their backs and feet rest. Those that needed to relieved themselves, and they collected their gear again and oriented themselves back into the woods and continued the hump deeper into the great forest.

Chicago Amphitheater
8:21 PM

Bob Baker limped out on to the stage and waved at the standing audience. He'd won by acclamation on the first ballot. Before the start of the convention Baker and Justice Houghton had a sit down between the two front runners to decide conduct. Both men agreed that the winner would win on the first ballot and as quickly as possible. Both of them wanted to be president, but both had their current positions to fall back on, Bob with the governorship in Ohio and Houghton with the Supreme Court. Both men agreed there was always '64 or '68. All the GOP chieftains reluctantly agreed, though some were disappointed that they wouldn't be wheeling and dealing this year. After the shitshow that had been LA, the Republicans wanted to show the voters how a national convention worked. Once Bob started rolling up the early states Houghton saw the writing on the wall. He released the delegates sworn to him and Baker was confirmed by a unanimous voice vote.

"Thank you!"

Bob's wife and two adult sons stepped on to the stage behind him and joined him. He hugged his boys and kissed his wife before he turned away from them. While they continued to celebrate, he addressed the crowd as they began to settle down.

"I am honored by the confidence the party has in me. I shall do my best to be the good steward this party needs in the coming months and hopefully years. One hundred years ago, in this very city, the Republicans nominated a man who once said that 'a house divided against itself cannot stand.' While his words addressed an issue we no longer face, they are still words that ring true in our modern political climate. We are in the midst of crisis in our government. We still strive for that famous, shining city on the hill that a famous Pilgrim once spoke of. But we have become bogged down in partisan politics and the seeking of power for power's sake. The feeling of unity we faced after the war has faded away and sectionalism is back.

"I do not believe that there is a Southern America, or a Conservative America, or a Negro America. I think there is only one America. A united America, all with the same hopes and wishes, the same concerns and fears. And as president, that is the America I will work for. That is the America I will fight for. That is the America I will lead into a new era of national and international prosperity. It will be a prosperity that will unite, a prosperity that will raise all Americans up like the rising tide raises all ships. It will be a prosperity that will let the world know that these next forty years shall be years where America leads the way and the world follows."

---



Tybee Island
8:34 PM

"Bullshit."

Russell Reed sipped scotch from a tumbler and watched the speech in Chicago on a special TV hookup in his hotel room. He was alone in the hotel room. His wife and kids and grandkids were downstairs in the hotel dining room, awaiting his arrival for the farewell dinner. The tenth annual Reed Family Vacation had been truncated to compensate for his campaign schedule. Instead of the usual two weeks on Tybee, they settled for five days while Russell campaigned in the South before and after the trip.

It wasn't hard campaigning in this part of the country. As a Southerner, there was no way in hell he could lose the Southern vote. Earlier this week he'd stood on the steps of the statehouse in Savannah and promised to re-segregate Atlanta, something that drew a five minute standing ovation. For almost twenty years, Savannah had been the seat of state government because of the federal mandate in Atlanta. Savannah had thrived. By contrast, Atlanta was a giant slum that no white people would ever visit. Negroes from all over America held it up as some kind of paradise, Negrotown they called it. The intentions had been well-minded, but it ended up a complete failure. Time to throw in the towel and admit the experiment hadn't worked. When white people and their money came back, the city would rebound.

Russell turned away from the TV when he heard the phone ringing. He stood and padded across the carpet towards the nightstand.

"Hello?"

"Good evening, Mr. Vice President," said the operator. "I have a direct call for you from... Adidas Bobby?"

"What?" Russell asked.

"Africa, sir."

"Oh," said Russell. "Addis Ababa. Is it Mr. Bacon?"

"Yes, sir. Shall I put him through?"

Russell said yes and waited several seconds. There was complete silence. Russell began to ask if he'd been disconnected when he heard clicks and a voice on the other end of the line, distant but his thick Southern accent left little room for debate on who it was.

"How the hell are ya, Russ? Congratulations on the nomination!"

"Jeff! Thank you, sir. We're in Savannah, so you know where' doing fine. How's Africa?"

"Something else for sure," he said with a booming laugh. "You need to come here when you're president. You'll get a kick out of all this crazy shit."

"What time is it over there?"

"Getting close to four in the morning. It's late, but I wanted to tell you first before I wired the state department. We brokered a deal with their emperor. As long as the Carnahans live up to their part of the deal, that is."

"I'll walk that bill through Congress myself if I have to," said Russell. "What about the other end of the deal? Their silence?"

"He's agreed to it."

"Do you trust him?"

"His Excellency is an odd duck, that's for damn sure, but he's a man of his word."

Russell breathed a bit easy. It was a dilemma for sure. He debated with his campaign manager about letting the news slip out, a scandal he was already in the process of fixing. We it was announced he brokered a deal, then it would make him look good. But the deal they came to wasn't a good thing. It'd look like a government payoff to Ethiopia for something the Emperor's own damn sister had started. It would make them look weak.

"Good. We can rest easy then. How's the family?"

Russell and Bacon spoke several more minutes about their respective families. He'd known Bacon a long time, they served as junior congressmen together thirty years ago. While Russell chased higher office, Bacon chased the dollars. Eventually he used his connections as a lobbyist and became a major player on Capitol Hill. After the election, he'd used a great deal of that influence to get himself appointed ambassador to the Ethiopian Empire. Of all the countries, that's what he chose. It never made any since to Russell.

After saying his goodbyes to Bacon, Russell walked across the room and watched the television. Baker and his family were still celebrating on stage. Russell laughed and turned the TV off before starting towards the hotel's door. He still needed to spend time with his family before he started back campaigning. Once he started back, he'd be a ghost for the next three and a half months.

---



The White House
12:05 AM

Michael Norman looked out at the lights of Washington from the Lincoln Bedroom. His wife slept soundly in the four-poster bed while he stood at the window. He'd been warned about how bad D.C. was before he arrived. They were messing with him, he figured. Playing up its image as a cutthroat town to try to get in his head. He'd laughed it off.

But then he lost the nomination. To his own goddamn vice president. The first time it had happened in the history of US elections. He'd also been warned about Russell Reed. He was a master at underhanded schemes and backroom deals. But there was no way Michael could have carried the south without him. So he let Reed become the Veep, but he kept him at arm's length and tried not to let him get too close to events. That distance had given the son of a bitch room to outmaneuver him. Lame duck. That word kept running through his mind. That's what he was. A lame duck. But that didn't mean a lame duck couldn't be dangerous.

With a look back at his wife, Michael shuffled out the bedroom in his slippers and walked through the halls of the White House. The Secret Service agent by the bedroom door followed him through the corridors and downstairs until they were in the Oval Office. Michael sat down behind the big wooden desk Queen Victoria had given to America when Rutherford B. Hayes was president. He found what he was looking for in the top drawer.

Jefferson Davis Bacon's communique from the State Department arrived just as the Normans were finishing up dinner. He read it over and was pleased with the results. The ambassador had adverted a diplomatic crisis and managed to obtain the Emperor's silence. There would be no editorials about America paying off Ethiopia and kowtowing to the African nation. Scandal averted.

But Michael was a lame duck. Who cared if his administration caused a scandal? It wouldn't hurt him. There was only one person it could hurt: Russell Reed. Michael placed the telegram on his desk and picked up the phone.

"White House operations board."

"It's the President."

"What can I do for you, sir?"

"There's a Washington Post reporter named Traci Lord. I know it's late, but I need to get in contact with her."

Sevan, Armenia

Hagop’s alarm clock pierced through the comforting shroud of his sleep, waking him up at precisely nine in the morning. He flailed underneath his light blanket, futilely waving his hand around to try and stop the ringing. After a few seconds of searching, he finally was able to slam the alarm into silence, knocking something off the bedside table the process. He laid face-down on his pillow for a few more seconds. With a heavy sigh, he stretched out into a pose not unlike that of a dog’s, and sat up. He looked around through his sparse apartment’s bedroom, at the ugly green wallpaper and beige carpet that needed to be cleaned. Scratching his unruly curly black hair, he checked back to the floor and saw that he had knocked his handgun off the table while trying to turn his alarm clock off. Hagop sighed again, gingerly reaching down to put the handgun back with his things: it was loaded, of course, with one in the chamber and its safety off. Such was the life of a Mafiya foot soldier.

His creaking wooden door opened to the smell of potatoes, sausage, and black tea. He lived with Mikael, who cooked simple Russian breakfasts almost every morning. Since Hagop couldn’t cook, or at least couldn’t cook very well, he ate whatever Mikael came up with, which often consisted of a very repetitive quick dish. A ceramic plate was already on the sturdy wooden table with some food on it. Hagop brushed past the table in his sitting room to poke his head into the kitchen, where Mikael was cooking. The Russian wore a blue-and-white striped sleeveless undershirt around the apartment, a unique piece of gear from the Tsarist military that wound up in Armenia with the Russian community. It was lazily untucked over cotton athletic shorts and a pair of slippers. He turned around, greeting Hagop. “Did you see I made sausage?” he asked in his usual deeply accented Armenian.

“I did, it looks delicious,” answered Hagop, sitting down at the dining table. He pawed for the metal fork next to the plate and used the side of it to slice off some of the sausage. He ate it, chewing while scratching his hair. “So do you have anything going on today?” asked the Armenian.

“I still have to do my laundry,” Mikael answered casually, gesturing with his hand still holding the spatula out the window to the end of their block where a laundromat had just opened up.

“I thought you did you laundry yesterday,” asked Hagop curiously. He leaned back in the chair and rolled out his arms in a big, lazy circle: his right shoulder still pained him from an injury back in his youth when he was on his school’s wrestling team. He grew up near the Persian neighborhood of Sevan, where almost every single boy wrestled. They called it koshti, and they were good at it. Good enough to tear fourteen-year-old Hagop’s shoulder out in a match when he couldn’t submit quickly enough.

“Funny story about that,” Mikael said with a grin. He flipped two sausages onto his own plate and turned off the gas to the stove. He brought the plate down to the table and sat in the wooden chair opposite of Hagop. “I went down yesterday, right? And this guy, some middle-aged fatass, starts telling me I can’t use his machines because he could tell I’m Russian. My accent gives me away, heh.”

Hagop chuckled. “Another one of those ‘Russians are taking our jobs’ people?”

“He said that if I were to use his machines and an Armenian came in and had to wait, it would be unfair,” Mikael continued, taking a bite of his own breakfast.

“Why didn’t you do anything about it?”

“Well,” Mikael answered with a laugh. “I asked him very politely if he knew who he was dealing with. I showed him my arm. He told me that he knew exactly who I was: a Russian.”

On Mikael’s arm was a Russian mafiya tattoo, done in the style of gulag art. All of these tattoos had a history from Russia and an associated meaning. While tattoos were generally less-accepted in Armenian society, Russian gangsters often bore a “suit”, known in Russian as a mast, of tattoos. His chest was well marked with a church bearing a cupola, for one stint in prison, and a sun rising over it with four rays to denote four years. A cat sat at the entrance of the church, looking out, denoting his status as a thief. Beside the sun, on the other side of his chest and over his shoulder, were a constellation of stars with an eight-pointed star in the middle: he had killed the head thief in his prison in Russia, becoming the boss after only a few short years. Yet he kept only the outline of a skull on the inside of his left arm. It was subtle enough that he could operate in regular life with no suspicion as long as he wore longer sleeves, but if he needed to show someone that he has killed then it was easy to flash the symbol of a murderer.

“The fuck had no idea, I don’t even think he noticed the tattoo,” Mikael continued, looking down at the skull and shaking his head. “So I asked again, and I told him that if he continued behaving like this then bad things would happen.”

Hagop raised an eyebrow. “He’s a rather dense fellow, isn’t he?”

Mikael rolled his eyes. “Usually I would have beaten his ass right then and there but… well, there were a few old women doing laundry there at the time and they didn’t need to see that. So I told him I’d be back and that he should seriously consider changing his mind.”

Hagop sighed and finished the last of his sausage. “Why do you have to keep getting into trouble like this? I just wanted to relax today and maybe go to the cinema later.”

“We’ll still have time to go to the cinema,” replied Mikael. “But first I’m going to do my laundry. Actually, can you help me carry it there? I’ve got the bag in the corner over by the sofa.”

Hagop agreed and finished his breakfast. The two washed their dishes, placing them carefully on the drying rack: Hagop, at least, tried to keep things organized. Even if the apartment was cheap and dingy, located in an old building next to the seedier parts of town, he still didn’t see that as an excuse for messiness. Many youths left their time as National Service conscripts with a disdain for dress-right-dress cleanliness and almost overbearing organization, but Hagop tried to strike a balance between being obsessively ordered and a slob. Fighting with Mikael about it was an uphill battle, since the Russian was careless with his things and often just left piles of stuff on the floor. Somehow, it was completely normal for him to leave his shotgun on the sofa next to a suitcoat draped over the arm of it. He didn’t even let Hagop clean his things out of the common areas, somehow claiming that he knew exactly where in the mess everything was and if it were cleaned up then he’d lose things.

The two dressed, Hagop throwing on a light blue cotton summer shirt over a pair of loose pants. He slicked back his long hair and slid his handgun into the waistband of the pants before tightening his belt around it. Mikael tossed him the laundry bag as he chambered some rounds into his own revolver. They left the apartment just before ten, locking up and walking down the stairs. They chatted about the results of the football game that both of them had missed that week: FC Sevan had beaten the historically amazing Ararat team in what both of them had considered to be a very lucky upset. Tied 1-1 into penalty shots, FC Sevan’s new striker from the deserts of West Armenia kicked one that bounced right off the frame of the goal, past the goalie’s fingertips, and into the net. They made quite a bit of money on it and had to go collect their winnings later that day. The laundromat wasn’t that far away, a red awning with the words “Laundry Service – 50 Dram, Modern Machines” emblazoned on the side.

A little bell rang as the door creaked open. The owner, in the back, called out “Just a second!” as Hagop and Mikael walked to the counter. Hagop dropped the laundry bag next to his feet and leaned over on the counter, looking over to Mikael who appeared almost bored with the experience. The owner, true to Mikael’s description as an overweight, balding, middle-aged man came out wearing comically small glasses, poring over a dry-cleaning receipt. “Can I help you?” he asked, before looking up. His mouth turned downwards into a scowl. “What are you doing here? I told you that I’m not letting you use the damn machines.”

Mikael didn’t say a word before his hand reached out to grab the fat man’s collar and slam him into the table. His glasses flew off towards the ground, scattering off to the side. Hagop just looked down at the scene and crossed his arms. The laundromat owner yelped in pain and grunted, a trickle of blood coming out of his crooked nose.

“So I asked you if you would reconsider your decision,” Mikael said, “and it appears you haven’t. So I’m going to give you one last chance. I give a lot of chances, don’t I?”

The fat man blubbered and tried to spit out an answer, flailing beneath the grip of the Russian gangster. He tried to use his hands to push away, but was unsuccessful. Instead, Mikael gripped tighter and forced the man harder into his counter. The gangster, with his other hand, grabbed the handle of his steel revolver out of his waistband and audibly clicked back the hammer. He screwed it into the owner’s ear, causing another yelp. Hagop almost felt bad for him. Almost.

“There are two options now. One, you let me, and anyone else for that matter, do my laundry like a regular customer. I’ll pay you, you’ll take my money, and you’ll support your family. You’re ugly, but I still think you have a wife and children. Do you?”

“Y-yes,” stammered the owner, almost hyperventilating now.

“How many?” asked Mikael nonchalantly, like he was making small talk before a job interview.

“My wife… We have… Three boys,” he said, shakily, trembling underneath Mikael’s grip.

“Three boys are a lot to feed,” observed Mikael, looking to Hagop and nodding. “I had a few brothers and my mother really had to do a lot to get us food when we were young. So I know the struggle, and I would rather not subject your kids to a single mother. I can, though.”

“No!” screamed the owner.

“Alright, so that’s our first option. I come in, I pay, and I do my laundry. We don’t forget this happened, we learn a lesson from this… but it’s water under the bridge from now on. God forgives, and so do I. It’s the right thing to do. I’m sure I don’t need to explain the other option, but I’m sure it would be a tragedy if an investment like these washing machines went up in flames.”

Mikael gripped the man’s collar tighter again and lifted him up to his feet, holding the owner in place as he stumbled on unsteady legs. “Alright, alright, alright,” he cried, wiping blood away from his nose. “It’s fine, it’s alright… Do your laundry, just… just leave me alone.”

Mikael smiled, looking back at Hagop. He turned his attention back to the fat man, still quivering with the Russian’s hand on his shoulder. He took his handgun away from the head of the owner but, instead of holstering it, raised it above his shoulder to bring it down onto his temple with a loud thud. The fat man grunted and dropped to the table, smacking his head on the counter and splattering blood across it. He lay moaning on the floor, hands clutching his head to stop the bleeding.

“Listen, that was for the disrespect,” Mikael explained as he inspected the handle of his revolver and tucked it back into his pants. “I’m a believer in respect. I’ve killed over respect. Next time, think before you act.”

The fat man moaned again, sobbing softly on the ground and writhing in pain. Hagop, who had been absently playing with the thin metal arms of the fat man’s glasses, leaned over the counter and tossed them down to him. Mikael reached into his pocket, withdrawing a brown leather wallet. Opening it, he took a purple-and-blue banknote with a 50 emblazoned on the front alongside a heroic portrait of a young and handsome Mikael Serovian in his prime. He took the bag of laundry and went to the closest washing machine, opening the door and pouring some soap into the receptacle. He put a load in, turned the timer, and hit the start button. With an electrical buzz, the dull thumping of the wash cycle drowned out the moans of the owner. He patted Hagop on the back, who put his hands into his pockets and shrugged as they went for the exit. The little bell rang again as the glass door opened up. Mikael hesitated as a warm summer breeze rushed through into the building, and turned his attention to the “open” sign on the door. He flipped it over to read “closed”, and turned back to the owner: “Clean the place up, will you?”

Without waiting for a response, both of them left. They stood on the sidewalk, hands in their pockets, as a car rushed by, stopping at a stop sign, to turn at the intersection. Hagop withdrew a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket along with a match, striking it and lighting up one for him and one for his partner. They smoked silently for a minute on the sidewalk underneath the shade of the awning, stopping only to say hello to an old woman walking by. She looked at the sign on the laundromat and frowned: “Closed?” she asked.

“I’m afraid so, ma’am,” Hagop answered with a shrug, looking back to the counter at the end of the building. “I think he’s doing some cleaning in the back. Shouldn’t take too long.”
“Well… thank you,” the old woman replied. “Maybe I’ll come back later. This is easier on my old hands than the clothesline. It’s amazing how far things have come, isn’t it?”

“It sure is, ma’am,” Hagop said. The old woman smiled at him and turned around to hobble back to her apartment, leaving the two underneath the awning again. Within another minute, they had finished their cigarettes, thrown them into a drain, and were going back to their own place. The entire day was theirs to enjoy.

Yerevan, Armenia

The Council, or at least the council’s building, sat upon a hill overlooking Armenia. Inside a modest estate with a sprawling garden lived the last remaining members of the Armenian Separatist Federation, elderly and frail after years of rough life. Accompanied by a contingent of nurses and assistants, the Councilmen lived comfortably. Within the walls of this estate, long after their retirements from politics, they provided counsel and assistance to Armenian politicians seeking solutions for challenges in line with the revolution’s spirit. The Council had no actual legal power, of course, but their societal power as liberators and immortal heroes gave them clout to influence decisions and policy. A prominent example emerged during the election, where the Council published routine statements on the state of Armenian democracy and warned people against the dangers of undermining. It was certainly a curious government organ, but one that was due to be gone very soon. There were only three surviving members of the ASF of the original twelve, and they were aged anywhere between seventy and ninety years old.

In the years just after independence, the Council traveled and talked and held council sessions across the country. As they aged, however, they withdrew to their estate to let people come to them, like monks in a monastery. They watched from their garden as Yerevan grew taller and wider, as roads began to inch outwards towards other cities like spider webs. They watched society undergo shifts and changes with the time, offering their guidance on where it should go. A massive library of literature of politics, economics, and philosophy, including many of their own writings on the Armenian state, was compiled and the Council often debated these subjects amongst each other. George Washington, Voltaire, and others were compared to Karl Marx or even contemporary figures like Hou Tsai Tang. Over time, their mystique only grew with their isolation: they became more and more mythical, blending into the national story as strong characters. Some even called them the philosopher kings of Armenia, ruling by way of the national government in the city below.

Assanian sat with Mikael Serovian on a carved wooden bench beside a rock-bordered pool. Lilly pads floated lazily atop its greenish-hued water, fish swimming gently under the still surface. In the center, a rock bearing the Arevakhach wheel of eternity, peeked above the water. The gentle trickle of a stream, combined with the rustle of various plants, trees, and flowers in the wind, soothed the men. Serovian, dressed in a somber black suit, had grown almost completely bald: a far cry from his famously wild and ragged, golden-brown hair that he wore around the mountains as a revolutionary Fedayeen. His strong, muscular body had deteriorated to a frail, pale frame that hunched over when he walked with a cane. Yet the mind of the first Armenian president remained sharp as ever, the grips of age not yet taking his thoughts from him. He had his hands folded on his lap as Assanian talked through what Moysisian had briefed him on, his eyes focused on the mountains in the distance but nodding along understandingly.

“It’s very focused on partisans and militias, irregular forces and cooperation with the civilian government,” Assanian mused, watching as a fish jumped out of the water and back in with a tiny splash. “The NSS minimizes the deployment of regular military formations to major urban and production areas, but wants us to work hand in hand with the Georgians. We want them to trust us.”

Serovian leaned back into the bench and nodded again. “If you’re looking for a strategic assessment, my days of the Fedayeen are behind me. I know that war has changed… Tanks, airplanes, even an infantryman’s rifle are all alien to us. Your troops can shoot thirty rounds with one chambering of the bolt, we had one! I think Moysisian can give you a better picture than I can. What I know you want the answer to is ‘should we do it?’”

Assanian nodded, looking towards Serovian. The former president was still looking off into the distance, at the half-finished Tsaghkum Tower destined to be the tallest building in the region. Its skeleton frame barely peeked above the other modest towers that had been built in the city center of Yerevan for the last fifteen years. The Councilman continued: “I know there has been a lot of debate about foreign intervention. Your party in particular has been hesitant about it, you’ve all been so focused on the interior affairs and cleaning up the mess that the Independence Party’s rule made.”

“There’s no consensus on a platform, it’s like we ignored it when I was in Parliament,” Assanian agreed, thinking back to his time as a member of the Liberal Democratic Party watching these discussions from the sideline. “My Prime Minister has been trying to ask for opinions on it, but there’s no coherency. Especially with what could be construed as a foreign invasion. Our military is geared towards defense… The trenches in the west, and our war in the Artsakh. The only foreign posting we have is Poti, and most people think that it’s just port guards so we can refuel our cargo ships in peace.”

“The intent of the Armenian state was always to defend the Armenian people and our culture,” Serovian reminded him. “That’s us, that’s the diaspora from France to India to America, that’s everyone who hails from Hayk, near or far. Keep in mind that the republic you currently lead is the first Armenian state since the thirteenth century. Even then, that state was like a kingdom in exile in Cilicia, not our ancestral homeland. It’s been even longer since the Armenian people have had total control, not just subjugation and vassalization, over our lands.”

“Then we’re not necessarily responsible for other states’ securities,” Assanian said, as if continuing his explanation.

“Not entirely, no, and I know many of your reservations come from the fact that you do not want to be an empire. The greatest irony of them all is the Ottoman Empire being replaced with an Armenian Empire conquering its way through Georgia. I fear we may already be on that slope just from the way we treat the Russians… The Turks did the same thing to us before they started killing us.”

“Then how do I balance something like this with our integrity as a nation?” Assanian asked, his insides turning to ice at the mere mention that they could be becoming the monster they sought liberation from. Were forty years really enough to forget the pain? Were they that wrapped up in protecting their people that they lost sight of who they were? “The Georgia Plan… Well, it makes sense to me. It makes sense to my cabinet. My ministers agree that it is thought out well and could offer the relief we need to deal with several issues. The bandits, the refugees, the drugs, the crime… Georgia is a major component in all of them. It gives us an opportunity to stabilize our region and stop suffering on all sides.”

Serovian sighed and frowned. “It’s a check that you have to make sure that your government understands before you undertake an operation such as this. You know what our intent is, you know what Armenia is supposed to be. I am very proud of how far we’ve come, but I know the rest of the Council worries that we could lose sight of ourselves. Make it apparent who we are and what we do. We have ideals, we have values. Vadratian, your predecessor, forgot much of this despite our concerns. I implore you to think about these things. You’re a smart man, Hasmik. You’re caring. I know who you are and I know of your service to the Army. You have values, too. You know what duty is.” The Councilman looked back towards the estate, then back to Assanian: “I trust you. I think that you can order this.”

Assanian crossed his arms and thought. Of course, the old clichés about a best defense being offense came to mind. But more practically, the Armenians could have their cake and eat it, too: a protected state and a retention of their ideology. The warnings of empire stirred something in him, made him think about the morality of what they were about to do. The Great War was supposed to be the death of empire, the death of the world order that had kept them from greatness. Around the world, it was not always like that, but something led Assanian to believe that they could take these lessons and learn something. They were weak now, sapped of their strength and unity by those who sought to extract instead of build. If people recognized this, if they internalized it, then something great could happen. But something had to start the fire, someone had to take initiative and champion a new age. Armenia was stronger now than it had been in hundreds of years: why couldn’t they come from the shadows to make the region as they wanted?

Destiny, for once, was in the hands of the Armenians. No longer were foreign powers there to determine what people could and couldn’t do. The Caucasus and the Near East were finally free to change everything. Assanian smirked and looked over to see a glint in Serovian’s eye, as if he read Assanian’s mind and knew what he was thinking. The President thanked the Councilman for his time and excused himself. He took his coat and his briefcase, and returned to the city.

Taihoku
10:03 AM

Tiger Tanaka looked out the window of the plane as it began its final approach towards Formosa.

Taiwan.

Tanaka had to remind himself that the island was Taiwan now. The Empire had renamed the island Taiwan in an effort to reject the old colonial past in East Asia. It was still an imperial colony, but at least it had Asian masters instead of European ones. Off at the edge of the horizon was the Chinese mainland, the tallest buildings of Fuzhou just visible through the haze.

He'd been here twenty years earlier under much different circumstances. As a junior officer, Tanaka witnessed the Third Humiliation. His destroyer and the entire East China Fleet evacuated as much of the Chinese Expeditionary Force from the continent as they could before the Communists could capture them. Those they could not save had been left to their fate. If the men were real Japanese they would have committed suicide either through -- seppuku or a bullet to the brain -- before the Chinese had a chance to capture them. There were reports of scattered Japanese prisoners of war living in China since. Gossip and the stuff enlisted men talked about while they drank. Two decades since and Tanaka still felt shame at both the defeats and the men left behind. Their dishonor had come at the hands of their empire's dishonorable actions. Their empire, the one they sacrificed their lives for, could not protect them.

"Gensui-kaigun-taishō," the pilot in the front seat of the small aircraft addressed him through the headphones. "Please fasten your seat belt. We are preparing to land."

Tanaka complied. He looked out the window as they flew over the city of Taihoku, the capital of Japanese Taiwan. It was a copy of every colonial capital the Empire had. Squat buildings in a grid formation with only a handful of those structures actually above ten stories. Anchored off the coast was the early formation of Tanaka's fleet. The crown jewel of the fleet, Tanaka's flagship aircraft carrier Kasagi, sat in the middle of the collection of ships. A light aircraft carrier, a few destroyers and cruisers and smaller support ships all orbited around the Kasagi like the planets orbited around the sun.

The plane landed onto the deck of the Kasagi with a hard bump. Tanaka saw that a small welcoming party had gathered at the end of the deck. He ran a thumbnail across his thick black mustache and made sure his white uniform and cap were in order before the plane came to a stop. Tanka exited and was met by his boss. Navy Chief of Staff Grand Admiral Kubo stood at the front, the captains of the other ships in the fleet flanked him on both sides and stood at attention.

"Grand Admiral Tanaka," Kubo said with a nod while the other officers saluted Tanaka. "Welcome to the Southern Expeditionary Fleet."

Tanaka quickly returned the men's salute before he saluted Kubo. The chief of staff returned his salute casually and looked back at the captains.

"I'd like a word with your fleet commander before formal introductions can begin."

The officers nodded and bowed to Kubo as he put his arm around Tanaka's shoulder. It was quite a reach for the shorter man, but he managed it. They walked across the deck as wind wiped across it, Tanaka holding firmly to his cap while Kubo's shaved head was bare. The plane that dropped him off was already taking off. It roared overhead as the pilot turned north back towards Japan.

"You look good, Tiger," said Kubo. "How was Korea?"

"Thank you, sir. And it was boring."

"Of course it was," Kubo laughed. "It's full of Koreans. At least Pusan has some international flair. I heard you took up with an American woman."

"Yes," Tanaka said curtly. "She's a widow, and I have never taken a wife. So there is no one to object. But what does that have to do with my role in Taiwan?"

"Touchy touchy," Kubo said with another laugh. "I just wanted to know how pink the nipples of white women are."

Tanak cleared his throat and pulled at the collar of his uniform. "Very.

"There we go." Kubo slapped Tanaka's back with a chubby hand. "Now since you are not in the playful mood, Tiger, I'll speak quickly. You know the mandate here, yes?"

"Yes," said Tana. "Pirate duty. Merchant ships from all across Asia are being boarded and robbed. Specifically in the East and South China Seas. Although... permission to speak freely?"

Kubo smiled. "Please, I welcome it."

"It seems a rather large fleet for pirates."

"Well," Kubo said with a grin. "There's a reason I was here to meet you. On paper, yes, find and destroy any pirates you come across. As the premier naval power in this part of the world, the duty to patrol the seas falls upon us. But if these patrols take you into other nation's waters... Filipino waters for example... then so be it."

Kubo's face showed no hint of emotion, only a slightly raised eyebrow conveyed his message. Tanaka bowed slightly to Kubo. The message was received. Kubo was a few years older than Tiger, so both men knew well had bad their retreat from the mainland had been. All the high command of the military knew disgrace and shame. All all of them were eager to regain their honor. Russia had been a start, but it was just that: a start.

"I believe that Asia has quietly forgotten about the Imperial Japanese Navy and all that we can do," Kubo said. "Perhaps they can be reminded by this new fleet."

"Yes, sir," Tanaka said with a smile.

((Tagging @Letter Bee just in case he's interested))

---



Taitō Ward
9:23 PM

The small gathering in the apartment watched with rapt attention the action on the canvas screen hung on the wall. A medium shot of Date Masamune showed the mighty warrior on horseback, raising his sword to the sky in victory. There was a close-up on the face of the legendary daimyo, one eye covered by an eyepatch while the other remaining eye looked wild. The scene cut back to the battlefield. All around Date were fellow samurai from the Date Clan. They cheered as the camera pulled back further to reveal dead samurai and horses on the ground.

"We will remember our dead," Date shouted as the camera was back on him in close-ups. "While the losers of today's battle will never forget the Date Clan. We have united the north under our banner. Now we ride to Edo. The shōgunate will be ours!"

More cheers and cries from the samurai. Date's horse raised up on its hind legs before racing across the battlefield. Date, with sword still held high, led the samurai as they galloped across the field in the direction of the sun. The music swelled and the scene faded to black. The gathered people began to applaud and clapped harder when the words "Directed by Miki Yasutake" flash on the screen in Kanji.

From his seat in the back of the room, Miki took in the praise and applause with a grain of salt. Everyone at his apartment tonight had been either a member of the cast and crew of the film, or they were part of the Tokyo arts community who thought Miki could do no wrong.

He stepped forward and politely bowed as the lights came back on and the projector flicked off.

"Thank you, thank you. You are most kind. I have one more edit to go through, but for the most part this version of Dokuganryū will be the one released in theaters across Japan next month."

The film screen was the climax of the party. Miki walked around and continued to mingle, sipping champagne along with the odd shot of saki. He fielded questions about the next movie he would direct, his thoughts on the big Hollywood murder scandal, and when they could expect a sequel to Dokuganryū. Miki played the part of aloof artists and gave vague answers. With his black turtle neck, black slacks, sunglasses, and flowing premature gray hair he looked every bit the part of the auteur director.

"We do actually need to discuss your next film, Miki-san," Saito said as the party was winding down.

Miki resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He'd been successfully avoiding him the entire party up until this point. He looked at the man from the Imperial Information Ministry. If Miki was the cliched artist, then Saito was the cliched bureaucrat with his cheap suit and glasses and love of rules and regulations. For the Empire's chief propagandist, Miki found that Saito had very little in the way of imagination. He had to be someone high-up's nephew or in-law.

"The movie was received well," said Saito. "Here tonight and at my offices. With how Dokuganryū ends, there is room for a sequel. And the IIM would like to commission you to write and direct the sequel. Ideally, work on it would begin as soon as possible."

"No," said Miki.

"Excuse me?" Saito looked taken aback. "Miki-san, you know who the IIM is."

"I know very well who you represent."

Miki turned away from Saito and started through the now nearly empty apartment. Those that had stayed behind were admiring the art on the walls. There were a few Japanese pieces, but plenty were works of western artists. He had a few Edward Hoppers, an excellent Paul Nash painting inspired by the Great War, and a few paintings by his favorite artists Lucille Lucas. But the main attraction was the disturbing Goya paintting Saturn Devouring His Son. The piece was always a conversation starter. Even now, three of Miki's guest were huddled around it observing the stark painting the Spanish master had painted directly onto the wall of his house.

After passing the painting, Miki turned around and found Saito right behind him, looking up at him with a look that was half angry and half worried.

"No one refuses the IIM," it came out more incredulous than anything.

"And I am not," said Miki. "I am simply stating that my next film will not be a sequel to Dokuganryū. It will be something else all together."

"What will it be, Miki-san?"

Miki held up a long, thin finger and walked to one of the desks in his apartment. He pulled a well-worn book from the bottom drawer of the desk and handed it to Saito. He saw the little man's brow furrow at the sight of the square-jawed man on the cover, smoking a cigarette as he walked under a lamp post. The title was in English, but Saito had no trouble reading it aloud.

"'Poisonville: A Sam Bennett Mystery.'" Saito flipped it over and read the plot synopsis aloud. "'When an accused corrupt politician commits suicide, Sam Bennett is forced by a crime boss to investigate the death. What looks like an open and shut case begins to unravel and Sam finds himself waist deep in graft, girls, and guns. As the bodies start to pile up, Sam plays a dangerous chess game with the powers that be that could cost him his life and bring the whole rotten foundation of the city down.' Saito looked up at Miki with a frown. "Miki-san, this is not a Japanese book."

"No," Miki said with a smile. "It is not. But it is one of my favorite books. And I want to adapt it into a Japanese setting. An historical samurai movie, set before the Meiji era."

"A samurai detective story?"

"With the trappings of a Hollywood western," said Miki. "I want to show the world Japan can do more than simple propaganda, Saito-san. The IIM wants to promote Japanese culture, well so do I! But I need help with that."

"The IIM?"

"Yes," Miki said with a nod. "I need to buy the rights from the American author, and then production costs. I already have a screenplay, Saito. I will let you read it for approval. If you let me make this film first, then I will work on Dokuganryū right after. I will even work on the screenplay while we're in preproduction."

Saito rubbed his forehead and sighed.

"I will have to talk to my superiors about this, as well as review and potentially edit the screenplay. But... we have a tentative deal."

Miki bowed to Saito.

"Thank you, thank you."

"If you want to thank me, Miki-san, then make sure you make good films. Films that are Japanese."

"That has never been a problem with me," Miki said with a grin. "This one was written by an American, but when I am through with it, it will be thoroughly Japanese."

---



Saeki-ku Ward
11:45 PM

"Sixty thousand yen."

Abe Dokuro looked at the young man in the knock-off sharkskin suit and sunglasses. They were in the back alley behind a noodle shop, neon lights reflecting off the boy's dark lenses. Even though it was less than a kilometer away, the Saeki Ward was as far from the nightlife and hostess clubs of Naka as you could get. It was a rough neighborhood were working class rubbed shoulders with the criminals and petty grifters. Ghettos, they were called in English. Saeki was the ghetto. It was also where he'd been raised. To the Abe brothers, the ghetto was home.

The boy cradled in his hands, what appeared to be a Colt M1911 in good condition. Abe preferred American guns when he could get them. He chose quality over patriotism every time. In Japan, it was illegal for civilians to carry handguns. Military and police could carry them, but everyone else could only have rifles and shotguns after a lengthy screening process. Normally the Yakuza had a pipeline to weapons thanks to Chinese smugglers and IJA officers willing to look the way for extra yen in their pockets. But there was no way Goro would give Abe a weapon. Not after tonight. So he was having to resort to this: A kid pretending to be Yakuza.

"Here," Abe said, passing him the money.

The kid slid it into his breast pocket and smiled before he turned the gun on Abe.

"Thanks. Give me the rest of your money."

Abe looked down the barrel of the gun. He quickly turned his head to the right, causing the kid to look in that direction. Abe struck him with the open palm of his right hand. The gun jerked up and went off, a bullet whizzing past Abe's ear. The kid yelled as Abe jerked the gun from his hand.

"You little shit," Abe said as he struck the boy across the forehead with the butt of the pistol. "I was going to pay you."

He fell on the ground and his sunglasses clattered on the pavement somewhere. Abe pinned him down by placing his knees on the kid's shoulders. With Abe's left hand holding the gun on the boy, his right hand jerked the sixty thousand yen from the kid's jacket and put it back into his own pocket.

"At least I know the gun works," he said.

"Please," he pleaded. "Don't hurt me."

Abe flashed his tattoos at the boy. The kid's eyes went wide in recognition. Abe felt him starting to shake underneath his knees.

"If you want to play Yakuza, boy, at least look the part better."

Abe aimed the gun on the boy's head.

"Please don't hurt me. T-t-there's no more bullets in the pistol."

Abe ejected the magazine and looked in. He was right. The magazine was empty, as was the Colt's chamber.

"I can still bash your head in with it," he said, flipping the gun so that he held it like a club. "You're just lucky that I'm in a forgiving mood tonight. Answer me one quick question: The Koreans and the other foreigner gangsters. Where do they congregate?"

---

"Tools. A shovel is a tool. An axe is a tool. A calculator is a tool. A pen is a tool. A gun is a tool. Tools have one purpose in their existence - to serve the purpose they were created for. Many forget, that revolution is also a tool. It is a way to achieve one' goal and nothing more or less. However, many seem to forget that using tools for destruction is much easier than using them for construction. As it is, many other socialists have deemed the 'Worker' Revolution' the breaker of chains and freedom incarnate for the working man against the burgeoise. This is flawed on the simple fact, that any person is a worker themselves. Even the highest manager of a company, is working for his money. Although his skills are more in the field of intelligence than physical by then. Thus, the more radical socialists invoke the idea of killing one type of worker for the benefit of the other workers."

"In that same regard, many others seem to forget - that after a revolution, things need to rebuild and remade. One can change the use of a tool, but one can't change the nature of a human being. Many such post-Worker Revolution states are thus, very unstable in small part because those who take over after the carnage are no better equipped to handle the running of a state than those they overthrew. In rare cases this might be the opposite, yet rarely. Thus, this is why many post-Revolution states are often so violent and hostile. Not because of socialist ideals but due to a lack of simple human intelligence."

"I do belief in socialist ideals - yet I honestly believe any 'Revolution' such be a social one. Namely, the entire spectrum of a population should be involved in change. Both the very poor and very rich, anything less would marginalize the people against one another - and simply replace one system with another, without fixing the problems inside of that system."

"This is why I state that a Revolution is a tool. It can achieve great good, as shown in the Industrial Revolution - but it can go awry due to human nature, as many state in the new industrial showed in their poor living conditions and meager wages. Like a gun, it can be used for good or bad. Ideas as well, are tools of the mind. Used well, they can be a force of great good. Or mis-used and they can be utilized to oppress the people even further. Once a goal has been achieved, one needs to change the tool used or switch to another one. A Worker' Revolution requires for a Social Revolution to follow - otherwise, human nature will dictate that those in power, will be as corrupt and oppressive as those they had replaced..."

---

The Arkhangelsk Guards Army, the namely official defending forces of the ASU after the collapse of Imperial Russia, was currently practicing their soldiery skills in the vast snowy wastes of the country. Namely, while they weren't as vast as the others - they still had a good deal of ex-Imperial Army soldiers in their ranks. Men whom had decided to stay instead of flee to Petrograd. They had seen enough of the former Tsar' policies - the bloody hunt for socialists and communists, be they innocent or guilty, minority or Russian - to the point, that it bordered on oppression.

Instead, they had decided to remain in lands that were cold yet vast and beautiful. Plus, after the Rebellions, they couldn't namely return even if they wanted - the Imperial Forces had made it quite clear how they treated traitors. Also, despite living under a 'Socialist Union' the state they protected wasn't much socialist compared to some of the current countries in the world. The ASU was more 'cooperative democracy' than anything bordering on socialism. The fancy names and titles, were simply a byproduct - as they were easy to use and manage - and wouldn't get mixed up with Imperial ranks, in case they needed to fight the other Russian factions.

The AGA while small, was organized to be better trained and disciplined - so they wouldn't grumble like they had done against the German Army in the Great War. A soldier in the Guards Army, knew what he was fighting for, knew his brothers and his officers and would be required to give his best. In exchange, his standard of living was modest yet good - plus his pay was a step above, what had been provided in the Imperial Army - as well as his gear. They were namely, trained in guerilla and cold-weather warfare - the AGA had no desire for expansion or conflict with its neighbors, but was prepared for it, if they needed it.

For the most part, they were practicing with grenades - ammunition being scarce as it was, meant they had to enhance their combat multiplier potential. Or in layman terms, they had to punch more than their opposition - Arkhangelsk lacked the industry for heavy equipment. While a small munitions factory was being build in the main city, it would take some time to get it up and running - and even then, it wouldn't allow them to waste ammunition like crazy.

For a soldier in the Arkhangelsk Guards Army, every shot was meant to count and to kill. For grenades, they utilized currently dummy-grenades, or simply potatoes with stuffed blanks in them. A great way to test the throwing arm of their soldiers, while also simulating the 'pop' of a grenade.

"Alright, Comrades. Ready, ignite, THROW!" yelled their instructor, Sergeant Leprenkov. As everyone was made to prepare their 'grenade', ignite it near the lit torch, to stimulate pulling the pin and then throw it into the designated hole in the snow. So far, so good it had gone - until they heard the 'dreaded' splat from nearby.

Namely, one Private had dropped his grenade - having had the blank 'detonate' and namely shower the young guy in namely potato bits. "Bah! Yuri you idiot! If that was a real grenade, you would have killed yourself and half your squad. Twenty push-ups right now. Get your hand in straight, never drop a grenade when you have pulled the pin. Better throw it out now, then have it detonate nearby. Would you rather lose some bits of your uniform or half of your arm or leg?"

Leprenkov replied to the silence, by spitting into the snow and asking them to repeat the task. As far as things went, it could be worse - at least they had something approaching to an organized army. While it wasn't much, it was better than relying on the 'Will of the People' for protection. As things went, regular people were more afraid to die - if they had something deep to lose. They could only be relied upon, when things were bad enough that the enemy was at their doorstep. It meant, that while Arkhangelsk had a small population, a large portion of it had a rifle and at least twenty shots worth of ammunition with it and had been trained in how to use it.

Although, it also meant - they would only be utilized in a time of deep crisis - until that day came, the defense of the people was in the hands of people like Polkovnik Marakov, Sergeant Leprenkov and young fools like Private Yuri. Still all things considered, they were at least willing to lay down their life for this - instead of chasing around their own people and killing them like dogs, in some perverse hope that they caught a communist.

Night was beginning to fall across Ibiza and the gas lights in the town centre flared to life one by one, their soft yellow glow falling across the wide arches and tapered white columns that ran around the edge of the square, enclosing it on three sides. Small balconies on the second floor began to fill with day labourers as they returned home to push open the wooden doors, allowing a flood of cool evening air rolling in off the ocean to push away the days heat. A small fountain burbled happily at the centre of the square, filling the whole space with its gentle sound.

For Diego Marcilla it was the end of a long week working the waterfront where the ocean liners came and went, their swarms of passengers like a very tide themselves as they engulfed the town during the day before draining away at night. His feet were sore from standing all day and his brain hurt from speaking English for so long. It was not his native tongue and it was always a chore for hours a day.

He passed a Policia Municipal car, the two officers assigned to it reclining in small metal chairs outside a little cafe, half finished pints of beer in front of them, hats casually slung into the spare seats. It was a far cry from the images he had seen from Madrid of the heavily armed police and soldiers on every corner. He waved at the two and both smiled back, one raising his glass in a small toast. Nothing really changed on Ibiza.

"Diego!" The voice that hailed him was the sweetest sound he had ever heard, and the only thing that brought him this far from his home every Friday. The girl who hailed him was seated at a small two person table beneath the spreading branches of a large almond tree. She was short, perhaps no more than five foot, three inches, her black hair pulled back into a ponytail, chocolate brown eyes almost as bright as her pearl white smile.

"Hola, Isabel!" He responded with a smile of his own. The two had been seeing each other for near on a month now and he could not remember being so happy. Diego had been born on Ibiza and never left the Island. Isabel on the other hand hailed from Valencia, which might as well have been the United States for how far it was in Diego's imagination.

"How was work?" She asked, standing as he approached. They exchanged a quick greeting, a kiss on either cheek, before sitting again. Diego couldn't help but notice how Isabel smelled like a rose. She looked like one, beautiful and delicate.

"It was fine, thank you." He sat back in his chair, holding up one finger as he made eye contact with a watchful bar tender. "There was a British ship in the harbour today and they were demanding, as always." She was staring intently at him as she always did when he spoke and he realized just how she made him feel as though no one else mattered when they were together.

"You smell lovely, by the way." He said the words and instantly regretted them, for they sounded lame in his own ears. She didn't seem to mind however and offered him her dazzling smile.

"Thank you! Mamma brought me back some perfume from Valencia." Isabel's mother managed the only bank on the Island. Her family were Jews and, like anyone of the non-Catholic faith, were tolerated as long as they paid an extra tax. Anyone who wasn't Muslim that is.

The waiter arrived with Diego's beer and he took a long drink. Isabel sipped on the wine she already had, glancing around happily at the square as it slowly began to fill with other workers coming home to begin their weekend. This portion of the town was home to mostly young and single professionals. The old king had encouraged men and women alike to seek education and improve themselves, it seemed the new Viceroy had no desire to reverse that decision and so a young woman like Isabel could live alone and work anywhere in Spain, something the older men of the Kingdom still struggled with.

"Are you still thinking of returning to the mainland?" Diego asked finally. Isabel had talked of returning to Valencia and he did not want to lose her, nor had ever considered going with her. "Soon, I mean." He added hastily when she smiled shyly at him.

"Maybe..." She said teasingly. The two were as serious as you could be without actually having sex. She was open to the idea, and he knew she had before, but he was a strict Catholic and knew that God would never forgive him. On more than one occasion she had pushed him on the subject and he almost given in, there was no doubt she was beautiful and he would be lucky to find a wife like her. Once she had stripped slowly in front of him and touched herself until he had to hurry from the room before his will broke completely.

The two policemen, their drinks finished, were half sitting, half leaning, on the hood of their car watching the ever growing crowd in the square. One of them caught Diego's eye and raised a mischievous eyebrow at him. Everyone knew everyone else's business in such a small town and the policemen could hardly have failed to notice the budding romance. Diego felt himself flush red and looked away quickly, very glad that the fading light hid the colour change from Isabel.

"Do you have to decide soon?" He asked earnestly. Isabel had talked of attending the University in Valencia, or maybe even Madrid, and Diego knew that she had to apply soon or she might lose her chance. If she did, she would leave, and he did not know what he would do without her.

Isabel nodded. "Mhm. Mamma says I should decide in the next week or so." She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear as a stiff breeze began to blow in from the ocean, the first breath cool against the heat still rising from the tiles. "It is a big step of course."

Diego could tell she was holding something back but he didn't pry, he never pried. He knew that she would eventually tell him what was on her mind, if she wanted to. He was acutely aware of her small breasts pressing against her white shirt now, the cool air making her nipples stand out against the cloth.

"I even thought of becoming a Police Officer." She said slowly and he felt his jaw drop, nipples forgotten.

"You? A policeman, why?!" He asked, speaking louder than he had intended but she didn't seem to notice.

"I don't know really, but I like helping people, and let's be honest, they don't seem to work very hard sometimes." She gestured to where the two officers were now flirting with a pair of young women freshly arrived from their day of selling horseback tours into the Island interior.

Diego opened his mouth to protest, then shut it quickly as he actually thought about what she had said. Isabel was certainly far more adventurous than he was, and given the opportunities he was certain she would go far in whatever field she chose. She was watching him carefully out of the corner of her eye and he knew he should something.

"I think you will be amazing, no matter what you do." Even as he said the words he knew that he would one day lose her, and he was sad for that. She read his face and reached across the table, one hand gently taking his and holding it until he finally looked up at her.

"Thank you Diego. That is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me." She swallowed and he realized that she was just as nervous about this conversation now as he was. "Perhaps you would consider coming with me?"

His initial reaction was to say no, refuse her at once, but he restrained himself. He loved Ibiza, the Island, the town, the people, his family, all of them, but he had never known anything else. For nineteen years he had lived in splendid isolation, insulated from the wider world beyond. He had seen the newspapers, listened to the radio, and wondered what Madrid would be like. Would it be huge? Was Delgado as scary as people said he was? Was there actually a library the size of Ibiza? Maybe he could fly a plane, see the King and Queen in person, people said they were beautiful. In that moment he felt something stir inside him, a surge of excitement and even hope at the idea of going with her.

He squeezed the small hand that was holding his and smiled. "Perhaps I will."

Porto, Spain - August 02, 1960

Juan Carlos, King of Spain, sat in the left hand side of the swiftly moving staff car, a miserable shell of a man who smiled fraudulently at the waving crowds as he passed by. Beside him, cold and untouchable as she had been since the day they married, sat his Queen, her own smile broad and happy as she waved to the enthusiastic crowd. It was their first trip outside Madrid as a married couple and she had chosen Porto.

"They are due for some happiness after all the horror they have seen." She had declared hotly when he tried to protest. Porto had been, after all, the epicentre of Portuguese resistance.

That resistance had been brutally crushed by Spanish troops. Any man who carried a weapon in the streets of Portugal out of uniform was shot on sight. Those who resisted were arrested and their families with them, all of them vanishing the back of black vans, now known locally as "The Crows". Anyone who was dragged screaming into the vehicles were never seen again and slowly the resistance had begun to wane as people came to fear the Spanish more than they hated them.

The hatred lingered of course and that was why the Queen had chosen Porto for their visit. Her own popularity with the Portuguese people had not diminished with her marriage to the Juan, in fact many seemed to feel she had been forced in to it. Others even suggested that she was protecting the Portuguese population as many of the harshest measures taken by the Spanish, like an early curfew, shooting anyone on sight who failed to move out of the way of their convoys, all ended when she became Queen. Even the Spanish people themselves had been horrified by the shootings and now enthusiastically supported their new Queen.

"They already love you..." Juan had grumbled and then shrunk away as she turned on him with a snarl.

"Well if you were half a man you might have put a stop to the reprisals!" She had screamed the words at him in their bedroom, a bedroom that was increasingly like a battleground.

"I don't control the army!" He had retorted, his own temper rising, it was unfair that she even suggest he had anything to do with the actions of Spains troops.

"You could have appealed to Delgado, I did, and look how it stopped. You're just a coward!" She had turned way before he could respond and he knew, deep down, that she was right. He was terrified of Delgado, and, truth be told, he held his new wife in the same regard.

And so they found themselves driving through the main thoroughfare of Porto in an open topped staff car with heavily armed Cazadores in front and behind, ever watchful of the crowd. It seemed that most people were in a forgiving mood despite what had happened in the city, or it was at least an excuse to cut loose as more than half of those present seemed quite intoxicated and they pushed and shoved, trying to reach out and touch the car as it passed.

The square was huge, large enough to fit several thousand people, fringed on all sides by small cafes and shops that had only recently reopened for business. Children sat on their parents shoulders to wave at the Royalty and a few people tossed flowers in front of the vehicle as they went. It was a far cry from back to normal but at least the city no longer felt as though it was cowering.

As they approached the centre of the square, coming abreast of a massive fountain that bore some Portuguese saint on it, Juan glanced to his right just in time to see three men shove their way to the front of the crowd. They glared at the vehicle, making it clear that they bore its occupants no love. Nor were they alone, while many waved and called greetings, others cursed and swore, it was a strange mix. To Juan's amazement, two of the men he was staring at drew submachine guns, the third a revolver, from beneath their coats, and he barely had time to duck down before they opened fire on the car.

As the first bullets hammered into the Royal car, another engine roared from deeper in the square and screams sounded as a van tore through the crowd and slammed into the leading Cazadore vehicle, hitting it so hard that it toppled over onto its side, pinning a Cazadore beneath it. The mans screams were audible even above the gunfire

Bullets shattered the windscreen, the side mirrors, and tore away the drivers hat even as he swore and clapped a hand to his neck as blood sprang from a bullet strike. Panic spread through the crowd and they began to stampede, pushing and shoving to get away from the shooting. Some fell as the attackers bullets missed and tore into the crowd. Then more shooting as the Cazadores engaged the attackers in a hail of gunfire that cut the three gunmen down. The attackers vehicle meanwhile had come to a halt, its engine smashed, and three men leapt from it, drawing more weapons as they ran toward the Royal couple.

Juan could only stare about in terror at the chaos unfolding around him. Next to him, her eyes wide and her face white, Mariana crouched beneath the edge of the armoured door panel. She was in the safest place of all, the attackers were not close enough to the vehicle to be able to direct their shots down at her, but more than a few had narrowly missed the King.

As the three new attackers advanced, one was tackled by a Cazadore who had emerged from the wrecked police vehicle, blood streaming down his face. A second died as a burst of machine gun fire from the rear vehicle cut him nearly in half. The third managed to evade the gunfire however, and leapt up onto the hood of the staff car, which had slowed, aiming his revolver at Juan even as his other hand gripped the broken frame of the windshield.

Hatred gleamed from dark eyes as they stared down the barrel of the revolver as the King locked eyes with his assassin. The man couldn't have been a day older than Juan, perhaps twenty, perhaps younger. His lips were peeled back from his teeth in a snarl, his eyes were impossibly wide, and behind the hatred Juan could see his own fear as if looking in to a mirror. The man blinked once, seemed to hesitate, and then pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

A thin white finger pulled desperately on the trigger again and Juan felt himself flinch even as he heard the click of the hammer slamming home. He had expected a bullet, but no pain shot through him. The driver, hand still gripping his neck, stomped on the brake peddle just as the gunman gave a scream of dismay and aimed the revolver again. The abrupt stop sent the gunman toppling over onto the roadway in front of the vehicle and before he could stand the driver shifted into gear and slammed the heavy car over top of him. The sound of bones breaking lost beneath the screams of hundreds of onlookers.

An instant later the car was surrounded by Cazadores as they exchanged rounds with two other attackers who appeared to have arrived late to the party. One died, the other falling with a bullet in his spine before the Cazadores seized him and dragged him toward their vehicle. All of the gunmen appeared to be young and they were no soldiers, their gunfire was poorly aimed and they shot indiscriminately into the crowd or at the police who protected the King and Queen.

The square emptied quickly and the screaming slowly died away. It seemed almost silent save for the moans of the man pinned beneath the heavy staff car. The Royal Couple were miraculously unharmed but their driver, his frantic motions having possibly saved their lives, could not save his own, and died in the blood soaked drivers seat before help could reach him. The Cazadore who had been pinned when his car was hit died as well, along with two others who had been hit while shielding the Royal couple with their bodies.

Around them the square was dotted with the bodies of fallen civilians, hit in the exchange of gunfire. Some cried for help, others simply stared in muted horror at their wounds. The distant sound of sirens heralded the approach of ambulances and reinforcements as those police in the motorcade formed a perimeter around the Royal couple.

Juan has pissed himself and he glanced up to see Mariana staring at him in disgust. She was shaken but unharmed and, before he could speak, she pushed open the door of the car and stepped onto the blood soaked street. A Cazadore protested but she waved away his words as she knelt next to one of his wounded comrades and spoke quietly to the man, taking his hand in hers and shaking it.

She moved among the Cazadores, wounded or not, thanking them, even as they closed their protective screen around her. Juan, still crouched in the bottom of his bullet riddled car, watched how the policemen smiled at her and bowed low when she thanked them. He knew it should be him out there, being a leader, showing his subjects how he appreciated him, but all he could do was slowly sink into a sitting position and begin to cry.

Urajiosutoku
5:23 AM

Nagumo Kishimoto walked down the deserted streets with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slouched. Even though he'd been off duty since midnight, Nagumo still wore his leather bomber jacket with the IJN flag on the right shoulder and his name and rank under the left breast pocket. In the hip pocket of his khaki trousers was an empty flask he was looking to get filled.

The bars the city had all closed two hours earlier, but Nagumo managed to get the flask filled with western whiskey before the bar closed, but now it was was bone dry. Bone dry seemed to be an accurate description of the town at that moment. The neon lights that usually advertised the nightlife attractions in both Kanji and Cyrillic were off, leaving the street eerily dark. All lights were out but one. At the dark end of the street sat a two story building with a marquee above it. The sign was supposed to read "The Mad Monk" in both languages, but the Cyrillic letters had started to burn out so that it read as "T e ad M nk." To Nagumo, it was symbolic of the Empire's gradual but unrelenting "Japanization" of colonial territory.

Turning his collar up, he rapped on the door of the Mad Monk and waited. Thirty seconds later, the door swung in and a short, stocky Eurasian man with a shabby suit and even shabbier toupee stared up at him with an annoyed look on his face. Nagumo passed the man two thousand yen. The feeling of cash in his hands turned the Eurasian's annoyance to joy, or at least faux joy. He greeted Nagumo like an old friend in clipped Japanese before stepping aside to let him in.

The Mad Monk's interior was equal parts memorial and museum. The double-headed eagle of the Russian Empire was proudly displayed on the far wall of the bar. The rest of the walls were covered in nostalgia. Black and white photos of the pre-war days of Russia were hung on every inch of the wall. Photos of children at play, weddings, soldiers marching, and of course photos of the royal family. Next to the bathroom was a dartboard. On it was a photograph of another Russian, some communist agitator whose name Nagumo couldn't remember. A tight grouping of darts covered the man's forehead and face.

The centerpiece of the place was behind the bar. A giant photo of a wild, big bearded man dressed in a Russian Orthodox frock hung on the wall, his hands spread in an obvious attempt to draw Christlike comparisons. The hypnotic eyes of Grigori Rasputin seemed to follow Nagumo's every movement through the bar. On the shelf beneath the photo was a jar that contained an immense penis preserved in fluid. Nagumo turned away from the bar and looked across the tables in the room.

One look at the late night clientele at the Mad Monk could explain why the interior of the bar seemed to flaunt its defiance of Japanization policy with its blatant tributes to Imperial Russia. Nagumo counted at least half of Vice Admiral Hoga's staff among those at the tables, having one last drink before the sun rose. Along with them were upper-level army officers, government administrators, and a smattering Russian and Eurasian collaborators and gangsters. The Mad Monk was where they all gathered for a stiff drink after the bars had closed. Everyone who was someone in the city had a vested interest in seeing this bar stay open.

And the Tsarina knew it.

Nina stood behind the bar, sizing Nagumo up with her blue eyes as he sat down on the barstool. He was only one of two men who hadn't opted to sit at a table. His other companion rested face down on the wooden surface, a half empty glass of vodka beside his outstretched right hand and drool puddled by his face. Nagumo gave her a smile as she approached him. She was beautiful in a lot of ways. Just not conventionally. Not any more.

She had long dark hair and high cheekbones, a mixture of European and Asian ancestry that favored the European side heavily. Two long scars ran down her face from the left side of her forehead down across her nose and cheek before they stopped on the right side of her chin. There were rumors that she had once been a whore in Moscow whose pimp had carved her face up. Another rumor said that she fought in the war and the scars were from shrapnel. Yet another rumor said that a Japanese soldier's katana had done the job. The rumor went on to say that she killed the man with the very same blade that had scarred her.

"Your Lordship," she said. "Drinking this morning?"

Nagumo winced at her pronunciation. "I'd forgotten how bad your Japanese was."

"It's not as bad and as awkward as your Russian," she said in her native tongue.

"True, this is. Continue to work on it I shall. Progress slowly I make."

"Why must you butcher such a beautiful language, for god's sake!"

Nagumo laughed before returning back to Japanese. "Also, your sign out front needs new letters."

"So, did you come in here just to crawl up my ass, Your Lordship, or can I get you a fucking drink?"

Nagumo ordered two shots of sake. When she placed them in front of him, he slid the second shot towards Nina.

"Prefer vodka."

"You Russians are fifty percent vodka."

"And you, Nagumo, are eighty percent bullshit."

They clinked shot glasses and quickly downed the sake. Nagumo ordered two shots of vodka for a second round. When they were finished, he slid the empty glass across the bar. Nina collected it and stepped away to serve a waiting army officer.

"Lieutenant Commander."

Nagumo turned when he heard someone address him by his rank. The Eurasian man with the shaved head leaned against the bar next to Nagumo and smiled. He wore all white and carried a white porkpie hat in his hand.

"Boris," said Nagumo. "How goes the gambling business?"

"As long as your fellow Japs are dumb enough to play my games on payday, then business will always be good to me."

"Something I can help you with?"

Boris smiled.

"Heard a rumor. There was supposedly some kind of breakout from the Farm yesterday. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that?"

"No," Nagumo said in a slow and measured tone. "I have no idea what you're talking about. And whatever the Farm is, it does not exist. And if it did, then it is not sanctioned by the Imperial Japanese government."

A smile broke out across Boris' face. It was a jagged thing that carried very little warmth with it.

"You should come to some of my games, Nagumo. I run a Mahjong game every Friday. Winner gets twenty thousand yen. We have Pai gow and American poker. I'm working with some of people in Japan on getting a few Pachinko machines as well."

"Duly noted," said Nagumo. "I'll take all that into consideration."

Boris flashed another smile and stepped away from the bar. A small square piece of paper rested where he had been leaning. Nagumo palmed the paper before slipping it into his jacket pocket. He watched Nina give the young army officer four bottles of beer. He thanked her without making eye contact and hurried back to the table where his friend's waited.

"You know," she said once she returned. "With the way your people love to visit the comfort stations, I'm surprised how much soldiers avoid me so."

"With the prostitutes there are clear lines," said Nagumo. "Boundaries. With you, nothing is clearly defined. Plus I think they are afraid of you."

"The scars?" It didn't come out as a question. She'd already made her mind up.

Nagumo shrugged. "Part of it, I suppose. But it is also your general attitude. The way your carry yourself. Hard as nails. It's intimidating. There is a reason they call you the Tsarina."

She laughed and swept a loose piece of her hair away from her face.

"Well, then my plan is working. But you don't avoid me, Your Lordship. Why is that?"

"Because I like the attitude," said Nagumo. "Traditionally, Japanese men like subservient women."

"But you're not very traditional." Again, not a question. Just a stated fact.

"Take for example, your little pet name for me. Every other woman who has found out about my peerage suddenly acts as if I am the Emperor."

"It's just a title," said Nina. She reached behind the counter and pulled the sake bottle back out. She filled two more glasses and one she passed to Nagumo. "Only words."

"The decorations in the bar seem to imply otherwise," Nagumo said after he downed the shot of sake.

"The previous owner," she said. "But I like it. There is something powerful about the longing of the days of the past. Nostalgia is as powerful as any liquor. All I added was the Rasputin part."

"Where does one find a pickled cock?"

Nina raised her eyebrow so high it almost touched her hairline. "In Russia? You'd be surprised."

Nagumo nodded and begged her off as she began to pour another shot for him.

"No more."

"As you wish. So, let's see: Four shots of sake and two shots of vodka. That will be one hundred yen."

"Damn," Nagumo said as he started to pat the pockets of his jacket. "I gave the last of my money to your friend at the door. The one in denial about being bald."

"That's a shame," she said with the shake of her head. "I can't have people skipping out on their debts. It's bad for business. It makes the Tsarina look weak."

"Maybe we can work out a deal?" Nagumo asked with a grin. "I could work off the debt... I'm really good with my hands... and other kinds of manual labor."

Nina smiled and winked before crouching down behind the bar. When she stood up, she held a broom that she tossed to Nagumo.

"Get to sweeping, Your Lordship."

The Streets of Moscow

As the sun settled into the center of the sky, droves of people flocked around a large, square building in the center of Moscow. The sign overhead read "Bank", but the building had since been repurposed. Inside was where all the food shipments to the city were kept, under careful eye of armed guards. Every day, people lined up outside the building at noon, sacks in hand, waiting to get their grain ration for the day. Among the hundreds of hungry mouths stood a small child, no older than twelve, though looking about half that age, with an old pillow case draped over their bony shoulder. Their hair was long and wild, and as dark as the dirt caked to their skin.

When the line finally progressed enough for it to be the child's turn, they raised the bag, blue eyes looking at the soldiers expectantly. When the soldier dumped only one scoop of grain in the bag, the child looked confused, and raised it once more.

"I'm sorry. This week's shipment was raided by those damned bastards in Smolensk. Everyone must suffer this week because of them. I'm sorry, little girl."

After a small, lingering stare, the child lowered their bag, clenching it around the top, and began to walk away, dragging it behind them. Not soon after, they heard footsteps approaching, and turned to see a tall man without hair, head covered in tattoos. Instinctively, they dropped their bag, cowering, ready for the worst. Instead, they heard a pouring sound. As they opened their eyes, they saw the man pouring his own grain into their sack.

"Moscow needs you fit as can be, little one. We may be the ones fighting now, but the future belongs to you. Now hurry home. Not all who longer in these streets are so kind."

With a quick nod, and a quiet "Thank You!", the child turned around, sack slung over their shoulder, and ran home as fast as possible. The man simply watched as they ran, letting out a small chuckle.

"Was that really wise?" Came a voice from behind him, as a woman with a rifle slung over her back stepped out of the shadows.

"Wise, I don't know. But you saw that child. If they do not eat well, they won't make it to next year." The bald man said with a frown.

"If we don't eat, we won't make it to next year, Alexei." The woman replied with a grimmace.

"Yes, Katerina, but there's a hidden beauty you are not seeing. The woods are full of creatures that we can track down and kill, in order to have a bounty of meat that will last us through the spring!" Alexei said with a chuckle.

"Yes, BUT-" Katerina objected. "You forget, hunting is strictly forbidden to all but the army. Food must be divided equally. Tsars orders."

With that, a long smile slowly crept across Alexei's face. "Yes, my dear, but you forget… The forests to the North are not we'll guarded, as well as not out of bounds. Even if we get caught, we can just act as if we are Arkhangelsk residents, and go about our merry way. There are many ways around the law these days. We might as well make the best out of them as we can, no?"

"Alexei, you cunning fox." Katerina laughed. "You better get a move on. I'm not eating moldy hardtack again if I can help it."

"As you command." Alexei said with a bow, before turning, and heading down an alleyway, with Katerina in tow.

Inside the Kremlin, Moscow

Heavy footfalls echoed throughout the building, as the steel toed boots of the Tsar met the tiled floors of the hallway she sped down. A gaggle of advisors followed closely in tow, the chorus of a hundred pencils, all writing at once announcing their presence.

"Now tell me, how is the food situation in the city this week?" Came the stern voice of Moscow and Tsar from a face that didn't quite seem to match it. "I know those damn Smolensk bastards raided us again."

"Y-yes ma'am!" Stuttered a reply from a boy that looked to be half the Tsars age. "If the reports are right… It's going to b-be another rough week.

The Tsar stopped short, turning to the boy and making him cower instinctively. "Well, don't we have any more food in reserves that we can give out??"

"N-no ma'am. We're a-all out. This is the sixth raid this month. Th-the generals say it will only get worse, and that we should take action if w-we want to stop it."

"Yes, and I've told those old fucks time and time again. If we divert men to fight Smolensk, then we risk losing the St Petersburg front! The last thing we need is the "proper Tsar" sending his armies at at while our backs are turned. We just don't have the capacity to fight two fronts right now."

"Well, ma'am." Came a different voice from the back. "There is always the Ruthenia Plan."

The Tsar stopped, her hawkish eyes softening for a moment as she pondered the thought. "Yes…" she finally replied. "If we were to ally with Ukraine, we certainly would stop seeing such horrendous good shortages. Though it would mean losing them as a territory once we win the war…"

"With all due respect, ma'am." Came the same voice. "If we keep having these food shortages, the only way we'll win this war is if our enemies all freeze to death in the winter. The Hetman only asks for recognition of her people's independence. If you do that, then Moscow will have all the food it needs. The Ukrainians guard their trade shipments well."

After a long silence, the Tsar finally spoke. "Fine. Nervous boy, prepare my study. I need to write a letter to the Hetman post haste. You, confident woman. Find the chief of radio. I'm going to broadcast my formal recognition of the Hetman and her government. I know most of our own people will not hear it but… the rest of Russia needs to know. Moscow will do what need to be done to win this war."

"Yes ma'am!" The two said in unison, before splitting off in different directions. The Tsar watched them go as well as she could, before taking a seaton a small bench,and looking out a window.

"Ukraine, hm? Who would have thought." She muttered as she watched a pair of birds fly in front of her.

The motorbike peeled over dry empty Steppe tracing the river bank. It snaked on through the flat breathless expanse slow and shimmering bright. The water glittered with silver pieces. Its presence contrasted against the dry emptiness of the Kazakh steppe like a blemmish.

After several hours, the pair came to a stop by some rocks. Their stomachs grumbling from hunger. Pulling to the side they came up to an area of broken ground were the exposed boulders, jutting out black and dark cast shadows from the mid-evening sun. Immediately off to their side the river's bank lapped against gravel and rock as the water flowed past. Dismounting the bikes, Guo was the first to step out, his shoes grinding in the gravel. He groaned languidly as he twisted his back this way and that, his spine cracking at every twist.

“We should probably fill it up.” he said.

“We can do that later.” Chao said, lifting himself out of the side guard. He walked to the bike's saddle bags and begin searching for the food.

“How long has it been since we've seen another person?” Guo asked stepping to the river bank. He came up to where the water was just before his toes.

“Why do you ask?” responded Chao

Guo combed his fingers through his shaggy beard, “It's strange.” he said, “How many days has it been? We haven't really ever seen a single soul. Not since the town, but we never hung around to talk to anyone. What's going on in this country? Is there anything going on?” he wondered.

“I don't know. Perhaps it's one of those places.” Chao said back, producing some pieces of paper-wrapped food, stale bread and dry rice. “Come on, let's get something read to eat.” he beckoned, heading off towards the rocks. “Fill the pot with water too and we'll see if we can get something to eat.” he added.

Guo begrudgingly did as he was asked. The pot was kept in the bag on the opposite side of the side-car. It was banged up and dented, the finish was beginning to wear and its luster was fading or straight up gone along the edges, leaving a dull rough spot. He dunked it in the water and scoured when the water he pulled up was muddy with a faint tan tint to it. But it would have to do.

He carried it over to Chao who was beginning clearing a space in the dry grass. Pulling up the dry blades and piling it up with small twigs to make the beginnings of a small fire. Guo put down the pot and went over to the bike for more kindling and pulled out some odd bits of wood they had held onto for the purpose of a fire. With the piece of wood set down, Chao struck a flint and lit the fire. It crackled and popped nervously before slowly growing to take up the grass. The pieces of wood were gentle placed in, and the fire caught. Over it, the pot was placed and the rice poured in.

The pot wasn't very large, and it made Guo's stomach growl to look at it. But now it was on the fire and on its way to boiling he joined Chao by the rocks, where he was unwrapping one of the pieces of stale flat bread.

“Not much, but oh well.” Chao said handing over a piece.

Guo sighed. A part of him felt defeated, like a prisoner. Only taking the patterns to stay alive. He missed the moments of hearty meal. As he gnawed on his stale bread he looked over at Chao who looked content leaning against the dark boulder.

“How can you take it?” he asked.

He looked over at him, a brow half cocked questioningly. “Excuse me?” he asked.

“How can you take this? The stale bread, the road to no where. Chao, do you even know where we are? How far we are from home?”

Chao considered the question for a moment. And between bites sighed, “I really don't know.” he took another bite and thought about the questions as he chewed. We're somewhere in the middle of no where. Maybe a thousand miles from home. But somehow I just feel... free.”

“You're going to tell me you're free, here?”

Chao nodded, “Look at this way, and I've been thinking about this on our way out here: We've freed ourselves from tradition, from the expectation of our communities. With only ourselves, we're fully responsible for what we're doing. We are free right now. This is what the Unionist Party wants.”

Guo shook his head, “I don't think you get it. We need those people. Chao, we're not free right now. We're in danger.”

“And we'll take it in stride.”

“How much food do we have?” asked Guo.

“Enough.” responded Chao.

“Enough? And how much is enough. I don't think we have enough fucking fuel for another fire! We're going to be eating our rice dry from here on out soon!” protested Guo.

“Has it hurt anyone before?” Chao asked Guo and Guo threw up his hands shouting.

“For fucks sakes, you're taking this all too comfortably, aren't you?” he asked, “We don't have any reason to be out here!”

Chao looked over at his companion and laughed, “And here you are too.” he reminded him.

“For fucks sake.” he groaned. Chao laughed.

“By the way, have you seen the boulder?” Chao said after a moment of silence.

“What about it?” Guo asked, still bitter. He looked over to Chao pointing at the boulder sticking out of the raised ground behind him. In the fire light cast through the shadow he could see what looked like scratchings in the rock.

He looked over at his companion and asked, “What about it?”

“Look closer” he said. So Guo did.

Faintly carved into the bare stone faint images of men and animals could be seen etched into the barren rock. Wind and erosion had softened the figures, but the stone underneath the surface was subtly cleaner, lighter. By only a few shades there was a difference between light and dark that made images in the course dark stone. He looked up and around them, all across the exposed surface of the rock there were more images, many more.

“What the hell?” wondered Guo, aloud.

“I noticed them when we first stopped.” Chao said, “I wondered if you would notice. Over here too.” he said standing up. He lead Guo across to another set of outcropped rock, dark and brown. They passed the rice, which was beginning to steam and bubble on a low flame. Here too were images of animals and stick figure men, accompanied by some script, unreadable and ancient.

“Where are we?” asked Guo as he stood before the rocks.

“I don't know, I wanted to check it out before the sun set completely.” Chao said.

“I should have a flash light. At least I think I do.” Guo responded. He had to admit, he was all of a little fascinated all of a sudden looking at the simple carvings.

“I think this, this is why I wanted to get out. Wasn't this your reason too when we set out?” Chao asked.

“Well I... I don't know. I never expected to cross the border though!” Guo said.

“What was it Hou said, all men are family?”

“I mean sure, but what does that mean for us?” asked Guo.

“I don't think we ever truly left China, I don't think we left anywhere.”

Guo sat down to ponder. Chao followed suit. Both took either side of the fire and sat quietly as the rest of the water boiled away or was absorbed by the rice, what was left of the water was left as a starchy film that bubbled from the packed and wet rice at the bottom. By this point, the fire had died away and was a weak glowing pile of coals. Chao threw a few odd rocks and debris onto the hot coals.

As the water boiled off in the pot they let it cool. The sun was setting and the light that spilled out over the world was deep and purple. The air became cooler, and towards the light of their smoldering fire silver-white moths fluttered in close. Before all the light could fade however, Chao stood up and walked to the bike and rummaged through the bags and took out a flashlight. After some fighting, the weak amber glow of the bulb flickered on and he returned to the low fire. “Want to walk and eat for a little?” he asked.

“Why?” Guo asked.

“I wanted to check this out further. Come on.” he said, waving the flash light. Guo stuttered and finally rose to his feet and snatched the pot by its bent handles. Together they walked off into the darkening wilderness.

Flashlight beam scanning the rocks and the outcroppings of rock jutting from the ground they looked over bands of ancient writing carved into the rock, accompanied by animal and human carvings. As they went, both dove their hands into the pot and took out clumps of lukewarm rice in their fists and ate. Stopping to look up at the glistening bands of carved rock in the beam of their flashlight.

Coming to a jumble of wayward stones and boulders on the ground they stopped and looked down on living accurate, finely details images of the Buddha with halo. They hung the light on the sleepy image of the ancient prince with his hand raised in a gesture of blessing. “What do you think about when we're on the move?” Chao asked Guo as they stood there. Guo, mid-bite took a moment to answer.

“What do I think about? Home, mostly. I think. I think about the smell of morning tea, and not gasoline fumes. I think about a warm bath, and not being so full of dirt and grime, or naked dips in cold ponds. Mom's dumplings, father's stories, and my cousin's jokes.”

Chao nodded. “Is this what you were talking about earlier?” Guo asked.

Chao shrugged, “I think so.” he said.

“You think so?” Guo asked.

“Yeah, but... Listen, you ever had a thought but didn't know how to talk about it?” Chao asked.

“Back in university, on every other essay.” laughed Guo. Chao also laughed.

“But, why limit ourselves?” Chao asked.

“Limit ourselves to what?”

“Limit ourselves, to home. To where we were. What makes staying in the same place so important.”

“Because we were born there, our parents were too. And we owe our parents reverence.” Guo chimed in, “It's where we're meant to be, where we were raised. We're made for where we're born. Here: what do we know about here.”

“But is the world too not just one large home for all everyone?” Chao responded, “So why stay where we were born. We do disrespect to our family if we do not return.”

“And will we? Will you?” Guo asked.

“I intend to.” Chao answered his question, squatting down in front of the largest rock with the largest Buddha.

“Alright, if you insist. But come on. Let's go back.”


Li Chao

July 9th, 2916. The year of the metal rat.

An unusual find on the road. I don't think we expected it. We were following this river down stream in the hopes of finding a crossing. The travel was harsh and difficult, we're mostly off road and both of our assess have been hurting. But I think we're able to bear the sores. We've been trading places far more often because of it. This has slowed us down. I don't think we made a quarter of what we would normally have done.

But we stopped at a place of outcroppings in the middle of the steppe. Some valley area, but I don't think that would do valleys justice. But settling down to boil that night's ration of rice I noticed the carvings on the rocks. Guo and I had an argument over what we were doing before I pointed them out. He must have been as struck by them as I, because he stopped. By the time the food was ready the sun was pretty low and the hour late, but I dug out the old flashlight and we walked off into the valley eating rice with our hands.

It's quite the wonder. It reminds me of a few places in China I've heard about and Guo doesn't seem to have heard of the thing. There's all sorts of images here, and I doubt we've seen them all before we headed back into camp. But there were carvings of the Buddha on some of the rocks, which has me thinking and comparing our trip to another.

I went to bed thinking about the Journey to the West and comparing ourselves to the Monkey King. Our worn green bike is like the White Dragon Horse, and we are like Sun Wukong. However, we are going much further west than those ancient characters, and we are not in search of any sage wisdom, or Buddhism. But my thoughts on waking now give me cause to reconsider our path to Africa.

We might be able to roughly retrace Wukong's route to India if we turn south and head into that direction. Except instead of passing into the country itself as the final destination we might find a way to sail to Ethiopia and meet my sister. It would simplify the journey, and we would otherwise have to cross Persia and Iraq and through Egypt south. No, I think finding a boat somewhere in India or Persia would be the best bet. I will need to take it up with Guo.

We have plenty of road ahead, so I don't think I will just yet. At some point I'll broach it with him, perhaps when we cross out of the country. I'm getting the idea he doesn't have much faith in the adventure (for lack of a better word) and would rather be home. But the fact he is preserving and hasn't abandoned me to the foreign world so far tells me he'll stick around. Now, if only he won't pick up complaining then we will be in the clear. But the future is ahead of us now, and all we have to do is press ahead.

Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department
1:21 PM

"So you're the big hotshot from Homicide?

Matsumoto looked up from the files on his desk. The man in front of him wore a yellow suit with a matching tie, black dress shirt and black cowboy boots with a black homburg hat with a yellow band around it. Sticking out the side of his mouth was a toothpick.

"Detective Inspector Fujita," he said with a smile that showed off several gold teeth. "Organized Crime Bureau."

"I didn't realize the OCB hired pimps."

"The flashy suits help with the Yakuza," said Fujita. "Makes them more open to talking. They think I'm like them."

"Your burden to bear," Matsumoto mumbled, turning back to the files.

Fujita grinned and pulled up a chair. He sat down and watched Matsumoto intently while the older man continued to read.

"This isn't a Yakuza thing," Fujita said after a few minutes of silence. "These four murders. They brought us in because of boys had rough pasts, but none of them had yet to join the Extreme Path."

"What makes you so sure?" Matsumoto asked with bothering to look up.

"Too young. They were probably in Guppy Gangs."

Matsumoto looked up at Fujita.

"What's that?"

"Ah," the Inspector said with a row of gold teeth flashing. "Something the great detective does not know. Guppy Gangs might be before your time in patrol. They're essentially farm leagues. Like how before a baseball player can play for the Yomiuri Giants, they have to play for the Osaka Haws."

"So before A Yakuza joins the Yamaguchi-gumi, they have to cut their teeth in a guppy gang?"

Fujita nodded his head and leaned back in his chair.

"Correct. They do muggings, pickpocket work, and a lot of petty theft. Boys from as young as six all the way up to nineteen. The best kids always go to the high profile gangs, with the lower tier clans getting table scraps and the bottom of the barrel."

"The rich get richer," Matsumoto mumbled.

It made sense based on the records of the four boys. Only one of them had no criminal history, but a knife recovered next to his body made it clear he'd been in the process of a robbery when he was shot. For the rest of the victims, their files read like the typical lives of Japanese delinquents. Arrests for fighting, muggings, and thefts all mixed together with corporal punishments and banishment to reformatories for wayward boys.

"The latest victim was caned for burglary just six months ago," said Fujita. "In a nice part of Tokyo. At sixteen, there's no way in hell he cased and broke into that place on his own."

"I saw," said Matsumoto. "Thirty lashes didn't seem to diminish his appetite for trouble, though."

"Nope." Fujita took his hat off and fanned it across his face. "But it seems he got more than he bargained for the other night."

"Is there a way to find out if any of these boys were in guppy gangs?" asked Matsumoto.

"Sure," replied Fujita. "We just can't tell the Undertaker."

"Why would we have to hide it from Superintendent Mori?"

"Because it involves finding a man wanted by TMP for a laundry list of charges and not arresting him."

Matsumoto paused before slowly nodding.

"If it means catching this killer, then I'll do what I have to."

Fujitia smiled. His metal teeth caught the light and they flashed across Matusmoto's vision as they booth stood.

"Then I shall lead the way, Sherlock-san."

---

Shinjuku Ward
1:58 PM

Matsumoto stared out the window while Fujita drove the unmarked police car through the streets. Traffic was at a standstill through most of the city. Both windows of the American Ford Florentine were down in a futile attempt to beat the heat. Matsumoto had chucked his sports coat and hat to the backseat, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Fujita had removed his hat, but he kept the rest of his expensive outfit intact. A sheet of sweat shined on his forehead.

"I have a question," Fujitia asked as he inched the car slowly forward.

"What is that?"

"Given what I know about you, Inspector, why is it you are still a simple DI? Your reputation in the TMP is well known. A man with your reputation should be on Mori's level or above at your current age."

"Politics," said Matsumoto. "It's complicated."

"Are you one of The Defeated? You're the right age."

Matsumoto ignored Fujita and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket.

"I am the youngest of three sons," said Fujita. "I was too young to fight in the war in China, but my older brothers fought. The oldest was shot down over Dalian. My other brother was one of The Defeated. I remember... I remember how you all were treated after returning home."

"It's gotten better," Matsumoto said softly. "As time fades, so does our sham. But it is a mark I will carry with me for the rest of my days. There is no way the TMP will have a coward as a high-ranking member of their police force."

Fujita moved the car forward slowly, not speaking as Matsumoto smoked his cigarette and thought of the past. He was spit on after returning home. Six months until his wife could manage to look him in the eye. Two years before they made love again. His mother finally spoke to him after a year. His father never spoke to him again, not even on his deathbed.

"What happened to your brother?" Matsumoto asked as he flicked his cigarette butt out the window.

"Three years after returning home, he took his own life. Since my parents had disowned him, I had to take care of his remains. He could not be buried in our family grave. The Imperial Army refused to give him a military ceremony. The officer I begged said that he my brother wanted an honorable death, then he was three years too late."

---

Kabukichō
2:30 PM

"What fresh hell is this?"

The fat man in the kimono sighed when he saw Matsumoto and Fujita at his door. He wore glasses and a trim mustache, a look of annoyance was on his face. Fujita stepped forward with his arms out and raised.

"It's been, what, three months, Hanzo? This is how you greet me."

"Your eyes should be brown, Fujita, since you're so full of shit."

Hanzo stepped aside and let the two detectives into his home. It wasn't much to look at, a one bedroom apartment above the noodle shop Hanzo ran, but according to Fujita it was the nerve center for the Tokyo guppy gangs. The fat man shuffled through the apartment and led them to a table and a grouping of mats. Hanzo sat and Matsumoto and Fujita followed suit.

"Hanzo-san is like the head of the guppy gangs, isn't that right?" Fujita asked.

"I suppose," Hanzo said with a shrug. "But if you ask, me I am more like a talent scout."

"Talent scouts don't kill each other in cold blood," said Matsumoto. "Inspector Fujita here was just catching me up on the gangland war you had five years ago. Six murders later, you emerge from the top of the heap."

Hanzo ran a thumbnail across his mustache. "I am simply a businessman. I'm no different than the Tokugawa clan. The streets aren't nearly as cutthroat as the board rooms, gentlemen."

"Simply look at these."

Matsumoto reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out four photographs. He laid them on the table in front of Hanzo. Three were mugshots of the young murdered men. The fourth was the one boy who had no criminal record. In its place was a close up of the body at the crime scene. Hanzo looked down. He separated the photos into two halves and pointed at the two photos on his right.

"These two were part of groups that pay me tribute. The other two, I have no idea who they are."

Matsumoto pulled out his notebook and began to scribble.

"We need to interview the boys that are part of their group," said Fujita.

"I cannot allow that," said Hanzo. "I am dependent upon the Yakuza for a lot, detectives. If they found out about our... arraignment."

"The alternative is to run you in," said Fujita. "You're wanted on three counts of murder, Hanzo-san. Don't forget that our arraignment only exists because I tolerate it."

"Son of a bitch," hissed Hanzo. "You motherfuckers. You fucking--"

"Matsumoto slapped his hands on the table. Hanzo jumped in fright as Matsumoto leapt across the surface at the fat man. Fujita reached out and grabbed Matsumoto's shoulders before he could grab Hanzo's kimono.

"The inspector is perturbed," Fujita said as he pulled Matsumoto away. "Best give him what he wants."

Hanzo adjusted his glasses and gulped. "One of the gangs is here in Kabukichō. The other is in Kōtō."

"Thank you for your cooperation," said Matsumoto.

They quickly left and started back down the steps towards the streets.

"The fuck was that?" Fujita asked.

"Good cop/bad cop," said Matsumoto.

"That was good cop/fucking insane cop!"

Matsumoto chuckled to himself as they climbed into the car.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Early August: South of Fort Portal, Swahili People's Republic
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"They sold the righteous for silver, and the poor for a pair of shoes, and they pant after the dust of the earth on the heads of the poor."

Worldly education was brought to the deep parts of Africa by missionaries. They tacked the knowledge of their civilization on the word of God, so that Christianity brought with it instructions on the ways men and women are to behave, the ways people should dress, and work, and pray. They brought the ideas of nationalism, of democracy, and of socialism. The revolutions that convulsed East Africa were midwifed by men with crosses around their necks and bibles in their hands.

Marcel Hondo-Demissie thought about this, sitting in the canvas-covered bed of an old truck. They bumped down a rutted trail cut through the grassland beneath the shadows of the Rwenzori mountains. He was surrounded by his fellow Watu wa Uhuru, sitting with knees folded up, clutching their guns to their bodies as if the weather-worn rifles were their children. So much had been brought by Christianity. How could the Freedom Army of God claim sole right to interpret God's will, and administer it by the edge of a machete? The massacres perpetrated in the north chilled Marcel when he heard of them. But didn't he know they would happen? He'd been hesitant to make a deal with that particular devil, and he'd been hesitant for a reason. African history, like the history of the rest the world, was littered with barbarian tribes. That was to say warrior tribes: people who didn't define themselves through the functions of civil society, but by their sheer strength, focusing their efforts on physical power, and unleashing that power in ways urban civilization found destructive. Shaka Zulu was the spiritual cousin of Attila the Hun. And who were those first Anglo-Saxons, landing on the shore of Roman Britain, but the cousins of the Bantu people who did the same thing to much of Africa, steel sword replaced with iron spear, wooden buckler replaced with hide shield. The Freedom Army of God were wrought in that same image.

Had he unleashed them? Was he to blame? Or was this in their make-up, they a human virus, uncontrolled and uncontrollable? Could he blame himself anymore than the Romans who first paid tribute to Attila might be blamed for his onslaught?

There was light conversation between the hunters. The Force Socialiste wore their tattered blues, while the rest of the men wore casual clothes, shirts and trousers. Few men wore shoes. It was not unusual for their leader to share the back of the truck with them, and none of them reacted to his presence. Whenever he could, he killed the mystique of authority, introducing his Watu wa Uhuru to a classless way of life.

Blue clouds prophetic of storms hung over the mountains to the west. Those were the mountains of the moon, a place known to the ancient Europeans as the source of the Nile. So close to the plains, they were green and climbing with tropical vegetation. Further up and beyond the sight of the hunting party, the mountains were covered in snow as deep as the European alps, creating the barrier that divided the Swahili east front the Belgian Congo.

The truck stopped. They were near the last place where elephants had been spotted. Here the landscape forced them to go on foot. They had one truck, and it was their plan to load it with ivory. He would have brought more if fuel wasn't so dear, but resources had to be saved. The truck was parked in a grove behind a thick mango tree. They marched into the hills.

Would this world last? An anarchist paradise constructed from the naked will of the people? Grace was left behind in Fort Portal, managing the hospital and aiding with the affairs of the people there. It was too easy to imagine the Freedom Army of God burning the town and murdering its people. Murdering her. They were creating a new world, but could it survive the old one?

Of course, Christianity didn't bring socialism whole-clothe. Africa was not a tabula-rasa. Socialism had its own natural logic in a world so tightly tribal, where it was often logical to assign goods according to their use rather than a tight system of property. But property hadn't been new either. Like so much of the world outside of Europe, the east African plateau hosted a long and storied history largely ignored by outsiders. The Empire of the Moon once ruled along the lake-shores, spreading their influence by the leaf-edged spear. Later it was the Buganda around whose cane-fence compounds arose cities, host to thousands of long war canoes, watched over by warrior-magnates beneath who's fences flowed the blood of children sacrificed to the world of magic. They knew their own property in this way, their compounds an iron-age cousin of English estates, the children beneath the blade of the witch-doctor kin to the children mangled underneath the looms of Lancashire. They knew socialism in the tight relations of the village tribe. They knew it in the way rural farmers knew better how to handle their own crops than urbane kings. It was this natural common sense, unattached to the superstitious logic of the west that said the mangled child beneath the loom was necessary for progress, that'd allowed communism to take root here. Marx wasn't leading the way, or blazing new trails. The people were. They didn't need to be taught. They knew. When the priests came, they gave Africa the vocabulary of the West. Words rule the world. What seemed almost innate became revolutionary by their power.

The storm winds came down from the mountains and made the tall grass hiss. The air was full of power and change. The wind in their ears sometimes created illusions of thunder, and made them wonder if they should take shelter. They climbed up a hill passed a wide umbrella tree. Though it was mid-day, the shadows beneath the tree were as dark as night.

They climbed up and down the green piedmont. This was a tropical vision of Europe beneath the alps, green rolling hills, mountains in the distance. They went up and down and up and down until their feet hurt. This would be good land to hunt by horse. If it wasn't for the Tsetse fly, they probably would have. As it was, European livestock could not live in this part of the world, not for long anyways, and horses weren't viable. A number of horses had been sold across the lake to the anarchists a year before. They were all dead now.

When the rain came, they camped in a grove of trees, using thick canvas tarps as large tents. They lit fires in the dry places beneath a dripping umbrella tree. Thunder rolled in the distance, and rain danced on the leaves. The hunters sang a song and ate salted fish. Marcel used a skinning knife to cut open a mango. A rogue drop fell from the canopy above and ran down his knife like a tear.

"You have been quiet today." said Achille Ngongo. Achille was his second in command in the old Force Socialiste. He held his position by simple fact he was still alive and thriving after so many of their comrades had been lost.

"I have been thinking." Marcel said.

"Do you worry? Is there something I should know?"

"You know what I know." Both men leaned against the tree and ate. Achille looked at Marcel. Marcel looked at his hunters.

"Our position is good." Achille said, "The other groups fight between each other. You have made a wall out of your own enemies. This is good work, like you always do."

"What is good work?" Marcel looked at Achille. He looked deeply into his old friend, hoping for answers.

Achille returned the look. "It is work that advances our cause, or protects it. We are in a better place now than we were a month ago because you have made the decision you have."

"That's effective in the moment, but is it good?" Marcel returned, "If I were to burn down a village of my enemy, from a statistical perspective I would be doing good. But what would the other villages think? If I burn down two villages, I might look better to the mathematician, but what would be my reputation?"

"What have you done wrong? You have burned no villages."

"I don't know." Marcel looked west at the dark clouds above the mountains. "That's what I am thinking about."

When it was too dark to see, they crawled into their make-shift tents and slept. Marcel stared out into the rainy darkness for a long while, his mind keeping him awake with possibilities. He did not notice himself fall sleep.

When they woke up they were damp with dew and dripping rain. It was a cool morning, but the wet air threatened choking tropical humidity when the sun came out. They got moving, looking for signs of elephants.

Two hours after waking they found their quarry trumpeting in a meadow. There were a number of elephants bathing in the mud, making sounds like groaning trees. The hunters with the biggest caliber guns took positions on a hill. They took out two bulls, three females, and a calf, the rest bellowing like they themselves were dying, running to a nearby forest for cover. The land to the south was covered in a wide forest, an outcrop of jungle like that in the Congo, the sort of land the Force Socialiste had fled out of many years before.

They went down to half-dozen fallen elephants. Half of the men went at them with saws, removing the precious ivory. The other men watched the forest in case the others returned. Elephants are unpredictable like humans. There was still the possibility of a rampage. Of revenge.

Marcel looked down regretfully at the corpse of a calf. A shot had went low and struck it in the neck. It's eyes were glazed dead, but it still wore the playful smile so common in young elephants. A shout brought Marcel out of his trance. He looked up and saw that all of his men were looking in one direction.

Something moved in the forest, not large enough to be elephants. The men pulled up their guns. Marcel imagined warriors of the Freedom Army of God. But would they be so far south? Perhaps they were monkeys? Something was moving in there though, and more than one something.

A man walked out. He was less than five feet tall, wearing nothing but a grass skirt. His skin was leathery. He held an iron-tipped spear, but uncertainly. The pygmies knew what guns were, and what they were capable of.

A whole band came out speaking in a language Marcel didn't know. Achille did know it though, and he spoke with the leader of the band. They were hunters too, but their luck was bad. Could they have what the other men didn't use? Achille translated this question to Marcel.

"If they will carry the ivory to our trucks, they can have what is left. Does this sound right?" he posed the idea to the other hunters. Some assented. Most ignored him. Achille nodded and translated this back to the pygmy. They were elated by the idea. All this meat for a little work? They smiled, and nodded, and made agreeable sounds. One of their own ran back into the bush to find men for the elephants. The rest went about their work.

They hefted the blood-spattered tusks over their shoulders, muscles working like cords as they moved, carrying them with what seemed to Marcel like joy. Simple joy. That simplicity seemed so good and so useful that Marcel made a mental note of how to cultivate it in the movement.

The grass was wet and heavy, the ground muddy beneath their steps. The pygmies did not seem to tire. In the end, they camped beneath the same tree, the ashes of their campfire turned to a goop of charcoal mud, the impressions from where they'd slept still visible. Here they fell into the same patterns. The pygmies kept to themselves.

"What a life to live." Achille said, "To be naked in the jungle. To live on bush meat and fruit. I know they do not live long. There is no medicine. And look how old they seem to be. Even the young ones. Their skin is like shit that had dried out in the sun!"

"I would not judge them." Marcel said. "Why would they feel the absence of what they do not know?"

"They must know what they miss when they see us."

"They can see us, but I do not know that they envy us. Do you envy demons?"

"Demons." Achille scoffed, screwing up his face so that Marcel wondered if he had offended him. "That's not a fair comparison."

"Demons live forever. They do not worry about wants. I suppose if demons live for whatever mischief they cause, then they have desires and fulfill them. But you would not want to be one. I wouldn't want to be one. I would miss the sunlight. I would miss my habits. I would miss love. Ours friends have their own world. It might not be as comfortable as ours, but they wouldn't know what to do without it."

Achille looked at the small men. This time his gaze was far off. Thoughtful. "I don't envy them though."

"I wouldn't expect you to." Marcel said, "They have their world and we have ours. I cannot say which one is better or worse because I cannot feel all things. I only know one thing."

Achille looked at Marcel with an expression of expectancy, but he didn't say a word.

Marcel spoke. "I want to live as Marcel."

"I am glad you have that." Achille smiled.

Madrid, Spain - August 02, 1960

He was a nobody, just another Spanish peasant slouching along the great boulevards of the Empire in the rising heat of the morning. There was nothing remarkable about his clothing, hardy machine made cotton shirt and trousers with an American style short jacket over top, a "ball-cap" shaded his face from the strengthening sun, his hands thrust into his pockets. He walked with a purpose, head bent low, striding quickly along the sidewalk, oblivious to the people he was passing, or in some cases bumping in to.

Ahead of him, rearing above the white streets, its spires reaching toward God, was the Muralla Árabe. The once great Church sat at the South End of the Palacio Real de Madrid, though it had been closed to the public with the ascension of the new Viceroy. The massive spiked wrought iron fence blocked any access, interspaced with shining white marble columns that ran the entire length of the Calle de Bailén. It was a beautiful building.

A small group of children ran laughing in to his path, one smiled at him as they went by, he did not have the heart to return the smile because, today, of all days, he intended to change their world forever. Tucked in to his left pocket, his hand grasping it firmly, was a revolver. The bulk of the weapon made him feel self-concious and he was sure someone would see him, one of the happy faces would suddenly sour and begin pointing at him and shouting "Assassin!".

They would not be wrong. He was indeed an assassin, or so he thought of himself. The man who had hired him for his job had told him that he would be doing Gods work, that he would save Spain and turn it back to the path of the Church. He had agreed. Under the Old King, much loved as he was, the Catholic Church had been quietly stripped of much of its power and lands, sold to the nobility to pay for the Kings restoration and public works projects. Now, under Delgado, the Church was seeing it influence reduced even further as Delgado struck down laws prohibiting work on Sundays, the right of the Church to lay a charge of heresy against a non-believer. Delgado was famously a moderate when it came to religion, willing to allow Jews to openly worship again as long as they paid their taxes. It was enough for the Church to dislike him.

He stopped at the edge of the street, across from the entrance to the Palace. Two Cazadores stood a rigid attention in their small sentry boxes, eyes scanning the streets relentlessly. He had but to wait, glancing at the clock mounted on the pedestal at the street corner. Two minutes. He passed the time by lighting a Cornell, the smoke helping to calm his nerves as he did his best to appear as though he were waiting for someone. There was enough going on in the street that the Cazadores barely spared him a glance. Or maybe they didn't consider him a threat. Either way, he was not going to complain.

Two minutes ticked by, and as if on cue, a small car suddenly swerved out of traffic, mounted the curb, and smashed into one of the sentry boxes. The Cazadore gave a yell of surprise and managed to dive out of the way, bouncing off the fence as he did so and crumpling unconscious to the ground. The second Cazadore only had time to raise his weapon before a barrage of gunfire from the two men in the car cut him down.

Screams. So many screams. People began to scatter in every direction, cars slammed to a halt, their drivers ducking beneath their dashboards, or honking in frustration because they didn't know what the holdup was. He drew the revolver from his jacket and began to run across the street. The two men in the car, he did not know them, ignored him as they began to exchange gunfire with a Guardia Urbana patrol car and two officers.

His feet pounded on the pavement as he crossed the street, then splashed through gasoline from the wrecked car that was pooling in the gutter. Bullets whip cracked past his head and he heard a scream from behind him as someone was hit. In front of him the Palace reared up to his right, to the left, the Muralla. Between them, staring at him calmly, and quite alone, was the Viceroy of Spain.

His breathing was harsh in his own ears and his lungs burned. He had never been much of a runner and the bakery had hardly done anything to make his fitness any better. The Viceroy did not try to run, he did not shout, he did not seek cover. With all the calm and dignity of a man in complete control of the situation, Delgado drew his sidearm and aimed it directly at the man who was running toward him.

The revolver clutched in his attackers hand was an older model, from the Great War perhaps. He could see from the mans gait that he was not runner, he had none of the hard eyed look you might see in a soldier or a true assassin. No, this man was not an assassin, though he was certain to try.

Behind him, the gun battle at the gate had been won as more Policia arrived. One of the gunmen from the car died and as Delgado glanced past his own assailant he could see two Policia officers, having used their car for cover, tackle the other gunman to the ground as he tried frantically to reload.

That left the lone peasant facing Delgado. He looked very small and frail in the midst of the great Palace forecourt, his white trousers and shirt so commonplace that he could have been any man on the outside of the fence. Delgado's own heart had begun to race slightly, a normal reaction to be sure, as he raised his pistol and aimed it at the man who had come to kill him.

His attacker slowed at the movement and then stopped altogether as he stared in to Delgado's face. Delgado could feel himself smiling and knew in that moment that no one else would die that day.

"Throw down your weapon." Delgado did not yell, he barely even raised his voice. The mans face twitched and he looked down at the weapon that hung at his side.

"No, my friend. Do not. If you do, you will die, and then I will find your family and kill them too. You can save them right now by dropping that pistol."

Tears sprang into the mans eyes and he dropped to his knees, terror suddenly apparent. The pistol clattered to the ground and Delgado lowered his own weapon to his side. Policia officers were now running across the forecourt from the roadway and Cazadores burst from the Palace doors.

"God forgive me..." The man whispered as Delgado paced slowly toward him, stopping several yards away.

"God might forgive you, but I will not." The Viceroy's voice was as cold as winter and the man shuddered as two burly Policia officers reached them, grabbing him by the arms and slamming him to thee flagstone.

"Viceroy." The Captain of the Guard came hurrying up, his was out of breath and sweat soaked the front of his uniform.

"Captain. Find out who they are, arrest their families, who sent them, and then I will speak to them." Delgado pushed his pistol back in to its holster even as his attacker howled in protest until a policeman slammed his face into the flagstone, silencing him.

Delgado turned his back on the group and continued his walk toward the Muralla, alone.

"In my opinion. Respect...is the ultimate pillar of any society. People must respect those who rule them, yet also those who rule over the people, must respect them in return. The Good King must respect what his people desire - food, clothing, work and a purpose. While the people in return must respect his choices and his will. That is the basic ideal of feudalism. The King provides the land, the Knights manage it and the Peasants work upon it. This system failed, since the King would often have his choices be bad and his will be misguided - while his anger was directed at the Peasants and Knights who served him. The Knights in turn, used their power over the Peasants and kept them oppressed and ignorant. Respect has to work both ways, or otherwise it might collapse upon itself."

"Back when we had a Tsar - we were expected to serve without question. The rule and word of the Tsar was absolute and to question it, was to imply disrespect towards him. Thus, our system worked and function this way until the death of the 'final' Tsar of Russia. The collapse of not only Imperial Authority but almost splintering of all territories indicated - that the people would no longer respect the Tsar or those whom he had chosen. Quite simply, he had refused to respect his people. He had refused to treat them with respect and dignity."

"Any society, wishing to remain relevant and strong for years - needs to understand this basic principle. Without respect, you would have no social order. Without respect, you would have no stability. A ruler must know when to not give in to his people, yet also know when to respect their wishes. In return, the people must also respect and support their ruler - but always remind them, to respect them. Since any authority eventually and always relies on the will of the people. And all rules must respect the people' desire for food..."

---

Chairman Yukarev watched as many people from an another city district filed into the Office of Food Distribution. Namely it was a fancy name given to something, that was in essence a giant warehouse near the docks. Here was the location, where most of the City of Arkhangelsk got it's weekly ration of food. While under a semi-capitalist society, most people could work and pay for such a commodity here it was different.

While there was work, the Socialist Union had one socialist thing about them - namely they made sure to distribute food for everyone in the city. While people could work, in the sub-arctic climate there was always the danger - that one got injured or sick. If one couldn't work, then one couldn't buy food. Also, there were those whom couldn't work anymore or were too old to be able to afford such a thing anymore. Most work happened, in the mines, the forests and in the army. While there existed some light industrial work and hand-craftmanship - it was always a maybe or maybe not situation.

Life in the cold wasteland was always a fight between survival and hunger. Thus, one of the policies of the ASU was that all people - rich, poor, young or old - were given a standard ration of food. If they wanted more, they could work and buy it. Or if they couldn't - then there would be at least some sort of food on their table. Something like this, might be considered welfare or food aid in the West - here, it was considered a way of life.

People mostly had to write down, where they lived and how many lived in the home, they had. This ensured, that nobody could abuse the system - since one of the only harshest penalties in the Arkhangelsk Socialist Union was stealing food. Since one could always gain food by working or from the state on a weekly basis. Anything more, was simply greediness in it's most basic form. The people in the cities, had to gather at such warehouses - that were guarded twenty-four hours by Arkhangelsk Guards Army. While those who lived in the rural areas, had food brought to them via soldiers on skis or pulled by dog-sleds.

Yukarev came here every week to help oversee, the distribution of the food - since it helped to both keep him and the people grounded in reality. The people needed to see, that their Chairman and leader wasn't some Tsar on a red throne - and it helped to keep Yukarev focused on the people too. He had no desire on wanting to become, a Dictator or Tsar. Being here, helped him meet and talk with the common man or woman...or child.

One such patron happened to be a young teenage girl, who was carrying a document that didn't belong to her or namely didn't match the picture. "I am sorry. My mother is ill, she couldn't come and I am not old enough to get my Party Identification done yet..." she explained.

"You know the rules. We need a-" spoke a soldier, before he was silenced, when the Yukarev placed a hand upon his shoulder.

"Come now. Check up the paperwork. Does she have a daughter?" asked Yukarev, giving a rather grandfatherly smile at them both.

"Well...yes. But-"

"I think, we can make an exception. Soldier. How about you, help escort these supplies to her home and make sure of that," explained Yukarev.

"But, Chairman. Who will handle-"

"Don't worry. I can help. Standing around here anyway," he chuckled, dismissing the young teen and soldier on their way - as he took the place, of the soldier whom handled the handing out of food to the people. Next in line, happened to be an old woman - almost as old as Yukarev. Some of the people here, looked tired and some even relieved.

All in various states of clothing - some better dressed, others wearing old torn boots and patched jackets. Such a sight, might even break the cold heart of Nicholas II - if he had happened to be here. This was what Yukarev needed daily - respect of the people, and for them to be treated with respect as well. For people living in these regions, the bare possibility of having food on their table was all that they needed. After all, any society was three meals away from collapse - even one build-up on the ideals of Socialism.

Yukarev' hands moved slowly but methodically - as he checked the list with his eyes and placed the food items in the bag. Bread, fish, wheat, potatoes - some imported dairy and other things. Before he handed it over to the old woman - while leadership was a burden itself, the sight of having an old woman smile at bag full of groceries was enough to ease that weight, just a bit. Since Yukarev knew, that for people like here - these aids might be the only source of food they had in here. Once she left, Yukarev got to servicing a younger man - and do this until night would come. Always smiling at those who came, both the grateful and cynical. As leadership wasn't always leading from the top, it sometimes meant activity at the bottom as well.

Tokugawa Financial Group
1:45 PM

Prime Minister Chiba Inaba watched Tokugawa Jiro from across the dining table. Before them was a spread of rice, grilled fish, and a hearty Miso soup filled with vegetables and beef. Chiba and Tokugawa were the only two people in the entire executive dining suite. The large window that took up the room's entire far wall provided a dizzying view of Tokyo from eighty stories above.

"So, what do you think?" Tokugawa asked. He swept a hand around the room.

Chiba picked a piece of fish off his plate with chopsticks and popped it into his mouth.

"The building is impressive, Jiro. The biggest in Tokyo, you say?"

"The biggest in Asia," Tokugawa said, snapping his chopsticks together. "Nothing but the best for the zaibatsu."

Chiba nodded and tried his Miso. Jiro sat at the head of the largest business conglomerate in Asia. The Tokugawa Clan he hailed from claimed their lineage to the original Shogun. After their loss of power to the Meiji Restoration, the family shifted into the business sector. Jiro personally oversaw the Tokugawa Financial Group, an investment and banking company with branches in every major city in Japan and the Empire. In addition, Jiro and his brokers also handled investments for over half the Diet -- Chiba included -- and almost all the Royal Family.

The finance sector was bolstered by the zaibatsu's many other arms. There was Tokugawa Manufacturing, Tokugawa Electric, Tokugawa Oil, Tokugawa Motors, the arms manufacturing Tokugawa Heavy Industries, and almost a dozen more. Every company owned by Jiro and his family, every company a major part of Japanese day to day life.

"Did you ever get my congratulations telegram?" Tokugawa asked.

"I did, right after the election. It was very kind of you."

"Well, I am proud of you. So far our university class has yielded captains of industry, generals, writers, and artists, but you are our first PM."

Chiba chuckled. "Hopefully I can stay the first one. Honestly, the job is getting to me. The PM holds the piss bucket while the peerage and military take turns filling the bucket."

"It's understandable," said Jiro. "Especially with Philippines issue."

Chiba looked up from his food.

"How do you know about that?"

Tokugawa flashed a grin. "You know the Gunbatsu, Inaba. When they lobby for something they cast a wide net. A war waged on multiple fronts, like good soldiers. They've been around to all the Big Four, telling us how an invasion and conquest of the Philippines will be good for business. And I am inclined to agree."

Chiba lowered his chopsticks. "You're prepared to get Japanese boys killed?"

Tokugawa shrugged. "If they have a Tokugawa Type 75 in their hands, they'll be the ones doing most of the killing. And let's not forget, the Philippines have millions of consumers. It expands our markets. Hell, I told Grand Admiral Kubo that the best thing the Empire could do for business is take all of Southeast Asia. There are so many resources they are not capable of developing like we are."

"That's rather cold, Jiro."

"It's the truth, my friend." He favored Chiba with a sad smile. "Do I want to see our young men die? No. But when it comes to the future, eventually it's going to come down to us or China. We either expand or we die. If some boys die in the process, then so be it. The rewards far outweigh the risk."

"I can't make that decision and sleep at night."

"The generals and the young men are eager to reclaim glory for the Empire," said Tokugawa. "We got off lucky, my friend. We served just before it all went to shit with China. We never had a chance to become one of the Defeated. I put their decisions into that context. I know you have to play the good liberal. Your whole man of the people routine is as endearing as it is earnest."

"It's not a routine," said Chiba. "I know the powers that be think they elected to me as show of good faith towards the party, a way to give the Diet a break from Seiyūkai control. But I wish to be more than a caretaker, Jiro. Leading us away from war is a first step."

"But let us keep in mind that it will not be your decision, will it? It falls upon the Emperor. Feel free to play the Cassandra if this whole thing is a disaster. We both know how much you enjoy your moral victories."

"I'd settle for regular victories," Chiba sighed. "Besides, if war does come, I'd want it to be successful. Even if it means my being thrown out of office in this case than be proven right."

Tokugawa let a wry laugh escape his lips. "At least there is consolation. All you face is career ruin. If this is a disaster, then the high command will all commit seppuku."

"Well," Chiba said with a grin. "Perhaps there would be at least a partially good outcome to that misfortune."

---



Incheon

6:30 PM

Kim Soo Jung trudged along the busy street with the other commuters on their way home after a long day of work. Her last day of work, in fact, at the Tokugawa Munitions Factory. She'd been called into the supervisor's office just before work ended that day. Ito-san looked at her from across his desk, his beady eyes magnified by his thick glasses.

"You are in trouble," he said in crisp Japanese. In the six years he ran the plant, Ito never bothered to learn a word of Korean. "Very big trouble. It could cost you your job. How best to resolve this problem?"

It turned out that Ito's solution was to blow him in order to keep her job. Kim told the greasy man to go to hell and she stalked out. He followed her, red faced and bellowing how she would never work in this factory or any Tokugawa business in Korea ever again.

It was a pretty bold threat. Tokugawa and all its subsidiaries helped bring many jobs to Inchon, Korea's industrial hub. It would be hard for Kim to find work if she truly was blacklisted from Tokugawa, but she would manage. In the ten years she'd been struggling, she and her Wangjaalways managed.

Kim packed into a trolley with over three dozen other tired commuters. She clung to the railing above the seats as the car swayed and bounced north through the city, away from the heavy industry and towards the neighborhoods. With each stop, more and more people climbed off the tram and finished their shuffling journey home on foot. Kim stepped off at the penultimate stop of the trolley and started down the street towards her home.

This part of the city, near the waterfront, was more shantytown than actual neighborhood. Wooden homes crudely built were sloping towards the water, built as only temporary housing but slowly becoming permanent in the decades since it had been built. Neighbors waved to Kim and greeted her politely as she walked towards the shack that served as her home. She bought cabbage from an old man who passed by with a car filled with vegetables.

"Wangja," she called as she entered the house.

"Mama."

Kim Joon Young, her nine year old son, raced to great her. The small boy wrapped his arms around her. He only came up to her waist, but eventually he would tower over her. He began to tell her all about his day at the Japanese Boys School when she passed the cabbage to him. His smile turned down at the corners and became a frown.

"Cabbage again?"

"Yes," she said. "Be thankful for it. Did any post come today?"

"A letter."

"Start boiling the cabbage, Wangja," Kim said, kissing her son on the top of his head.

While her son shuffled off to the hotplate that served as their stove, Kim found the letter on the table beside the front door. Her heart raced as she saw the address. It was from her brother in Seoul. She refused to even think of the city by its Japanese name. Kim opened the letter carefully. She opened the sheet of paper, finding a smaller one inside of it. She read the letter from her brother, her heart sinking with every passing word. He and his friends, their subversive group they called Friends of Korean Sovereignty, were worried that the Kenpeitai was on their trail. They they thought they were being followed. That was why he was sending this.

Kim put the letter aside and opened up the smaller folded piece of paper. It was an address somewhere in Seoul and a series of numbers. To her, it looked as if it were some kind of bank account number. A safe deposit box maybe? She felt dread as she traced over the paper with her fingernails. Of course it was a safe deposit box. The safe deposit box. She knew exactly what was inside that box. It was the only proof the world had to her secret. If her brother were ever captured by the Kenpeitai, then he would rather be killed than reveal what was inside that box.

"Wangja," she called to her son. "How would you like to spend a few days with Mrs. Moon?"

---

Keijō
4:21 AM

"Tell me about Kim's sister."

Inspector Shinzo stared across the table at Cho. The young Korean radical was a mass of welts and bruises. Less than a week in the Kenpetei's custody had aged the man by ten years. His short hair was already starting to turn grey. They were the only two people inside the jail the Kenpei used, the one that officially didn't exist. The few guards on night duty were pulled by Shinzo's orders. He wanted no eavesdroppers anywhere near him and Cho as they spoke.

"I know he has a sister," Cho shrugged. He realized his mistake, referring to his friend in the present tense, and took a deep breath. "Had... he had a sister."

"This much I know," Shinzo said, pulling cigarettes from his jacket pocket. "She is listed in his file."

It took Shinzo a few hours to link the Kim girl to the Kim boy they'd executed last week. Kim was a common enough name in Korea that it would be unwise to make the assumption, but if the Kim boy was a radical then it seemed to reason that he would have family with checkered pasts. Unfortunately, the file only listed her name and age and last known address from six years ago. She matched, both in name and age, the details the governor-general had given Shinzo earlier in the evening. He had no idea why Tokyo would be interested in the sister of a Korean radical, but it was not his place to know their reasoning. His job was to complete his task.

"All I know is that he had a sister," said Cho. "I've told you so much already, why would I lie?"

"You have been very forthcoming, Cho-kun. Which is why I do not think you would try to deceive. I think, instead, you should focus. Kim was your roommate, yes? Did he ever have any correspondence?"

"No," Cho said with the shake of his head. "Song always sent letters to his family in Pyongyang... I mean, Heijō. Kim..."

Shinzo sat forward in his chair when Cho trailed off.

"Yes?"

Cho looked to his left, trying to recall a memory. "He sent a letter last week. Just before... before."

Shinzo had to fight off his annoyance as Cho appeared to be on the verge of tears. He wanted to slap the boy across the face and tell him to get on with it. So he'd taken a little beating. He was alive, wasn't it? Which was more than he could say for his other friends.

"Before you arrested us," he finally said with a hard swallow. "He asked me to post it for him on my way to class. I did so. It was addressed to simply Soo."

Shinzo felt the hair on the back of his arms standing up. He suddenly realized he still held the pack of cigarettes in his hands. So caught up in the conversation, he'd never bothered to shake one out. He clung to the pack even forward as he leaned forward even further.

"Do you remember where was it going?"

"I cannot remember the exact address, but only the city. Inchon."