After weeks of preparation and military build up along Normandy's western borders, the forces of the British Governorate are committing themselves to a fully fledged ground invasion of neighboring Brittany. This has resulted from failed diplomatic attempts to bring the former French province under the banner of Great Britain peacefully, and now the Viceroy of Normandy has been given full approval to use forceful means.
The Operation, code named French Lion, has opened up with a dazzling artillery barrage of a hundred guns that are pummeling the Brittany borderlands, where British intelligence has revealed there to be a sizable build up of Brittans.
Brittany is a small self-proclaimed Republic, rooted heavily in the old French political system. However, a passive-aggressive Norman-led trade embargo on the small nation has left its people starving and with its economy on the verge of collapse, setting the scene for widespread civil revolt against the Government.
07:00, Norman/Brittan border.
Operation: French Lion +1 Hour
"They wont break," Lieutenant‑Colonel Thomas King muttered, spying the distant explosions from the safety of his entrenched concrete bunker. "Even with things as bad as they are, they wont break. Amazing, really."
Commandant Éric Blaise coughed to clear his throat, and moved over the Lieutenant-Colonel's right shoulder. The Commandant was immaculately dressed in a French take on the British combat fatigue, and his face boasted an annoyingly poignant goatee. "les français ne rompent jamais , colonel."
Thomas rolled his eyes but refused to face his subordinate, "Jenkins, translate if you'd be so kind."
Major Jenkins looked up from his maps at a nearby table, a pewter mug of whiskey in his hand. "The French never break."
Thomas bawked, and let fly a laugh. Éric furrowed his brow, and the Lieutenant‑Colonel composed himself in response. "Sorry old chap, no hard feelings of course." He was tempted to berate the Norman over his country's apparent surrender to the British kingdom a year ago, but regained his wits before he could fan the flames.
"I understand, Colonel," Éric replied in accented English.
The Lieutenant‑Colonel lowered his binoculars, and gave the Commandant a raise of his eyebrow. "I knew you could speak the Kings, good on you."
Major Jenkins pushed his chair forcefully out from the table, its legs scraping across the floor, in an attempt to break the tension. The Lieutenant‑Colonel and Commandant turned to him. "It's time gentlemen, the barrage has reached the sixtieth minute," Jenkins said, holding up an old silver watch.
"Excellent," said Thomas with a nod, "Okay then, let's see what your lads can do, Mr. Blaise."
"With pleasure, sir," the Norman replied. With a stiff salute, he left the entrenched command center and headed off to give the go-ahead to his unit commanders.
Whilst the British were present, it would be the Normans who would bear the brunt of this fight. Over ten thousand of them, backed up by light support vehicles, and decked out in the latest British weaponry, would be descending onto the Brittan positions momentarily. It was the first test of the Norman Powerhouse Treaty; had a year of rapid modernization brought their Norman jewel up to standard?
As radio traffic started to hiss from a nearby bank of terminals, Thomas could only guess.
The First Phase of Operation French Lion concerned the elimination of two sizable formations of Brittan's army, and the subsequent capture of Fougeres.
Phase Two would hopefully see the general collapse and retreat of Brittan resistance, where they would be obliterated in a quick siege at St-Malo and Vitre.
Phase Three would bring the 1st and 2nd Cherbourg Regiments encircling Rennes, and by this time it was hoped by Viceroy Keele that the Brittans would sue for peace, once they had seen the unstoppable and lighting advance of the Norman army.
An unannounced Phase Four would see the deployment of a B.E.F (British Expeditionary Force) regiment in case the Normans would be fought back, or to a standstill.
The War of Gods itself was a justified conflict made to retake the territory that was stolen from Christianity by the Caliphate in World War 3. The Caliphates conquest of Egypt and the Holy land where unjustified acts that had to be punished, for if not, it would allow them to expand more without anyone challenging them.
The war itself was not meant to result in the destruction of humanity, but it was meant for the reconquest of Anatolia and the Holy land from the genocidal Caliphate, but instead of a quick war, it resulted in the temporary death of government
The city of Addis Ababa was hit the second hardest out of any City during the war, with the city that was hit the most being Istanbul, with majority of the Nukes being dropped from Ethiopia, but with the Russians and Greeks also dropping a large amount of bombs on the heathens and the holy city that they owned.
-Excerpt From an Ethiopian History Book
Zariah quietly closed the book, knowing that today would be another day of meetings and speeches promising that Ethiopia will survive. While the people seemed to believe Zariah, in his heart he didn't believe himself. He knew that one faltering of his attempts to reforge his Empire out of the ashes of Africa and the World could result in everything falling around him.
Suddenly he heard a knock at the door.
"Come in." Zariah stated.
"My Emperor, I have news on the colonies in the east and the colonies in the Southern Yemeni territories." speaked the adviser who walks in.
"And what would that be." Zariah replied.
"They are both going perfectly, the few encounters we've had with the natives have gone just fine. It seems that we might go uninterrupted into into the rest of the Yemeni territories."
"Well that's surprising, I guess my destruction of the tribes down here actually scared them enough not to move away." laughed Zariah.
The adviser nods, "But sir, that's not all, it seems like Operation Zakariah's Revenge is going just nicely, with the scout planes we sent to the Levant are stating that a civilization is there now."
"Is this civilization Turkish, or something else?"
"Well sir, that's the thing, we don't know. Accounts of Greek tribes wandering as far down as the former territories of Kenya during the 200 years of Darkness have been made, but proper proof hasn't been made."
"We can make contact with this nation now though, correct?"
"Yes sir."
Okay then, send that message out immediately.
Hello, fellow survivors of the Apocalypse, we people from Ethiopia welcome you back to the world. We ourselves just have some minor questions for you. Do you happen to know or are you a continuation of the Caliphate that once dominated the Middle East, or are you members of another group.
Cooperative Dirigible Fleet 1, above Kansai Region
The monitoring screens aboard the bridge of D-108-the flagship of Fleet 3-were alight with action. Radar readouts marked the locations of allied craft as the gigantic hulk made its way across the sky, crews scanning the ground below. It was an odd room to have in a dirigible, to be honest. Where one would expect to see men in Victorian-era uniforms shouting commands through bronze pipes as their ship laid a trail of steam across the sky, there were men and women wearing the sky-blue uniform of the Cooperative Air Force, all scurrying about as they checked their assigned screens. Instead of propellers driven by steam, this ship was pushed forward by jet engines running off of biofuel. As it turns out, steampunk isn't all that practical.
"So, how's the growth gone?" Said the admiral, sitting in his seat in the center of the bridge. Before him there was a collection of screens hanging down from the ceiling, displaying the ship's altitude, heading, and condition. Essential pieces of information for a man controlling an airship.
"We don't need to drop any more seeds so far." Called out a woman sitting just next to the admiral, facing away from him towards her screen. Her wood-like hands tapped out commands on the keyboard at her station, showcasing one of the more common and least human of the mutations seen in the Cooperative. "All the native species have taken a perfectly fine hold... the kudzu still has a stable growth rate, it seems."
"Good, sounds like we won't have to call in the army to burn down any forests. How are the trees doing?"
"Perfectly fine, concentrations are still at pre-war levels."
"And the big picture?"
"Oxygen levels are up again, though we've noticed a steady increase in methane emissions. An out of the ordinary increase..."
"You mean they exceed the projected values? How is that even possible, our animal population estimates don't have a large enough margin of error to allow that. Link with our fleet in Siberia, get their data."
"Done sir, their instruments concur with ours. Methane levels are abnormally high, and before you ask, there haven't been any eruptions."
"Hmm... understood. Send the data to the climate scientists back on the Endurance, they know more about this than we do."
"Roger that." Said the woman, turning back to her screen. It was but a few mere moments before she once again turned her head to face the Admiral. "Sir... we've got an anomaly here."
"What kind of anomaly?"
"I'm seeing buildings, intact ones. Free of overgrowth... konchok sum khenno! Movement! We've got movement down there!"
"All ships, battle stations!" Screamed the Admiral into the microphone which was hanging down over his mouth through the hair that covered every inch of his face. "We have unidentified contacts on the ground! I repeat, all ships, battle stations!"
The lights on the bridge went from a comforting blue to a bright, utilitarian white. Everyone leaned into their consoles a bit closer, tapping the corners and swiping their hands across the screens to bring up their battle displays. Everyone reached up into the compartments above their seats, pulling down oxygen masks and attaching them the best their faces would let them. Some brought down goggles which they obscured their eyes with. The same people put on gloves, fully connecting them with the turrets they controlled though VR links.
"Do they see us?" Said the admiral, turning to face one of the men wearing goggles.
"We'd be hard to miss, but there's no sign of any weaponry that can touch us."
The admiral tapped his screen, bringing up the program that operated the radio.
"I'm sending a message." He said, adjusting the settings before flicking the button on his microphone that connected it to the ship's transceiver.
"This is Admiral Kagiso Mah of Dirigible Fleet 1, if you are picking up this transmission, know that we mean you no harm! We are here on a routine mission and are armed only for self defense. Do not fire on our vessels!"
He repeated the message after saying it in English, this time saying it in Japanese. Having been assigned to the area, he had been forced to learn the language in case he ended up in contact with other survivors. It seems as though that was just what had happened.
Dust burst off of the walls of Tokyo, followed by a loud bang as the slug tears a massive hole into the defenses of the city. The attacking Samurai manning the artillery scrambled to rearm the Rail-gun that they were using for the attack, as a few other ballistic artillery fighers shelled the city. In the last two days, Torijin had been bombing the city of Tokyo, destroying all transportation, storage and manufacturing centers, the defenses of Tokyo had been utterly crippled as the Osakans were piling onto the city, tearing apart its defenders and, slowly but surely, they were taking control of the city.
Hisoka-Osama had planned the battle for most of his time, since he had failed to take Tokyo in the first annexation of Kanto. It had been a long, while, while the peace treaty between Osaka and Kanto was enacted; but Hisoka never had any fear, he knew that it was unlikely that any other useful nations to bolster the defenses of Kanto would be present in the North, scouts had already determined the area was inhabited mostly by disorganized Japanese and Korean Tribes, or roving bands of mutants. When the day came to declare war, Hisoka did so with little second thought. For almost a week, the Osakans had been occupying most of what was left of the Kingdom of Kanto, and now they were upon the walls of Tokyo, said to be impenetrable, rebuilt from the ground up by the descendants of the Kanto bunker's population.
But Tokyo would fall, as all cities did.
With the slug of a railgun once more, the steel walls of Tokyo were torn open, and the Samurai, soldiers from the Date and Mori clans, began to rush in, switching from their single shot Tanegamshima, to the fully automatic Juu, as they mowed down anyone that got in their way. The bloodbath that was becoming of Tokyo, showed how little the Kanto Government had prepared for this attack, that they were putting their faith totally in their defenses to hold off the Osakans. However, this time, they were not so lucky. Perhaps, if the Date Clan had not discovered that Railgun, they may have survived, but now, there was nothing to save them.
General Ren Date had been commanding the combined forces of the Date and Mori clans, and now he was riding, on his Uma, towards the center of Tokyo, to capture the King of Kanto, and to claim the entirety of the Kanto State for the Shogun.
"Leave no survivors in your wake, they must all die!"
Artillery continued to fire into the heart of the city, and the soldiers carried on, reaching the heart of Tokyo not long after, and swarming the palace of the King. Ren Date himself dismounted from his transport, and entered into the building, with a team of Samurai gunmen to provide cover. Upon breaking into the doors of the palace, soldeirs fired upon the strike team, with Ren and his men responding by shooting at the gunmen in the ceilings and balconies, with Ren using his trusted pistol to take out a few on the ground and in the higher areas. The strike team moved quickly, making their way into the palace.
"Your lands and your city are under the Control of Hisoka Minami-Osama! Surrender yourself and your life may yet be spared!" Ren shouted into the vacant corridors of the palace, as the team descended futher, taking out more armed guards, and loosing a few men of their own as they entered deeper into an underground labryinth of steel and concrete, growing ever darker and more compact as the steps lead further into the earth.
This, this could not have been built by the people of Kanto. The Bunker that they had stepped into, its hellish design, freightining, even to Date himself, as if a fear embedded into his genes; it was like stepping into the land of the dead, a relic of a time long passed. This was, a bunker from before the war, perhaps the one that the ancestors of the Kanto Kingdom's founders had escaped from, like the same that Takeshi lead the Kansaijin out of. Reconfigured, from a dying people's last chance, to a cowardly king's fortress of solitude while his people died outside.
"Men, we push on; if The King of Kanto will not sacrifice himself to save his people, than kill him just like they"
Deeper still, until they found him, not in sight, but with arms that wrapped around Ren Date, like Yokai's hands as they swept him into the darkness, a blastproof hydraulic door slamming behind him, as the General was thrown into the dark safe room, his assailant, the King himself, like a inky silhouette against a flickering light source. Date's guns had been tossed to the side, and from his blurred sight, he could make out the shape of a sword, a Katana in the classical design, in the hand of the King. As the man charged to Date, enraged, the general sprung to his feet, pulling out his own Sword, and perrying the blow that the king delt to him, kicking him underfoot to knock him to the ground. The King pulled himself to a sitting possition and trust his blade up, just barely missing Date's face, as the Samurai grabbed onto his arm, and pushed himself on top of the king, wrestling him to the ground, and reaching behind himself to detatch the emergency pistol he had on his back. Without a word, Date put the gun to the deposed monarch's head, and pulled the trigger.
When Ren Date emerged, his body covered in blood, he announced to his people; that it was over, Kanto had fallen, and Tokyo belonged to the Shogunate.
Though, the war was not yet over, the process of integrating the Territories of Kanto into the Shogunate would be a difficult one. Rebellion was rife in the air, though the Shogunate hoped that the sheer horror of the war would be enough to keep the Kantojin in line for a while at least. Other matters of expansion were to be attested to, such as the new plan to settle on the island of Shikoku
Shikoku Colonization
Shikoku is an island not too far from Osaka City proper, a perfect place for expansion. According to scoutings, the Island was devoid of sapient life for the most part (save a few odd mutants here and there), with plenty of wild life for hunting and uncontaminated soil for farming. That was what the settlers intended to do, as their colony would begin in the region of Awa.
It's...so different from Osaka, Naoko Akagawa, a 16 year old freeman child, who had spent her entire life in the urbanized regions of Osaka City, was caught in awe, every day, by the sights of the wild plant-life, and fantastical animals who inhabited Awa. Her family had taken to farming, a vital role in these times, with food so short.
Naoko sat by her father's side, as he was milking some cows, with Naoko taking the buckets of milk out to a cooled storage area, until they were needed.
"Naoko-Chan, while you are there, bring me back two bags of corn meal, and all the rice that we have stored in the blue case."
"Okay!" Naoko said, hurrying to get the items, and placing them into her father's truck as they got ready to deliver the goods to the nearby Samurai house in the town. A payment, to continue living in the Daimyo's lands. The Agriculture that could be attained in the Awa region, and soon all of Shikoku, would be able to sustain further conquests, and feed the hungry people of Osaka.
Moriko awoke early, as she usually did when with a client, as she moved over to the bathroom to wash herself. Kyoto, a city with much to see, but with a population too dead inside to appreciate its beauty. The first to fall, and the last to rise up again, the city existed outside the jurisdiction of any Daimyo, largely granted by the Shogun as a place for exiles, a place beyond the Pale that Ronin, Criminals, Shinobi, and other illicit figures could reside in with little to hide. Due to its political autonomy, Kyoto was built, and remains, a communally owned location, a city founded on the misery of the exiled and damned.
Moriko was no different, she remembered vividly of how her clan cast her out, for her actions towards a Korean Tribe the encroached upon the Clan's territories, and in response, ordered an attack on the tribe, not realizing that the clan had secured an alliance with this Korean Tribe, the Haeju. As a result, the entire band was declared in infamy, and were given the choice of suicide or exile.
Moriko cursed herself in this memory, chosing to flee her clan, to Kyoto, than to die by her own hand. Perhaps, this was a fitting punishment for her, to wander the earth, doing what need be to survive. But, something seemed odd today. The ronin took note that her client was not in bed anymore, but had taken off, though she could hear activity coming from a nearby room; the clacking of keys, and a faint voice. Not of the opperator, but of some kind of transmission, first in a language she had never heard, and finally in Japanese. Mokoto looked out the window of the bedroom, her eyes widening as she saw a massive balloon ship, in the sky above the various pagodas and temples, with astonished onlookers pointing. Her ears perked up as she heard the familiar voice of the client say a line
"I have sent you the message, we will make contact and relay to the Shogun."
Shinobi..., Moriko, thought, as she heard the heavy footsteps move towards the room once more. Moriko fell into a false sleep, as the Ninja returned to the room, and gently shook her to wake her up. "Miss, I do not mean disrespect, but I feel you should return home now."
Moriko obliged and walked out of the door, but stuck by, curious as to what would happen next.
The Ninja spoke, broadcasting it to the strange source of the frequency. "Hello, Strangers. Your signal is unusual to us, and we, the People of Kyoto, would like for you to make contact with us. We do not recognize your vehicles, nor its symbols. We request that you land near the city of Kyoto, at the following Coordiantes, and a group will meet with you."
As the Shinobi got up, Moriko decided to walk a bit away to, make it seem like she was walking abit, but, she failed, as she heard his voice as he opened the door. "I know you have been listening Ronin," Moriko froze, and turned to him. "We will be in need of Mercenaries to approach these foreigners, so I will be conscripting you, and a few other Ronin, to come with myself and a few others to meet with them. You will comply, or you will be killed."
Moriko paused, and nodded. "Okay, I will come with."
"Good, now, we will be meeting in a field not too far from the Shrine of Raijin, let us head out there at once."
Occupied or Colonized Areas are in the brighter purple.
“It is important to identify well the object of negation, for if it is not identified, you will unquestionably generate either a view of permanence or a view of annihilation.”
- The Lam-rim chen-mo
____________________
Tibet
Three men lay by the river-side, in only their clothes as the sound of the gently streaming water washed over the pebbles and stones in the river's bed. Nearby, two stout horses grazed from the scraggly grass that grew between the rocks as the waited, tied to the earth, for their masters to stir. The remnants of last night's campfire smoldered in a bed of ash, smokey tendrils rose through the cold morning air to be caught by their impermanence and swept up by the alpine winds.
Steely gray clouds loomed overhead, lit by the rising sun as it crested the Himalayan mountains. Basking in the golden and pink rays of a fledgling sun the darkness and the shadowy blues of night were gently brushed aside as the cycle of continuance marched on. The light glowed in the icy frost covering the rocks and the grass. As the light widened its rule from under and behind the thin rain clouds overhead so to did the three men stir in their sleep.
The first, feeling the warmth of the morning warm his cheek rose from the ground. A wind battered face looked up into the morning sky behind narrowed sleep designed eyes. A rudy head packed with a head of a messy black hair fell onto his shoulders packed with dry stalks of grass and motes of sand and dirt. Rising to his feet he brushed from his wool coat the dust and brambles of sleeping on naked ground and moved to the smoldering fire-pit. With gentle fingers he coaxed from the ashes the feeble infant flames of life and fed it with dry grassy timbers until a healthy smoldering burn was alight. And with the care of a young mother he opened a satchel at the ground alongside of it bricks of yak dung until the awoken fire was lapping and smoldering around the brick of shit.
As he cared for the fire, the second man stirred asleep, coaxed to wake by the bitter smell of the fire. Wiping the sleep from his eyes he turned to the fire and starred sleepily into it. He was an older man, the climate and the inhabitants of the world had not done well to his face or his body either. Nearly every conceivable point of his features were broken, cut, or worn to a hard leather. He glowered sleepily at the flame through pale brown eyes before sitting up right.
“It will be another several hours to Lhasa.” said the simply weathered man, “Should we warm tea now and eat, or wait until we are within site of the palace?”
His maimed contemporary held his silence to consider. A deeply tired air hovered heavily over him. He stood without talking for a long while. Perhaps he had not understood the question to early in the morning?
“Go ahead.” he bid sleepily, his voice tremored like the earth. And perhaps it would have if he shouted at mountains.
The other nodded, and rose from the fire to sift through the saddlebags that lay on the ground nearby. Made of the worn and beaten polyester of the yester-years before the war, the fabric and condition of the bags were that of something well beyond their original use. Large patches of wool or leather held the fraying the aging sacks together. Likewise, the kettle he pulled from them was not much better.
Walking towards the stream he stopped before the third man and looked down. He shown no pity towards him. A hood obscured his face and his hands and feet were bound by hide ropes. Already the flesh at his wrists and bare ankles were glowing a bloody red from abrasions. Likewise his calloused and scarred feet were beginning to open up from a long march across the plateau. The skin rubbed so thin in places it glowed pink as they threatened to tear open.
With a sharp kick from his boot the man woke the sleeping prisoner and he shot awake immediately with a dry gasping breath. Reeling on the ground his bound hands clutched for his stomach as he rolled. “Wake up.” the man ordered, “We're almost there.”
The captive was too windless to answer as he reeled in the dirt gasping for air. He had done more than simply wake him. But unconcerned the man turned away from him and kept to the river. The man was a bastard, and a criminal anyhow. There was no pittance to afford to him.
Crouching at the river's edge he opened the kettle and filled it with the crystal water that flowed from off of the mountain peeks. The glaciers would shine like diamonds and white-gold in the afternoon sun. And in the morning light they would glow like fire and gold. But they were not there, and as much as it would have been a sight to enjoy he could not dwell on the imaginary wants.
With the kettle full he capped it with a lid and turned back to the fire as their captive struggled to their feet. Sitting by the fire his partner was already fully awake as he pensively nibbled on the dry crumbs of wafer biscuits, no doubt more than stale.
He put the tea on the fire, and in silence joined his partner in breakfast. With the water inside finally came to a boil and whistled out from the neck he went to the packages again, bringing back a glove, a brick of tea, and cups. With steady hands he broke the brick of pressed tea and added the dried leaves to the cups that he split between he and his partner. Then poured for the both of them a full cup of piping, steaming tea. The leaves inside bubbled and stewed in the warm water, slowly turning it a soft amber color.
The morning sun rose up higher into the sky and the early morning chill dissipated. As the morning sun reached higher the frost of the earth warmed and soon bloomed with a white mist as the ground was steamed back to life.
“We should be on our way.” the older of the two hunters said. He drew a dry stare to the captive man that sat hunched in the rocks and the moss. His hands lay limp between two spindly legs.
The other nodded in agreement. “I'll prepare the horses.” he answered.
With a brisk wave, the rough-faced hunter brushed him off as he went to the horses. Whistling and singing softly he called for their attention as he collected their saddlebags and weapons. As the ponies were saddled the rougher individual stood up and walked to the prisoner sitting on the ground.
He was a sad shape of a man, worse off than most. His body was frail and his clothes hung off in broken rags. Even the mountain coat of yak hide was cut and frayed. Traces of blood were packed into the fur. And it was no wonder from the bandage around his arm.
“It's really amazing what you did,” he told him in a low voice, “To stir the hive as you did. Even if delayed, you really lit a fire.” the prisoner only wept quietly into his bound hands.
“Fucking pussy.” the old hunter spat, pulling him to his feet by the neck. Turning and pushing him to the horses he lead him towards the waiting mounts. Already his younger counterpart was waiting with a sword strapped across the back of his hip and a weather-beaten rifle hanging on his back. With a trained toss he passed to the elder his own gun and he swung it over his shoulders.
Taking hemp rope and leather bounds he tied the captive to his saddle before mounting. “Let's move.” he croaked. The younger obliged and kicked his horse to a slow trot. The other followed impatiently.
The hooves of the horses cracked and popped over the loose barren rocks as they trotted along. Every so often they would veer over the remnants of a broken and ancient asphalt road that wound through the landscape and the rocks, always with the river at its side. On either side the barren and gray hills of Tibet grew upwards, sliding them into the bottom of a soft valley between the bosoms of the Himalayas.
As they rode along and in the last breath of the languid still air of morning they heard the distant call of Lhasa over the hills. A low long note that echoed across the mountains peaks and through the valleys and gorges. It sang through the rocks, the grass, the sky, and the bushes. Even the river seemed to moan that long croaking song.
While it made the prisoner scarred, it was a cause of vigor to the riders. It was the sound of their end-goal and they kept riding.
Soon pillars of rocks began to line the road. Tied to the masts of these beacons yards of banners hung from hide and woolen ropes and fluttered in the cool Tibetan breeze. These prayer flags splashed bright colors across the sullen heights of Tibet. Exploding in a forest of red, yellow, oranges, blues, and greens. Lining the roads they even spanned into the distance and up the hills, so that even the grass and the rocks were lost amid a canopy of flowering color.
Continuing on further the outer sights of Lhasa became evident amid the forest of prayers. Shepards herding their goats and sheep among the hills. Observant pilgrims prostrating their way along the road, displaying their devotion every few steps as they bid the mountain spirits for their blessings. Or sought the outer light of enlightenment between their muttered chants. Few turned their heads up to the travelers as they trotted by, prisoner in tow. Fewer yet seemed to care. With cottage rifles on their shoulders, they were important men.
Finally the forest of prayers broke as the terrain suddenly opened up before them. A wide green valley shone in the late morning sun, dotted by still glistening lakes between fields and pastures of emerald greens, dotted and populated by the decay of an older world, graying buildings lining fading streets with twisting trees and herds of yak mulling between them. Where it was most open, farmers toiled in fields flush with the city's crop. And at the center of it all: the Potala Palace, a great monument of white, red, and wide-overhanging roofs and turrets. Within those walls the monastic power of Lhasa, and its secular political ruler shared tentative space within halls of yak-butter candles.
Justice, law, and interrogation would be served there as they rode to it. And so would reward. There was no greater greeting than to behold the great palace at the center of the city. Neither was the declaratory roar of its horns as the monks stirred about their morning rituals and called it out to the city from the high walls of the palace.
"My Khan," the Earth Ungor warrior kneeled before the chief of the Ulm'Haraq Chosen, his armor battered and his skin covered in cuts though he barely seemed aware of it, "We have razed the village per your instructions."
"You have left a few to spread the word?" Khan Nachin looked down from his horse, his armor equally as battered but had just a few less bullet holes and dents.
"Of course. The few which have been spared shall spread the word far and wide. Our name will ring fear in the hearts of every tribe, town and settlement in the west soon enough."
"Good. Our Great Khan shall be pleased with this raid." Khan Nachin turned to his forced, the backdrop of a burning village provided a setting that he had seen many times over, pulling out a crudely built microphone, the aged warrior shouted, "My warriors! We have done well! Grab whatever you can carry and return to the camp! A full lamb to the family of whoever brings the most back!"
The sudden eruption of cheer followed by the pounding of hooves and the grind of tanks made the Khan smile. Turning back to his personal guard he drew his sword and shot it out straight into the sky. Without hesitation, he and his men retreated back to the camp, on their tanks and horses were bags of grain, barrels of water, rolls of fabric, containers of metal and bundles of string. Several tanks and armored cars had fagots of wood strapped to them while a group of horsemen herded a flock of sheep with skillful use of long sticks and lassoes.
Nachin smiled, it seemed that with this and the other recent strings of successful raids he would be able to both pay his tribute dues to Great Khan Attila and have some to spare. Perhaps the Heavens were on his side for this time. And if his wife was to deliver their fifth child without incident, the warlord made mental notes to thanks the local shaman.
Khergit Tribe - Wolves of Winter
Northern Russian Region Diary of Khalja Ulumbr
Today is a good day!
We have found a suitable place to set up camp up here in these cold, cold wastes. We are putting up our yurts and homes as I write and if the riders are to believe, Yuri's horde will also be up here soon. My only concern is my son, Dei who seems to have caught a cold. My wife has already hung him over a fire to war him up along with some of the other children. He should be better within the hour according to the priest.
It seems that even up here, there are still people, if just barely. Scouts said there was about a dozen poor bastards huddling around a bonfire, the Khan is already working to try and integrate them. The poor people looked frostbitten and constantly on the verge of death. Primatives they look like, all of them living in an old Russian MAZ (I think?) truck. Their stuff was literally spilling over with makeshifts additions to the thing; I think they'll make good engineers if they come join! If the reports are right, I think we'll be getting some new friends soon, always good.
There might not be much here, but with some hard work and a few additional convoys of supplies and we'll be make this place a nice little home if not for long. I feel that some have doubts of the reasons behind the construction of a new Kazak here. They wish to live on the move, a never ending trek into the endless horizon; I admit to being amongst their ranks. However, the Khan has assured us that we are simply here to build the Kazak and someone else will take up the residence.
However my chief concern is not of being nomads or not. We hear great roars on the way here. The priest said that it was simply the Sky Maiden being upset and called for a ritual upon arrival (which was followed to his exact words). Yet, I cannot help but feel that we are not alone in these lands. There is something worse than man that dares dwell up here. Good thing machine guns and tanks kill anything that moves though. I also have a feeling I will be told to take additional guard patrols tonight. Even the Khan is a little unnerved by... whatever that thing was.
”Our men and women are fighting out there while you sit in this tent and play war games! You are disgraceful to the Party Mistress Wallace! Utterly disgraceful.” yelled out a man in military dress to a woman wearing a lavish dress of furs and wool. The entire room the pair were in reflected what lavish a life the Empress lived and the general seemed out of place in clothing which was caked in mud, stained with blood, and dripping with melting snow. Behind him stood several guards in their combat dress and bore the job of protecting the Empress from the those who would wish her harm, though they bore no loyalty to the Mistress Wallace herself and were rather indifferent with whom they guarded. Most of the men in the room were watching General Gultz, some out of pity and others who knew what war was like. The only one whose face displayed no emotions nor betrayed their thoughts was that of the Mistress for all one could make from her was the absolute air of superiority she displayed.
The War for the Provinces of Machten and Kiltan of what use to be Denmark had been running for the entire week and the only progress which had been made was the success in taking the islands associated with the two Provinces. The bunkers which had risen there were spiteful of the Empire and knew full well that their enemy almost controlled the entire Strait. These foolish bunkers united to form the New Danish Empire and wanted to reclaim the territory of Denmark which had been taken by the Empire. In a final move before she was required to leave her position, Mistress Wallace had moved to take out the Danish Empire, knowing full well that the War would end during her reign and that Mistress Gratin, of the Socialist Party, would look for a peaceful resolution for the war. The Mistress was a spiteful woman and hated that such a pacifist would take the office and ruin all that she had worked towards in the ten years of her reign.
”You forget who you are talking to General. If you were not a capable man, I would have you killed for your insurrections here and against me. If you knew how War is like chess, you would know full well that the Pawns are meant to die for the Queen and follow the orders of the King. If you were so worried about the War, then you would be out there with them rather than sitting here like a sad puppy and plead for help from me. Now leave and fight my War like a good pawn! replied the Mistress to the General. Several of the guards reacted with shock, not due to her cruelty but because they knew what the General was feeling. Gultz felt the deepest despair at the Mistress’ response for he knew well that, unless he received the people needed to fight the war, he would certainly face the loss of at least ten thousand young men and women. He required the main forces and he had only received control over twenty percent of their forces, many of which were untrained soldiers who were tired and under supplied. He had seen a man, no older than his son, die in front of him from a bullet wound which could have been cured had it not be for the lack of supplies. The General bowed deeply and walked out of the room with tears in his eyes.
Diary on the Front Line- Private Johnson Wells, Armored Infantry
The Diary in question are the belongings of a Wells, Johnson, Private of the 21st Armored Infantry and are to be sent to his parents, Maria and Rob Wells.
”We’ve been on the front line for nearly an entire week now ma. I’ve… seen my friends from basic get shot in front of me and get carried away by the medics who almost seemed as worn as my boots are. The gun fire always starts at three and we don’t get to rest until nearly ten at night. I’m… so tired ma. We don’t get rations except twice a day and our water rations are given once a day. Our trucks can’t take much more of a beating from their gun fire. Occasionally, we wake up to ‘spoiled’ rations and half our water poured out. Lieutenant says that our enemy have been gettin’ into the camp and doing it.
I.. can’t take much more of it ma. I probably should have lead with this but I was shot the other day ma. Right in my shoulder. Doc says that I’ll survive but... it is so cold. Why does it have to be so cold ma? Is this what dying is like? I’m sorry for not coming back ma. I shouldn’t have run away..I shouldn’t hav “
Johnson Wells died on the Monday General Gultz went to Yizima. He would have survived had it not been for the Mistress. Word quickly spreads that the War would go on for several more months, if not an entire year, without the full support of the army. Protests are stirred up and the Mistress holes herself up in the Winter Palace to stay away from the many people who had been threatening to kill her in that week. Gultz would pull back to the border between the Danish Empire and the Empire itself, the islands left to the Empire as the Danish weren’t capable of taking back the islands without the loss of many lives.
The radio crackled to life and a cheer echoed throughout the air hangar.
"Good man, Gerry!" laughed Ian McCallum, clapping Gerry the engineer on the back. "See if you can find Foyle Radio there, lad". There was only radio static as the engineer bent over the tiny radio and fiddled with some wires. The tension in the room was reaching breaking point just as the radio roared into life. There was wild cheers and jumping as the group of scavengers began to sing to the old Ulster classic, "Alternative Ulster" by the ancient Belfast folk band, Stiff Little Fingers.
Rain pattered on the cast-roof just as the song faded away into static. "Ah jesus, lads, lets start this before the rain gets shite" grumbled Ian, slinging his gun onto his back and pulling his hood over his head. "Right, Gerry, what should we pull in first?" Gerry the engineer jumped to his feet and jogged across to the open hangar doors. The hangar was completely bare, apart from the small tents and campfire the scavengers had set up the night before. There were six of them in all - Gerry, Ian, Wee John, Big John, Gary and Ians son, Aaron.
Scavenging was a specialised profession in the Republic of Ulster - seeing as prior to the war, Ulster was largely poverty-ridden and rural, it seemed there wasn't much to scavenge. But Ian and his crew always found a way. Tiny airports, paramilitary weaponry caches and British bases dotted the land and there was a gold mine of machinery parts, food and weapons to be sold in Derry. Ian used a team of horses to drag the parts back to a safehouse he'd hidden deep in the hills of Donegal and then drag the whole lot to Derry for sale. It was hard work, stripping down vehicles or risking their necks in old army bases but it paid well.
"Aye, ye see that auld propeller plane down there? Hitch the horses up to that and drag it down it here. We can strip it down, sure, they love that engine shite in Derry" said Gerry, twisting his face into a horrible smile. Gerry was a toothless old bastard but he could strip anything down in a matter of hours.
"Right, that's grand. Aaron and Gary, get the horses. We'll get the fucking ropes and make sure that big cunt of a plane doesn't blow up on us" nodded Ian, directing Wee John and Big John to follow him out to the runway.
Ian jammed his hands into the pockets of his hoody as a sharp breeze cut across the runaway. "Fuckin' cauld..." murmured Wee John as he lumbered behind Ian. Wee John, despite his namesake, was the biggest man Ian had ever seen. He could lift five barrels of beer over his shoulder without losing a breath and was so powerfully built his clothes often ripped from his muscles. His best friend, Big John, stood at a modest five feet and was a small rat of a man. He was always hearing rumours of this and that and researched pre-war Ulster history extensively. He was quiet but a useful asset to Ian's work.
The airplane was ancient, even by pre-war standards. It's white paint was cracked and peeling. Both tires were flat and the one of the wings looked ready to fall off. The cockpit was a simple affair and Wee John lifted Ian into it to get a better look. The glass was cracked but still intact. "I dunno, lads, this looks a bit shite" said Ian, investigating the sides of the cockpit. "Ah well, Gerry will get something out of it".
Wee John lifted Ian back down to the ground. The three men began throwing ropes across the plane, careful not to damage any of it. They finished quickly and took shelter under a wing as they waited for Aaron and Gary to return with the horses.
"Where are those fuckin' bastards now..." murmured Ian, jamming his gloved hands into his pockets once again.
Lough Neagh, West Shore
"What d'you think, lads?" asked Captain Burns.
"Aye, she's looking well" smiled Private Adams. The boat bobbed in the water. It had been recently waxed and clean. It was ready for another season of fishing, by the looks of it. But there was no fishing to be done on the LÉ Béal Inse today. "Right, get on board, boys" barked Seargeant Paisley. "Aye, sir!" replied the men, saluting. The soldiers jumped onto the boat carefully. It bobbed violently as Private McGuinness jumped on, cackling. "Fuck you, McGuinness" snarled Private Adams, leaning on the side of the boat. He was terrified of boats. When the ten soldiers were on board, jumped on board last.
"Captain Burns, if you'll please..." nodded Paisley. The Captain scratched his white beard and nodded. "Right, boys. Lough Neagh's about 15 km across. When you land on the opposite shore, you've to go to the auld car garage a mile inland and see if you can secure it. Remember, lads, this is near Ground Zero. The fuckers dropped a bomb on Belfast and fucked up half the population there. Do not engage anyone seen on the Lough Neagh without prior orders and for fuck sakes, don't fall in".
The was a smattering of laughter as the soldiers nodded. Captain Burns retreated to the cockpit and the boat roared into life. It was powered by electricty but with energy being in such short supply these days, it had to move slowly. "We'll get there in about 5 hours" growled Paisley, glaring at Private McGuinness before he could open his mouth.
"Don't say a fucking word, Private McGuinness or I will fucking throw you in".
The wooden halls of the Potala Palace contained within their bowls a harsh bitter smell of burning fat. The acrid odors mingled with the heavy earthly aroma of woody musk and the ages of preserve in the wood of the ancient palace. Unhooded, the prisoner leered gloomily at the passing halls as he was dragged through the halls.
Elaborately carved wooden pillars, motifs decorated in amber and golden leaf, and the pale-yellow light of banks and beds of candles passed him by. Men in mismatched uniforms of plated armor and leather carried him through from under the arms. The clicking of the metal scales and plates in their armor was a somber and lonely music accompanying the distant, muffled chanting of monks. In the dim lighting their faces were hidden and obscured in the soft shadows and dim lights so they were only phantoms of men.
Their boots beat heavily against the centuries-preserved wood in a low drum-beat as they turned to a room off the side. The drumming of the leather soles ebbed to a muffled and muddled drum as they dragged him over carpet. Too weak to look up, the captive starred down at the twisting designs woven into the rug. With a hard thud, he dropped suddenly to meet the coarse weave. He gasped stiffly for breath before a voice beckoned him to rise.
He slowly rose to his hands and knees. The room was not large, and was in fact not any bigger than many peasant's huts. Though this only reinforced the size and palatial size of the Potala Palace. Woven tapestries of the Buddha and the enlightened afterlife hung from the walls. Narrow windows let in streams of golden light filtered through the dusty air. In darkened corners robed courtiers hung back in the shadows, hiding their whispers behind palms as they looked down at the beggar soul on the floor. The guards and soldiers with their scavenged suits and weapons loitered more clearly on either side of a throne of yellow cushions and blankets. Seated upon which was the cross-legged liege of the palace.
Samten Khyenpa Gyatso was a prince possessed. The man before him now was one who could claim to have seen him before when he was much younger. But then it was a glancing look at a man who enjoyed the presence of the monks over. Through his sullen brown eyes had once shown a compassionate charity.
But now through a karmic twist of fate, he now knelt before him at a worse time. Bent by malice and revenge, the prince was a lion in his mid-forties. His eyes shown with no charity or mercy, but an enraged and upfront emotion. That of anger, that of revenge, and that desiring which was stolen by him. Looking up he understood just how much he had loved his father and how much he would have him back. But he was gone now, and there was only him clutching the sword of Lhasa.
Samten did not need to speak for the prisoner to know why he was here. He was caught before he could flee the lands ruled by Lhasa for Kham, or even the far-away Dong. He couldn't make it to Sikkim or to Nepal. And not his laziness was paying up in spades for his treachery and his plotting. Looking at the prince, he knew that he knew. The power in his stare was beyond that of compromise and any word he spoke would be negated.
“Some might say the world needs more compassion.” he said in a low voice. His tone was low as if he were hiding it from the public ear as much as the whispering courtiers. He held a trembling hand to his brow and brushed aside a long lock of black hair, stuffing it underneath the brass crown of Lhasa. The faded tarnished metal was cast like that of the hats of the monks, a tall curved horn that bowed forward, decorated in horse-hair frills that dangled from the seams. “But when the dispassionate steal from someone something irreplaceable, I find myself double-guessing this philosophy. No matter the good work and the good word, the irredeemable and the foul will be crawling in the gutters. Looking up and ready to kill. And for what, dearest traitor?”
The assassin could only lay on the carpet, shaking from hunger, thirst, and of rage. He boiled deep inside but lacked the strength to walk. It had all bled out from his feet. He worked his tongue in his mouth, but the dry cotton that it had become produced only inaudible vocalizations. Behind him the two hunters that had recovered him triumphantly smiled.
“P-p-prince Chodah-ah-ak.” he finally croaked. He felt his stomach turn and twist inside of him. The sickly throws of nausea forced him to keel over at his betrayal to his liege-lord. He cried as he pounded his head against the carpet. But Samten watched, without amusement as the assassin punished himself. “That is the name I shall betray!” he declared.
“What is it you're afraid of?” asked Samten between clenched teeth. The assassin looked up at him, baffled.
“Of the misdeeds to commit, why is it murder!?” he boomed, “Theft, rape, assault. You could have done much more. But why attack your liege? And why in the name of some other!?”
Moaning, the prisoner laid his head on the ground. Samten sat atop his throne, burning and passionate with anger. If he had looked up he would have seen him glower with the energetic reds of the setting sun. He was there the end of day, all contained in the wrinkled face as round as the sun itself.
“Your noble sire,” bowed one of the hunters, “When we took the captive we found this on his person.”
With a thud a small leather pouch was thrown onto the ground between the prisoner and the prince. The two looked at it. The prisoner in feeble terror and the prince in cautious anger.
“Dare I take it?” he openly asked.
“We checked the contents, it was a paid contract.” the hunter acknowledged.
Somehow, this made the prince even angrier. As he shot from the throne he shouted in a thunderous voice, “And you were so in need for wealth!” he scolded.
He scooped the satchel from the ground and tore it open, “To think misdeeds to be committed for something as base as to why the war ended.” he scowled.
Inside the bag was an assorted collection of shimmer brass bullets, still fresh within their casing. Gemstones and gold nuggets shared space. The glittering wealth of corruption stared up at and Samten. With fury he threw it to the side, as if it were a venomous snake.
“Insolent thirsty greed!” he bellowed wrothfully, “Base misdeed!”
The courtiers nodded in agreement. The palace itself seemed to freeze at the judgement.
With a wave of his hand Samten closed the audience. “Intern this man into the dungeons, we will force the story from him in the days time. We'll decide sentence then.”
The prisoner cried as he was pulled back up to his feet by the guards and dragged off through the halls. Smiling triumphantly the two hunters walked casually across the room to the prince.
“Your honor.” the eldest bowed.
“Gyaltsen.” Samten acknowledged, “How is your brother?”
“Lobsang does well.” he answered, “This prisoner, you really think we can milk him more?”
Samten shrugged as he returned to the throne. Passionate anger still burned in his veins like hot iron. Sitting on the corner he rubbed his fingers across his palms. “Perhaps, but it's something I trust that Ngwang and you can no doubt accomplish.” he said plainly, looking up at the younger partner, “But here, now, I have the name I needed. I will have to prepare the response accordingly. I will have to dispatch word to your brother and we can put this together.”
Gyaltsen bowed, “It sounds like war is on the wind. May these fires be brief.”
Samten spat, “Chodak stole my family, I will steal the same from him.” he grumbled.
“But Chodak has no father. Though his brothers and sons will be the first to meet you in battle.”
“It's not them I want, it's his lands. They are the most valuable to him. I will add Ngari to my titles and imprison him.”
Gyalston the Hunter nodded, it was not in position to question it further. “I understand.” he said, though he wished for it to be shorter, temperament held to withdraw his reservations for the moment.
“We will begin seeing to our guest.” he said, turning to the door.
Captain Jacob R. Riley, commander of the Royal Navy frigate HMS Canterbury, squinted through his field glasses at the Brittan town of St-Malo. It was a picturesque little place, nestled into the low-lying coast like an estuary of buildings. A castle, bearing the banner of Brittany, stood stolidly to the east of the coastal settlement. It seemed to glower at the small British fleet as it lay at anchor off the coast.
A flicker of coloured movement to the right caught the Captain's eye. He swivelled his gaze, a small smile flickering on his face as he saw what was happening.
"Lieutenant Commander, look over there." said Riley, pointing.
To the west and slightly in front, the small island of Cezembre sat low in the sea. From the frigate's position, it seemed a fortress, an island of sheer, jagged rocks. But unseen from the north, facing towards the town, was a long, sandy beach, to which the agents of the Crown had first come to the island in the dead of night.
"Captain, the flags are changing. The mission has been successful."
The flicker of colour Riley had seen was the Union Flag, ascending a tall, slim flagpole, just barely visible to the naked eye. The Captain could see the black-and-white Brittan banner sliding down as it was replaced. A fitting symbol, he thought, of the impending destruction of the Brittan state. Perhaps the people of St-Malo would see it as an omen of their own impending fall.
"Excellent, Leiutenant Commander. We will wait for high tide. Then the depth of the water will be sufficient to bring the transport vessel, HMS Endurance, into position for deployment of our landing craft. Remember, we must repeat this at Ile Agot and Ile des Hebihens, so maximum speed is necessary to beat the tides. The landing craft must be retrieved swiftly and brought back to the Endurance within a quarter of an hour, otherwise, we will have to wait for the next high tide."
"Very well sir." The Lieutenant Commander gave a salute and departed, ready to transfer the orders to the crew.
This was the British aid to the Normans at sea, capturing the major strategic islands for the Crown. Help on land would come later, if necessary. But that was no affair of the Captain's.
Capitaine Francis Desjardins, 1st Infantry Company, 1st Cherbourg Regiment.
The Road to St-Malo
Capitaine Desjardins threw himself behind a decaying thicket of twisted and dying vegetation, narrowly avoiding the explosion that replaced the Warrior AFV with a smouldering ruin.
"Bâtards!," he managed, just before tracer rounds from a Brittan machinegun nest tore through the thicket. He rolled to one side, trying to somehow escape the barrage of hot-lead.
A couple of his comrades ran to his position, one carrying an anti-tank rifle, another a few cases of 40mm HE rounds for it. Both men were sliced in half before they'd even had a chance to duck down; the anti-tank rifle bounced over to the Capitaine. He gripped the tubular and crude weapon, throwing down his SA80 assault rifle in the process. More bullets tore at his cover, one of them nicking his left knuckles.
"Merde!," he groaned aloud, fumbling for the weapon's firing mechanism as blood generously coated it. He pulled back the bolt, and felt a rush of relief flow through him when he saw the green coloured warhead inside.
Rolling onto his front, he pushed the anti-tank rifle forwards, flipped up its sights and homed in on the mound of sandbags and muzzle flashes. His Ensign Battle Helmet, a pre-war relic issued only to frontline officers, started identifying the various heat signals of Brittan soldiers. There were six of them, two on the MG, one with an RPG, and the others with rifles. He depressed the trigger, and felt the harsh metal frame of the weapon smash against his right shoulder. More French profanity followed.
The Brittain machinegun nest exploded into a brilliant firework display; the HE round literally engulfing the position in searing hot flame. He heard his men cheering, singing in French, and with that, the offensive restarted. Scores of Norman troops launched themselves from their entrenched positions, and stormed down the road.
In the distance, Capitaine Desjardins eyed the pre-war town of St-Malo through the digital display offered to him by his helmet. From where he stood, it looked almost immaculate; untouched by the flames of nuclear warfare. But he knew that a couple of miles in that direction would tear down any illusion of peace that the seemingly sleepy French town offered.
The 1st Cherbourg Regiment had made a lightning advance, taking the borderlands with barely a shot fired; the 1st Infantry Company was the regiment's vanguard, and had only just started running into stiff resistance. Still, so far they'd only captured a few hundred Brittans, and these men were pitiful - dressed in rags and using arms that resembled pre-war power tools, rather than weapons.
St-Malo was almost certain to house a fully functional company, maybe even a battalion, of Brittan's best.
And it fell to Capitaine Desjardins to lead the charge.
"Hello, Strangers. Your signal is unusual to us, and we, the People of Kyoto, would like for you to make contact with us. We do not recognize your vehicles, nor its symbols. We request that you land near the city of Kyoto, at the following Coordinates, and a group will meet with you."
The message filled the bridge, played over the ship's intercom for all to hear. It was in Japanese, which didn't really surprise anyone. It did, however, make them wonder whether or not there was anyone left there who still spoke English. Some of the words were strange too, still clearly recognizable as Japanese, but a departure from what the crew had been taught. Needless to say, such things fueled conclusion jumping. After all, if there was nobody left who knew English, what else had been forgotten?
"All hands, stand down!" Said the admiral, before switching the microphone back on. "We have recieved your message. Thank you for not turning this contact into a battle. Our fleet shall met you at the indicated coordinates."
He nodded at the helmsman, whom got the message and set the ship on a course to meet whatever delegation the city planned to send. The rest of the fleet followed, while gunners tried their best to stow their weapons in the rest-threatening manner while still keeping them visible. One didn't want to appear hostile during a diplomatic contact, but you always want the other side of it all to know that you didn't come bearing only an olive branch. Otherwise, they might be a bit more eager to show off their weapons technology than you might have previously expected.
Quiet hums came out of the electric engines of the ships as they floated almost silently through the clear blue sky. All the ships began to slowly descend, adjusting their course so they would land as softly as possible. While all the vessels were capable of landing, it had to be done with care when not at a specifically constructed facility. Improvised landings worked best at sea anyways, though the guns on the bottom of the ships had to be repaired after such feats.
As the flagship drifted ever closer to the ground, the helmsman pressed a single, seemingly-insignificant button on his station's display. Latches on each side of the ship's balloon released and let a pair of metal skids fold out downwards towards the grassy field below. With a final rotation of the propeller nacelles, the vessel kicked up a vortex of wind directly below it as the skids touched the ground. The friction their created was enough to stop the ship, and a few canisters on either end of the vessel fired grapples into the ground to keep the wind from pushing it away. Soon after, the engines shut off, leaving the wind as the only remaining source of sound.
A ladder descended from the bottom of the ship, and five men climbed down it one by one. The first two were clothed in what was clearly combat armor, their faces obscured by gas masks. On the outside of their armor there appeared to be various motors, joints, and supports. A primitive combat exoskeleton from which power armor had developed, now used by the marines carried on aerial and naval craft to ensure their safety despite the small numbers of soldiers available.
The next to descend from the ship looked somewhat like a Brazilian, thought not because that was his family's place of origin. More likely, it was simply the result of extensive interbreeding between various different races. His very much Chinese-looking eyes made that clear. In his hands was a weapon very much like that carried by the two others, the action behind the trigger in a bullpup configuration. The other two had more normal looking magazines, whereas his weapon had a drum magazine in an odd departure from the norm. A bipod was attached to the front as well, making it clear to the trained eye that it was a Chinese QBB-95 from well before the war. The other two were using the QBZ variant, most likely.
The fourth out was holding a railgun of sorts, with a worn leather grip that looked like it had seen a thousand years of warfare and a cold black paint job to match. His skin was a pale white, like that of a particularly reclusive Scandinavian man. His eyes were an aquatic blue, and his hair was blonde enough to make him look like someone right out of a Nazi propaganda poster. However, his shoes were clearly not meant for a normal foot. They branched off into two different paths right in the middle of his foot, where there should have been plenty of space left before reaching the toes. Furthermore, the left shoe was constructed slightly differently from the right.
Finally, a man wearing a blue uniform with multiple medals pinned upon it came down-the admiral of the fleet. His face was entirely covered in hair as if he was a werewolf. A handgun hung down from his belt, though it wasn't anything special. In fact, it was nothing more than a practically ancient M1911. One had to wonder just how the same weapon design had been in use for hundreds upon hundreds of years.
The group approached the native delegation, all of whom were quite clearly Japanese-as had been expected. What surprised them, however, was the fact that none of them had any apparent mutations. They seemed to have been lucky enough to be in the shelters when the bombs dropped.
"I'm Kagiso Mah, the admiral of this fleet." Said the admiral. "It's wonderful to know that your people survived the war, pleasure to meet you."
He stuck out his hand, hoping that the custom of a handshake had survived the time they had clearly spent in the bunkers.
Nestled in a large field outside of Kyoto, re purposed for the purpose of having a place to build a collection of Shrines, The largest in the Center, dedicated to the Sun Goddess, who promised all of Japan to The Minami Family. But the second largest shrine belonged
As the party made their way into the complex, many of the Ronin stopped at the various shrines before the newcomers would arrive, making offerings to the Gods, tossing them Coins, Food, and clothing before the Altars of the Deities. They called out in prayer, spoken in an odd, very ritualistic version of Japanese, holding onto a very archaic grammar and vocabulary, more easily recognizable by those who learned the Pre-War Standardized Form.
Guardians of the Sky, hear us! Let Chimata-no-kami guide these visitors safely; May Izanagi, Susanoo-no-Mikoto And Raijin give them Clear Skies and safe passage to the ground; But if, these outlanders should betray out trust; Let Fujin destroy their ships; May Raijin burn the betrayers; May Susanoo-no-Mikoto swallow them into furious winds; And May Hachiman and Kyūseishu-Osama give us the strength to slaughter the surviving traitors; May Amaterasu bless this meeting, and make it fruitful for all!
As the Ronin and their employers finished the ritual, they looked to the skies, watching the Mysterious Ship graced its way to the ground. The Ronin made no attempt to look friendly, their guns clearly up at all times, though it was clear from their choice of weapon, that they had no intent of opening fire; though this cultural tip off may be lost on the Cooperative's agents. They keep their guard up at all time, fierce looking under their salvaged armor; a collection of picked armor pieces, slathered and caked in black anti-corrosion paint, though cracking at points, relieving a motley collection of discarded protective parts. Compared to the well dressed, decent looking officials, Shinobi, and proper Samurai who came with them.
When the men made their way off the ship, the clamor of Samurai and Ronin seem to halt entirely. All noise had died off. The soldiers kept their weapons up, some visibly shaken and even angered at the sight of the men of the Cooperative's ship; perhaps even more disturbing was the fact of the Shinobi, themselves visibly shaken, though hiding it much more well than the Soldiers. All across the back of the security force, a word kept being whispered back and forth
Yokai...
Yokai, Mutants, Demons, the eternal enemy of the Japanese people. These people, they were mutated, cursed, descendants of sinful men. The Osakans made no attempt to hide their displeasure, but the officials, they knew better than to chase out a new nation they know nothing of.
The Leader of the Group, a Kyoto born Diplomat, Yoshiro Miyamoto, a Samurai Born man, tried his best to be welcoming to the strangers. However, when Kasigo Mah stuck out his hand, Miyamoto simply looked on in confusion; unsure of what to do. After thinking of a second, the Diplomat stuck his own hand out, in the same fasion, hoping it would be an appropriate response. "Our people are suprised and honored to make your aquaintance, Mr. Mah. My name is Yoshiro Miyamoto, of the Miyamoto Clan, in the Service of Shiro-Sama of the Yota Tribe. We welcome you to the Shogunate of Osaka."
William McGuinness, Prime Minister of Chilliwack, sat in his newly furnished office. He perused the quality of his new oak desk, richly stained with dark oils, each leg decorated with countless carvings from the finest Hutterite sculptors. It was a gift, honouring the construction of Chilliwack's new parliament buildings. A cacophony of hammers and drills could still be heard outside the Prime Minister's office, as he sat himself down at his computer. There was much work to be done. As he began typing a letter to his Minister of Agriculture, however, someone knocked on his office door. "Enter", he commanded, raising his head up from the computer's screen. The thick wooden door creaked open, and a great burly man, with a thick, tangled beard stepped in. With his plain black clothes, and brimmed hat, he was unmistakably Hutterish. "Elder Scholtz!", McGuinness proclaimed, "Please, take a seat! What brings you so far from Revelstoke?" "A couple matters", Scholtz stated calmly, planting himself in the seat across from the Prime Minister. "Firstly, I'm here to congratulate you on your reelection. You certainly have the hearts of the people." "Thank you very much, Elder", Mcguinness chuckled. "I'd say it was a hard-fought victory, but that would be a few steps from the truth, certainly. Now, what's your second reason for coming here?" "An invitation", proclaimed Scholtz, "You see, the councils of Hutterish British Columbia are arranging a meeting in Clearwater. We plan to discuss and determine the path of the Hutterite people in the modern world. We would like your government to be there. I'm not able to disclose much, but I can assure you that its outcome will have a meaningful impact for your people." "Elder, this isn't the era of automobiles and trains, that humanity was once blessed with. A trek from Chilliwack City, all the way to Clearwater, would be a great undertaking for this government. Not to mention the months of work that would be lost, as we put aside our duties to the people to make this journey." "Mister Prime Minister", Scholtz said sternly, "Do not misunderstand me. It would be a great insult to the council if your government was absent from this gathering. I also believe that the matter at hand, to be decided by the councils, is one you want to be there for. To put it simply, we Hutterites have lived the same way for hundreds of years, based upon the principle of being 'in the world, but not of the world'. But that was before God punished the sinful among us with what your people call the War of Gods. It was a war of one God, and his people have inherited the spoils. This meeting, for which I traveled all the way here to greet you personally, is to decide a new course of action, based upon this revelation." "Pardon me, Elder", inquired McGuinness, "But I wasn't aware that was a new revelation for your people. The war was hundreds of years ago. What has changed, to cause this shift?" "The rest of the world has changed, I'm afraid. For two hundred years, the world was left to God's children to claim it. There was no conflict, no tension, and no murder. We live peacefully, multiplied, and spread across the great prairies. As far as we Hutterites see it, the meek have already inherited the world. Now we see the violent forces of Satan, springing up once again, founding great worldly empires. We fear that we may no longer be enacting God's will, as we once did. I wish for you to be there, when we consult the scriptures in unity, and determine our next course of action." "I see", McGuinness pondered. "Alright, you've got my pledge. I'll bring this before Parliament. I'm certain that, given the circumstances, they'll happily approve the meeting." "Thank you, Mister Prime Minister", Scholtz said with a smile, raising himself up from his chair, and extending his hand. McGuinness likewise rose from his chair, and met Scholtz with a hearty handshake. With that, the elder strode to the office door, and let himself out. McGuinness gave a deep sigh, slumping back into his chair. This wouldn't be an easy undertaking, but he was on his way to making history. Placing his pale hands back onto his keyboard, he began to compose one of two letters, that needed to be sent out, prior to the journey. There were neighbouring nations to the south of Chilliwack, and land disputes were best settled before they arose.
To The Hutterite Councils of Northern British Columbia,
Dear Councilmen,
I have received word that the Native bands of the North Coast have agreed to join our coalition. Our borders are to be redrawn to accommodate for this expansion. Further still, your people have been granted permission to establish communes within this territory, as the need arises. Talks will continue, with the hopes of expanding further up the island chain. As such, I would advise you to treat the locals with the utmost accommodation and hospitality, in keeping with good Christian behaviour.
Blessings upon you, -William McGuinness President of the Republic
Dear Emperor,
I write this letter on behalf of the citizens of the Republic of Chilliwack, and of the united Hutterite communes. Given the proliferation of multiple militarized nations within the bounds of North America, and the risk of conflict this presents, as these nations seek to expand, I propose an agreement between our two societies. In case of a situation in which either of us find ourselves the victims of belligerence from a neighbouring nation, I propose we rectify a pact, obligating us to provide military support to each other, so that we may properly defend against, and punish, the aggressor. Simply put, I'm offering a defensive military pact, to help preserve the peace, as our nations expand their borders. Further still, to supplement this alliance, I propose the establishment of a formalized trade route between our two nations. When two prosperous entities live so close to one another, it would be wasteful to not benefit from each other's success.
Regards, -William McGuinness Prime Minister of the Republic of Chilliwack Ambassador of the Hutterites
Seated on the patio, Samten looked out across Lhasa. Nestled between the heights of mountains and in the middle seat of a long valley, the city was longer than it was wide. A long worm of stone and concrete that had stood to withstand the collapse of civilization. The sparkling lakes it was built alongside glistened in the late evening sun.
Though the city had withstood, not nearly everyone who had once lived here remained. Over the decades many had slowly migrated out, seeking fortunes in the wild regions of Gansu where a man good with the bow or the gun were rumored to live a good life as an adventurous mercenary to the Hui city-states of the low Chinese dry-lands. Or even to the east where the fertile valleys beyond Kham beckoned for farmers and warriors to wrench the land from the natives there.
Or if not having left, simply died of disease, hunger, desperation. It was no wonder then that in the chaos, the Potala Palace remained as the standing structure of reverence among the Tibetan people, or those who resided within Tibet. Once as a museum, now as a powerful monastery. The prestige that the people felt in it had lead the palace to be the foremost important structures in Lhasa. It was one of the few not stripped bare or abandoned and left to crumble. It was everyone's one universal material love.
He would also need to leave it soon for the evening.
Despite the palace serving as the center of Samten and his father's administration it was still a monastery. And the monks and the dob-dobs that guarded them only had so much tolerance for their day-time residency. He and his father both took up the old seats of the Dalai Lama, though the most important were reserved for the Lama of Lhasa.
As the evening horns blew into the night, Samten knew it would be his time to ride out with his retinue to night time-estate and to enjoin with his wife and dine with his sons.
He rose from his seat on the stone veranda to make his way out. His heart stopped and skipped when he found lurking in the shadows the ancient Lama of Lhasa. He let out a dry gasp as he jumped back, startled at the sudden appearance of the silent old man.
“Namaste.” the elderly monk bowed.
“Lama Manali.” Samten greeted. Of the other figures in Tibet, Lama Manali was his most deserving of respect.
No stranger to the eons, Lama Manali Bordhu was a squat impish monk. His bones had shrunk within his body but his skin had not nearly got the message, much of it hung limp and leathery from his sinewy limbs. His dark sun-kissed skin glowed a dull earthly brown the same as his eyes, which glowed with sharp wisdom under a low bushy brow. Apart from his eyebrows, the man was bald in his heavy woolen monk robes of orange and yellow.
The old monk simply nodded and smiled as he walked to Samten. His steps were light and calculated. And though there was a light shiver in his steps he still moved with great strength despite his ears. “I am planning a pilgrimage to Dharamsala, child.” he said softly, invitationally, “Would you like to come?”
Samten leaned against the wood railing. “I'm afraid I can't.” he refused.
“I understand.” Lama Manali acknowledged in a slow distraught voice, “After all, you are declaring war. No, it is not wise for a king to abandon his people when the iron will be hot.”
“That, and a pilgrimage would distract me in Ngami.”
Lama Manali nodded again, a little slower, a little heavier. His eyes dropped distraught over his king. He rose a leathery hand and said: “Forgiveness my friend, is a powerful virtue. When we are willing to forgive our enemies for their wrongdoings then we have found compassion and peace between man.
“So why do you act so rash?” he was critical. And his tongue bit harder than any hit from his hands could do. Yet he was guarded. Not physically by guards, but by position and faith. He was a man that put no walls up, and in doing so made him difficult to strike. The fact made Samten furious, and he ground his teeth at his opening questioning. Yet childishly, he made him feel almost guilty at that. He wasn't just an old man, he was a senior and a teacher. In a way he was nearly his grandfather.
“Justice begets what the unjust offer.” Samten replied behind pursed lips, “The man ordered my father dead, in his own way he killed my whole family. There is no one left to speak for them but myself!” he banged his fist against the railing. His entire body shook with anger, “Would you forgive a man for killing one of your own?”
“If it were to happen, I may have to find myself doing so much.” Manali sadly admitted.
“If they killed more, if they would keep going until all were dead? That they killed the entire unit, the monastery. This is the justice I seek to correct.”
“Yet an eye stolen to make a man blind does not justify that the other's eyes be stolen. In such a way both are made blind and are in suffering.” the old monk began to lecture, “My lord, there is a limit to justice and that is you must be careful with it. To answer without calculation entails only a blind revolution of the wheel of violence. You should stop early before the wheel spins so fast it is out of control. It then may only stop until annihilation.”
“To be damned with annihilation!” Samten bellowed, “If there is no answer to misdeeds than what use is honor and respect.”
“You drive a fiery chariot. How long until you are consumed by its fire until you hit annihilation?” Manali worried, “I desire only for the best. For you, for Chodak, for all the men who will die on both sides. This consuming rage and thirst for vengeance is what annihilated the old world and brought upon us the suffering we must endure.
“I ask, at the last precipice: you find compassion and peace in it and recall your rider.”
Samten was hot with fury. Yet he could not strike the monk. His fingers clenched tight the handrail until splinters dug into his palm. “The wheels are in motion, I can not stop this.” he admitted, “I'm committed.”
“Then I forgive you.” Manali muttered, distraught and compassionate as he bowed low. As if answering for crimes of his own that he did not commit. “I hope that you are only merciful to the enemy.”
“Those who did wrong will be the ones who need to fear. For the rest, they need not be harmed if they lay themselves down and let me pass on by.”
Potala Palace Shol Prison
A flash of eerie green light illuminated the darkened chambers as a single oil lamp came to light. Burning softly in the darkness the wrinkled and scarred face of Gyaltsen hovered in the darkness as if detached from his body. He watched the flame as he gently set the stone pot down one the ruddy surface of a wooden table. Distantly at the edge of the light the depressed and sullen captive of earlier that day sat upright against a wall, a heavy wooden collar hung from his neck, dropping clear down to his lap. The board so wide that he would not be able to cross his arms around it. A bowl of half-eaten rolls sat in his lap.
Gyaltsen regarded the cangue with a morsel of humor for his job. He was considered well enough below the monastery above that its rules hardly applied to the prison. It was perhaps the only constant piece of property Samten owned in the palace.
“You are having a fortunate day.” he chided softly, pulling parchment from his wool and leather coat. Laying the crinkling dry paper flat he produced a pen and vial of ink. He dipped the pen – having been modified as a quill of sorts – into the ink and lay the tip to the paper, “So who are you?” he asked.
“Gyaincain Yeshe.” the man answered. His voice was cracked and dry. He had wept himself dry as soon as he found himself in the dungeons of Shol prison. Gyaltsen nodded as he scribbled the name down in sweeping Tibetan script.
“Where are you from?” he asked again.
“From Lhasa itself, my lord.” Gyaincain answered. He sucked up a glob of depressed snot into his nose and tried to lean forward to lay, the cangue prevented him from doing so much as that.
“Your mother and father, did they do anything?” Gyaltsen continued with the questioning.
Too depressed to refuse to answer, and too tired to cared the prisoner answered, “They tended yaks east of the city. Every week we would lend a local farmer one of our yaks to till the fields. I and my two brothers would help...” he trailed off. Then a wave of terrible remorse washed over him and he broke down wailing and crying.
“My lord please, do not go after them! They had nothing to do with this!” he begged, screaming. Gyaltsen merely regarded the pleading with a wayward disinterested look. He nodded all the same, scratching his cheek as he bid him to continue. His quill speeding across the parchment as he swept into each line of each word.
“We even came here to pray at the palace! We made offerings to the monks. Fed the medicants! We're good people. I'm a good person!” he pleaded.
“Yet you flatly admitted to being an accessory to a conspiracy to kill our king.” Gyaltsen tossed out nonchalantly, as if it were the matter-of-fact information of townly gossip. “Whether or not you did your duties as befitted a man of proper stature does not rightly add into this. You still need to answer for what happened.
“Now believe it or not I can do this for longer than you can.” he smiled, tapping the tip of his pen into the wood, and dug into the coarse unprotected grain, “I once spent three days hunting a murderer and horse thief in the Nyingchi area. It was a really beautiful trap if I must say so. Had myself a nice high vantage point with my rifle. Right alongside this pass leading from the back of this rancher's land.
“Took him three days to come back around. Middle of the night. I shot his leg as soon as I saw the soft blue glow of the moon on his boots. I let him lay until morning when I tracked and caught him.” he smiled satisfactory to himself. Combing his fingers along his chin as the pleased smile of his own capabilities faded to that of silent wonder as he looked to the chained Gyaincain with measuring wonder, “So, can a yak farmer hold his own for over three days? Because you might doze off, and I will still be here. So scream yourself mad until you pass out. I'll be waiting for you to come to.”
“W-what'll happen to me?” Gyaincain asked.
“I don't know, depends on what I'm told. Samten might let you go someday. Or he might bury you head down in clay by the lake. Or he could offer you the simple mercy of beheading you and make it quick. So it's your choice.”
Gyaincain's eyes glowed with panic in the oil light. “I-ah.. ah... What do you want to know?” he asked.
“First I want to know who you are. Tell me about your brothers.”
Helicopters weaved in and out of the openings between Nanning's once-great skyscrapers, now reduced to mere husks of what they had once been. Most of them were still inhabited, the glass walls replaced with wood and scavenged metal. Clotheslines were strung high above the streets off of bridges between the gigantic buildings, creating yet another obstacle for the helicopters to maneuver around. Their motherships-dirigibles floating silently high in the sky-slowly came closer and closer to the ground in search of a suitable structure to moor to and unload the troops and supplies they carried within.
One of the helicopters-an old, prewar one used by the UTA-touched down on the top of the tallest building in the city. The pad it landed on was hastily constructed, but a pad nonetheless. A man in power armor jumped out of it, a giant backpack attached to his suit. Railgun in hand, he walked up to one of the many people gathered at the pad. Some were carrying guns, mostly makeshift muskets and the like, but a few had prewar weaponry. Most did not.
"You're from the Endurance Cooperative, right?"
The man's speech was translated to English by the power armor. It was a function added to allow any old grunt to communicate without needing a diplomat assigned to every single squad. He nodded in response, then gave his answer. It too, of course, was translated into Chinese by the armor. It turned his calm yet neutral voice into a commanding baritone, just like all other power armor models. As it turns out, you generally command more respect if you sound like Darth Vader.
"Yes." He said, taking off the backpack and gently lowering it to the ground just in front of him. "Our team has the weapons you requested to inspect. The rest of the fleet is loaded up with food, clothing, medical supplies, everything else you asked for."
The armed men lowered their weapons, breathing sighs of relief upon knowing that the man in the power armor wasn't a raider. Most of the time, such unorganized groups didn't have access to things like helicopters (flight in general, really). However, one could never be sure. The loss of a Cooperative dirigible in a storm over Manchuria had make suspicions run even higher in areas that were aware of the organization. Had any raider groups or other such rouges found it, they could easily make use of the technology found in the wreck.
"Thank you... if I may?"
"Go ahead."
The Chinese man-whom was wearing a worn, red changshan-walked over to the backpack and crouched down beside it before opening it up. Inside, he found exactly what he was promised. Held within the abnormally large backpack was an assortment of advanced weaponry. A modern assault rifle manufactured in Yulin, a rail arquebus, even an anti-armor railgun with HE shells for it laid next to the rest of the weaponry. More soldiers in power armor carried crates out of the helicopter, which they then opened to reveal more of the same.
"We have power armor available as well." Continued the soldier. "The AT gun needs something a bit stronger than a shoulder to absorb the recoil"
"You shoulder-fire that thing?"
"Yeah, it's got three times or so the power of an AT gun from, say, the Second World War. That's why we need the power armor for them."
The Chinese man stopped looking over the guns for a moment and looked at the soldier quizzically, his head tilted to one side in confusion.
"The Second World War?"
"Uh... PTRD-41. It's got three times the power of a PTRD-41."
"Ah, I see. Why would you need something so powerful?"
"Regulations say our equipment has to go up against what we've got. The RAT-16 isn't just for punching through thick hides, it can take down a tank if it has to. The rail arquebus is great for anyone in one of our power suits, it doesn't have to be set up and you can hook it to the suit in order to load it quicker. Without the armor, though, it needs to be manually loaded with each shot. The modern weapons are the same as prewar designs, though with a few little modifications being made throughout the years."
"This is an impressive arsenal you've brought with you... what of the training?"
"It can easily be provided by the Combined Forces. Ammunition and other necessary supplies are a part of the deal as well."
"We have chosen to expand the terms. Our city cannot wait for our soldiers to be given and trained in the usage of your equipment, we need security now. If you are willing to end the bandit threat, then we will accept your terms."
"We had a feeling you would say that."
The soldier tapped a button on one of his power armor's arms, then said something in English muffled by his helmet-which didn't seem to transmit the message through the speakers. A few seconds later, a barely audible hum filled the air. Everyone but the Cooperative soldiers looked around, trying to determine its source. Then, without warning, an immense crack shook the sky like thunder. Trails of plasma stood out even against the blue sky and white clouds as rounds left the railguns of the dirigibles above.
"Consider it done." Said the soldier. Nobody could see it, but beneath his helmet was a sly smile.
"We... we accept the terms of the Nanning Treaty." Said the Chinese man, holding out his hand while still staring up at the sky. "Your power is exactly what my people need."
"Welcome to the Endurance Cooperative." Said the soldier, shaking the man's hand with a gentle grip (for the power suit, at least).
The Shrine of Raijin, Kyoto
The reactions of the many soldiers did not go unnoticed by the Admiral, whom blushed underneath the fur-like hair that covered his entire body. Being completely oblivious to the local history and values, he simply assumed that they had never need a mutant before. There was also the fact that he had been completely incorrect in the assumption that the handshake was capable of surviving nuclear hellfire, which certainly made things more awkward on his end. He decided not to mention it, and pretended as if the man had reacted correctly.
"We are honored to meet your people as well, Mr. Miyamoto." He said, retracting his hand. "Thank you for the warm welcome, such occurrences are not as common as one might hope."
A small smile appeared on his face, hidden by the hair. The fact that he had attempted to figure out the handshake was a good sign. However, it quickly faded into a frown as he realized what everyone else was whispering. Which, of course, was anything but a good sign.
Yokai.
Mononoke. Mamono. Ayakashi. Optimistically, they were referring to the "good kind", which would imply that they expected the Cooperative to assist them. Given the glares and scowls, however, they probably had no such idea. It only reinforced the belief that they had simply not encountered a mutant before, and unfortunately for the Admiral, that curiosity boiled over into a question. He was never supposed to be a diplomat, and to at least the rest of the team he had brought with him, it was glaringly obvious.
"Apologies if it is rude to point it out, but you're all of pure blood, and seem unsettled by our appearances. Are there no mutants here?"
Though he said it rather awkwardly, there was a twinge of hope to be found within his tone. A land of almost certainly purebred Japanese, without any mutations... it would allow the Cooperative to cleanse an entire ethnicity of the ravages of the war. The same had already been done for the Hausa and Yoruba, and many people of African descent from the Americas and Europe had been cleansed using the same DNA-thanks to looser ties to any specific ethnicity.
Capitaine Francis Desjardins, 1st Infantry Company, 1st Cherbourg Regiment.
St-Malo Town Center
Mortar rounds bounced across the ancient paved roadways of St-Malo's town center, flattening barricades and blasting Norman infantry rushes into the next century. Dozens of men lay dead and dying, as scores of their comrades found cover behind anything solid enough to offer some confident protection. Brittan snipers picked off those not so fortunate, and every hour or so, the die-hard Republicans made desperate counter attacks, often to little avail.
Francis peered across the town center from his entrenched position, nestled between the bodies of two Brittan zealots. He was losing men fast, and the constant ringing in his ears from an incessant mortar barrage was hampering his decision making process. He needed to take the center yesterday, and not a minute later, otherwise his entire company risked being routed.
There was no air support to reach for, no tanks to lead an armoured charge; aside from a few prehistoric British warriors, the battle for St-Malo had become an inadvertent infantry slogging-fest. Though the Normans out numbered the defenders three to one, the Brittans were proving to be effective fighters, despite the widespread civil strife and starvation affecting their country. The Viceroy had planned for a lightning campaign of relative ease; instead, the Normans had been bogged down in intense street fighting.
A church across the way was lit up like a Christmas tree; all muzzle flashes and sandbags. It formed the Brittan strong point in the area - perhaps the town, but without heavy artillery, there was no way the Normans could crack the nut without losing half their men.
This was something the Norman Captain was desperately trying to avoid, but every minute saw another of his men cut down.
The town's ancient castle, formerly a feudal bastion of power, had been taken by his British comrades before they'd even arrived at the town. It had disallowed the Brittans the possibility of a strategical retreat and subsequent siege; however, it'd also stiffened their resolve when it came to the street fighting. These Brittans weren't the rag-tag militia types the Normans had encountered earlier on either, but rather, were fanatical yet professional soldiers fighting for a Republic they truly believed in. Mixing these ingredients together had created an intense engagement in St-Malo's center mass.
What the Norman Captain needed was a way out, but the 1st Cherbourg Regiment didn't possess the heavy guns.
... yet HMS Canterbury did.
Capitaine Francis Desjardins pushed a hand against the side of his Ensign Battle Helmet, and took reluctantly to the task of asking his British Overseers for assistance. Rather than addressing command, and asking them to forward his message to the Frigate, he contacted the vessel directly.
"This is Capitaine Francis Desjardins, 1st Infantry Company of the 1st Cherbourg Regiment. First, second and third waves ineffective, we do not hold the town center, say again, we do not hold the town center," he spoke in heavily accented English, flinching as a mortar round exploded a few meters away. "Say again, we do not hold the town center. The enemy have established a strong point in a church across the way, bearing coordinates 435-525. Requesting urgent fire mission from His Majesty's Royal Navy." Francis took his hand away from his helmet, and ducked back down beside the two corpses he was using as shrapnel bags.
All the while, Normans screamed and died around him, and the church continued to pour its rage onto anyone who dared step into its line of fire.
Night had fallen with a cool breath across the city. The sounds of hooves clopped against rugged stones and shifting pavement as the city's prince rode to the gates of the old winter palace. The furor of the hooves echoed from weathered plaster walls as they rode down narrow paths and through the narrow gates of the Norbulingka palace. The group, comprising of the prince and a retinue of guards slowed their galloping to that of a trot as they sauntered down the cobbled pathways of the palace's gardened interior. Towering spruces hung over them, shading them from the star studded night sky. Lanterns glowing with ruby light lit the rocky pathway, casting soft shadows and halos of light across stones pocked with moss and mold. Along the edge manicured bushes of flower gardens lay in rest for tomorrow's sun.
Lit by its own rosy golden light the ancient Kelsang Phodang stood at the end of a long pathway. Largely hidden by trees and the garden, the structure's only footprint was the lantern light that covered it. Inside, the private reading rooms and shrine of the 7th Dalai Lama. Opposite were another set of temples, constructed by his successor.
Cutting across open pastures and around the shores of lakes the retinue made way to the far south side, entering passed the yellow walls of the estate's interior, the crumbling paint and mud that had coated the surface peeling back from the brick and field stone underneath. At the rippling banks of the pond the men stopped to dismount their horses, they had arrived at the stables. Attended to swiftly by the stable staff, Samten's horse was lead away as he dismounted. Servents made timely measured moves to offer the prince his homely effects; comfortable silk robes from the east to replace his heavy woolen coat, comfortable leather slippers to replace his boots.
With a lantern in hand, he was lead from the stables. Their muffled anxiety dying as he strolled along the lakeshore to the villa at the center of it all. Lit by candles and oil lamps from inside, the building seemed to hang in the moonlight from the surrounding warm glow of fire-light, running down the low slopped roof like water in the rain. He opened the heavy red doors, and stepped inside the mighty central villa. He was handed warm tea as he entered.
The inside of the center palace was much like that of the Potala Palace. But where age and the relentless gauging of time had slowly faded the monastic temple there was a articulate attention to the livability of the norbulingka. Among the western antiques that had been collected during the final days of the last Dalai Lama, the walls shone with bright warming colors. A covering of stucco and plaster glowed with a brilliant citrus-orange glow accompanied by rose-petal red trim that cut up the wall to waist high. And strapping along that shot green lines straight as a bullet's path.
Heavy doors hung closed, but not all the less unwelcoming as Samten walked down the hall, gently sipping the bitter tea in his cold hands. The warmth of the drink rejuvenated his spirit and filled him with determination. Like waves inverted, a band of wooden trim followed his course down the wall, the paint only just peeling from the petrified wood under it. There was a dryness to the spirit of the house, but not one of decay. It was one simply of pure wisdom. It had all the charming air of an old home.
Deeper into the estate, the maze of rooms and hallways became evident, phasing into each other in a controlled chaos. Frescos containing the entire history of Tibet brooded silently from the walls where they rested. Empty chairs and motes of dust littered empty floors and rug covered spaces. Wooden columns held up rafter ceilings and the cobwebs between floors.
Yet despite it, Samten knew his way around. Bowing to each depiction of the Buddha he crossed out of measured respect, and learned habit. Echoing through the walls though, sang the solitary chords of the dramyin. He followed it.
Stepping out onto a room of a hundred carpets, he found the source of the music. Seated on a empty wooden stage a young boy sat, the long skinny guitar-like dramyin seated on his lap. His fingers danced up and down the neck as they puttered across the strings, striking notes as the strings were struck. He kept his head bowed low as he fingered the strings and dancing the notes up and down.
He held a captive-audience, or at least a mildly captive one. Seated on the floor below him a handful sat looking up at him as servants loitered along the far wall. Samten himself hung back from the side, drinking his remaining tea as he beheld the young boy with warm eyes.
When the song came to an end, a light smattering of applause filled the air. The boy on the stage took it in stride, and stood to bow. His attention was soon drawn elsewhere as a woman in the front rose a gentle hand and waved at Samten. The audience looked up, and their eyes lit up.
“Papa!” sang a chorus of a handful of voices. Holding out his hands, Samten walked forward and caught his young progenies as they raced forward. Hitting him like the wind he recoiled back from the youngest pair of twins as they coiled their arms around his legs.
“Rabten, Thekchen.” he greeted with fatherly warmth. The two with their thin, oily black hair were coiled springs, quick and gregarious. Quick to smile, the two six year-olds looked up at him with great green eyes.
In truth, they did not look like the rest of his children, who they were quick to rejoin. His wife who hovered like a gentle bird around the kids looked up at him with a soft smile. Long dark hair ran down her dress. Her skin was pale as paper, and her eyes – like his – were brown. Rabten and Thekchen were the product of a concubine, who had passed away shortly after she had given birth to them. His wife, Pema has since taken custody of them; serving (if at time reluctantly) as wet nurse and teacher of the two uncontrollable children.
Standing to Pema's side was the eldest of Samten's sons, Ugyen. A lion of a young man, though not yet having matured at the age of fifteen. His studious eyes seemed to look at and into all things. But he was none weaker for it and was growing fast to stand over his own mother. He gave his father a polite bow before turning back to his musical sibling Sonam as they ushered away their sisters.
As the kids peeled away for better things, Pema approached her husband. A troubled, serious look darkened her face as she came near. “You've been busy?” she asked tensely.
Samten looked aside to the kids, “Well ten in all but only two sons from other women, so I think so.” he joked, wrapping his arms around her. Pema's gentle warmth radiated through the new clothes, and there was a sweet smell of flowers.
“It's not that I'm talking about.” she moaned into his chest, “You're late.”
Samten sighed, “You were always a good time keeper.”
“Did you get him?” she asked, referring to the assassin.
“I got him.” he answered, “Gyaltsen is playing with him now.”
“Mhmm...” Pema hummed distantly, “So what now?”
“That's what I need to talk to you about.” Samten answered troubled. The couple parted and he looked up at the room. His brood had scattered through the palace, and half the servants had either chased after them or followed to keep their whims in check. “I have a name, I want to bring him to justice.”
“Who?”
“Chodak of Ngami.” answered Samten, his voice carried the unwavering weight of certainty, “I'm going to be gone for a couple months... As I lead the men, I need someone to do more than look after the house.”
“You need a regent?” Pema asked.
“That I do. I want you to look after things.”
Pema sighed, and lay her head in her hands. “Samten, you're acting a fool.” she pleaded. But she knew she was also defeated. She took a long sigh and worriedly checked back to the children, “But I suppose you're not offering any choices.”
(Posting in this IC in the vain hopes of reviving some interest and to vent out some of the stories I actually wanted to do.)
Lhasa
Eastern Suburbs
The hooves of Gyaltsen's horse splashed across the shallow river as it forded the sand and water washed pebbles that filled its bed, riding out of the water again onto the dry sand and gravel of the far banks as it followed a dirt trails passed centuries-old ruins into the grassy foothills of the mountains. The thin Tibetan air hung thin and still, and it was a clear day. The open skies letting in the warm rays of the sun.
It was not a day he enjoyed alone as bugs flew about the head of his horse and he. Along the low slopping hillside yaks grazed among the stripped down remains of gas or fuel oil tanks, abandoned vehicles, and the ever-present collapsed hut. Adjusting himself in his seat he looked up to the concrete hut at the top of the hill. If his questioning was correct, this was Yeshe Gyaincain's home. All was thus far silent.
But it wasn't until he was fifty meters from the home, and ready to dismount that a great black beast crested over a hill behind the house. A hound of immeasurable weight, dragging a chain at its neck the weight of Gyaltsen's wrists. Standing as a king on the hill the beast looked down at him, and he at it. And boasting a war-cry of thunder it barked and snarled at Gyaltsen.
It charged bounding down the grassy hill, dragging loose chain across the grass behind it as a thick coat of fur rippled and bounced at each heavy bounding step. Teeth gnarled from behind a face so obscured by its own fur it was if it was a practitioner of Bon, caught in an angry aggressive prayer so that he turned into a beast.
As it continued its mad advance, the unabated charge of the black mastiff came to bode an ill omen. Looking up at the chain it seemed to grow no less taunt with its step. Gyaltsen was ready to have to kill the beast as with a sudden whip the heavy chain snapped tight the weight of the dogs itself thrown it onto the ground as the long leash tripped it, pulling it to the ground with a whipping snap and clatter against the grassy clay. With a dissatisfied yelp it crashed against the grass, growling.
“Yama! Show restraint!” an old voice echoed from over the hill. With the snarling angry dog-beast no more than four paces away, Gyaltsen was unsure its barbaric nature could be restrained. He looked up to where it had come running, and to where an elderly man hobbled down the slope to him.
“Your guard certainly is a bringer of death, if I had ever saw one.” Gyaltsen shouted up at the figure approaching him.
“And who might you be? Another to feed to the God of Death?” the old man replied, with all the undue spit and disdain as the dog showed, “Many a fool robber has tried to put me and my wife down now that my sons are gone. Yama is my only true defense. So who are you before I unchain him?” he demanded as he came low to Gyaltsen, stopping just behind the still enraged beast.
He was not much taller than the hunter's horse to its shoulders. He wore a ragged complexion that was as faded as his torn clothes. His face was sinewy as the rest of his body, and head balding.
“Gyaltsen, hunter to prince Samten.” bowed the hunter, “I'm here to follow up on someone.”
“What do you mean?” the old man questioned, “No one here as committed a crime, it is only me and my wife.”
“It's about one of your sons.” Gyaltsen elaborated. That seemed to freeze the old man for a moment as he hovered over Yama the dog. His hand hovered over the collar, as if poised to let the beast take Gyaltsen between its jaws.
“Which one?” the old man asked. His voice was tense and ready. There was an oozing readiness to take blood if he had to. It was no rarity among the realm's elders. Many had to fight and kill, even in the early eras of the princes. Law and order was carried out only meekly by the monasteries before.
“Gaincain.” Gyaltsen answered, “I take it you are the elder Yeshe?”
“I am.” old man Yeshe said, “Yeshe Tenzin.”
Gyaltsen played at another polite bow, “An honor, may we speak?”
“We may.” Tenzin nodded, “We'll speak inside, the wife is in town picking up groceries. We will be alone.” he turned, hobbling on his stick legs. The dogs at his side still growled distrustfully at Gyaltsen. With an agitated blow, Tenzin slapped the guard dog across the head, “Back to your bed!” he ordered the hound. It left without contesting it with his owner, and sulked off like some monster wolf.
“I used to own a dog like Yama, but it was more of a half-bred wolf than a dog like Yama.” Gyaltsen said as he followed Tenzin, “It would find and bring my squirrels when I was in the low valleys.”
“So why do you not have it with you?” Tenzin asked as he hobbled slowly to his hovel. He turned aside to look at Gyaltsen, his face twisted in a mistrustful scowl.
“Winter came and I had no food or water. I was forced to cut its throat to drink its blood and consume its flesh. It was a disastrous manhunt that season.”
“I will never get you hunters.” Tenzin said, shaking his head, “What degenerate bandit den did the princes find you in?”
“Anywhere and everywhere.” the hunter answered with a wry smile. He stepped aside when he reached the wind-battered plywood door of the old man's hut.
“Right, and I'm straight from a virgin's naval.” Tenzin sneered as he opened the door for his guest.
Yeshe Tenzin's hut was spare and dry. A small space built from old cinder-blocks it bore a dirt floor haphazardly covered with straw. Wind-worn petrified stumps of wood sat at the middle about a slowly collapsing tea table. Behind which a clay brick over sat under a chimney of rusting stove-pipe and the corner a mat of dried grass for a bed.
Poorly lit save for narrow sliver-like windows along the hut's ceiling the men took their seats at the central table. There was a stale bitterness in the smell of the hut. The pickled smell of fermented, moldy grass.
“So, what did my son do?” Tenzin asked, leaning on the table.
“Nothing.” lied Gyaltsen, “I'm simply trying to pain a picture of him. He might be a lead to something but I need to make sure he isn't a unfaithful to his word first.”
“Gaincain may be many things but he isn't a liar.” Tenzin promised, “A craven lazy moron, but he's been a boy who I've believed had his word where his heart was.”
Gyaltsen nodded, “That's the sort of thing I need.” he grinned, “It's something he would never admit as a man.
“Now his brothers though, what were they like?” he asked.
“Rangdol, my eldest was a pious man. He went to the monasteries to receive an education. Last I heard from him he wandered down the roads seeking enlightenment and to become a gter ston or something. He left to the land of the Ma in the north.
“Dawa, my second eldest was a fighter. Perhaps you arrested him once before for fighting. But he left to join some mercenaries. Nyima, my bastard from my youth was killed by a lion.
“Gaincain was the only one left here in Lhasa. But he left to live in the city. I haven't seen him in a while though, I was beginning to think he was finally afraid of his father. But here you are: talking about him.” Tenzin stopped, leaning in closer to Gyaltsen from over the table. With a prying glare he looked up at the hunter with searching eyes.
He gave no shift in his purpose or poise as he asked, “He did something, didn't he?” Gaincain's father asked.
“Perhaps.” the hunter answered.
There was a deep glint of suspicion in the old man's eye. Leaning back he tapped his long dry fingers on the table. Finally, with a low rasping voice he spoke, “He killed prince Samten's father, didn't he?”
Gyaltsen held his silence, acknowledging it with only a rising of his chin. Tenzin let out a long sigh of desperate breath, “I've always known the boy to be stupid, but not so much as to become a regicide.” he said depressed.
“With any luck Samten may not need kill him.” Gyaltsen affirmed, “I just need some information.”
“At this point, what sons do I have left?” Tenzin asked. All agitation was gone, all anger or suspicion towards Gyaltsen had evaporated. What was left was a weary defeatism, “My one has sought a holy life, he is aloof to me. The other may someday die in the cold mountains, I may never receive his body again to see fed to the sky, the third is dead, and the fourth I disown for his treachery and naivety.”
“You say he was naive.” said Gyaltsen, “Do you know anyone who may have been particularly impressionable on him?”
“Does it matter anymore?” Tenzin hissed. He snickered and bit his lip. Placing his hands on the table he fought himself up to his feet.
“I asked if you know anyone who might have impressed upon him.” an agitated Gyaltsen demanded as the old withering man went to the door.
“And I was never in track of his life in the city!” Tenzin blurted. The solemn defeatism of his tone was replaced by a depressed rage, “There is only so much an old man can do trying to keep this ranch afloat. Do you understand!?”
“Then do you know where he lived, I'll look there.”
Tenzin grunted, “Fine.” he grumbled, “Barkhor, he lived close to Jokhang temple. His house was red. A deep beat red. You'll never miss it among all the brown.”
Gyaltsen stood up, and bowed. “Thank you.” he said in respect, “Perhaps maybe with any luck you will not have to totally disown your son.”
“Yes, but I know in the eyes of Samten he's already guilty and a dead man. The most you can do for him is to make sure he dies quick.”
