NationStates Jolt Archive

It was the worst situation any mariner could imagine. His Iansislean Majesty’s Destroyer Homeric, which sailed with the Forthcoming and Favorable in escorting the light fleet carrier Aphrodite, had her bows to the weather in a ferocious December gale. Some thirty miles behind them, the imposing black form of Cape St. Jean - they were caught in a once-a-decade storm off a lee shore and with no chance of making Cape Deliverance, Turnish, or any other safe harbor.

Homeric crested her swell and cruised with reckless abandon into the trough, her bow biting into the base of the next wave. For a moment, it seemed she would never recover, and then, her decks awash, she broke back through to the surface and headed up the next swell. After a momentary pause at this summit of achievement, Homeric surged back downwards into the next trough.

On her bridge, Lieutenant Commander P. S. Hendrington struggled against the elements and his own numb fingers to light a cigarette. This was his twenty-sixth straight hour standing on duty, despite the pleas of his first lieutenant and his ship’s surgeon to retire. The Lords of the Admiralty - and, by extension, His Majesty the King - had pledged this redoubtable little ship into his care, and he would be damned if he left her in anyone else’s hands this hour of need.

The end of his smoke was glowing red under the lighter now and Hendrington puffed intensely on it, hoping to kindle the burst of nicotine that he so sorely needed. But the tobacco was wet through and through after hardly a minute. Disgusted, Hendrington cast it into the waste and pulled a new one from his box and tried again. No luck - reexamining his box, he noticed that the water which was streaming everywhere inside his bridge had managed to penetrate his blazer, his shirt pocket, and even his pack. There wasn’t a usable leaf in the whole box.

“Cup of coffee, sir?” asked his steward, crossing the bridge deftly after the captain had given up on his smoke.

“By Patrick, yes!” exclaimed Hendrington in a rare burst of emotion. He seized upon a cup and drank greedily; the thick black liquid was cold as the storm outside and tasted distinctly of sea water, and yet it was still the most delicious thing he had ever had. Just as the salty sludge had been drained from its cup, there came over the booming of the storm another, more distinct thunderclap - an explosion.

“What on the green hills of the Shield was that?” demanded the master, who had been busy plotting the fleet’s slow climb off of Cape St. Jean onto the bridge’s chart without the aid of the navigational radranger, which the storm had rendered useless. A moment’s chaos ensued as everyone spoke at once, and then the cracking voice of Midshipman Roberts squeaked out.

“Captain, the Aphrodite!”

And there indeed was the mighty flattop, but she was floundering in the swells, rolling hard over on her starboard side, her flight deck almost touching the water. A moment later she was gone beneath the waves with fifteen hundred Shieldian sailors, marines, and flyingmen still in her. A cruiser, flying the Iansislean naval ensign and steaming with the weather charged out from behind where the great ship had once been. At first, Hendrington took her to be of the Duke of Dorchet class, but as she turned to starboard - probably to arrest her progress towards Cape St. Jean - a wave broke over her amidships and washed away her aftermost funnel, which was false.

“Is that -”

“It’s the Ibrahaim, by God!” said Hendrington in a half-whisper. One single Effitian heavy cruiser at large in the trade lanes off the Noropian Horn had caused the Admiralty to double all convoy escorts, stop the sailing of a major troop convoy for the Gadsani Front until proper escort could be provided, and divert five major ships - including sending the late Aphrodite into the apocalyptic storm - to hunt her down. Here she was, pinned between his 1,700 ton destroyer and a lee shore. A wild animal in a corner.

“She can’t have used guns in this weather,” pondered Jacobson, the first lieutenant. “And she must have been right alongside Aphrodite to have hit her with torpedoes with the waves and currents what they are. What a daring move!”

As the Homeric crested another wave, she must have been spotted by the Ibrahaim. Hendrington could only imagine the panicked conversation that must be going on there: would they continue into the teeth of three waiting destroyers, their torpedo tubes loaded? - what else could they do?

To answer the second question, the Ibrahaim came about again with a swell. She was again headed straight for Cape St. Jean.

“Hard right rudder on my mark!” snapped Hendrington. “Bring us full about.” He watched the waves as his ship cruised up another swell, then - “Mark!”

For a moment, it seemed that the Homeric could never make it. Her entire lee deck was awash and she was nearly on her side in the water. Then her rudder pulled her straight and she was with her stern to the weather, riding up backwards on a swell most unnaturally. A few souls unlucky enough to be on deck as the turn was being made were swept away with the water, to die with the Aphrodite’s crew in the tossing, freezing sea. Those who witnessed the deaths could only mourn their inability to help: if the ship were to stop, every man aboard her would die and no boat could be lowered in such weather.

“Range to the Ibrahaim?” asked Hendrington, his eyes focused only on the daring Effitian cruiser.

“Five thousand yards and closing, sir,” replied Jacobson. “Close enough to try a torpedo shot, sir.”

“No, we can’t miss - I want her in knife-fighting range,” said Hendrington. “Just like she was with Aphrodite.”

Jacobson moved closer to Hendrington. “Sir,” he whispered, “We cannot follow the Ibrahaim too far. A ship of her size will have a much easier time negotiating off a lee shore than we will. If we get too close, we may never come back.”

“Your opinion is noted, Mr. Jacobson,” replied Hendrington. “If you will please beat the crew to quarters?” His curt tone dismissed any further protests before they could be made; Jacobson had no choice but to man his station.

The rolling deck and cascading water made manning the after torpedo tubes a logistical impossibility. The entire engagement would be decided by the two 21” tubes Homeric mounted forward on her port side, and even their crews were having a tough time keeping their feet in the torturous environment. Ahead of the two ships, locked in a game of chicken, Cape St. Jean loomed closer and closer.

Hendrington could understand Jacobson’s qualms. In calm seas, the Homeric could steam thirty-seven knots to the Ibrahaim’s twenty-nine, but in these battering waves, the cruiser’s bulk would give it great advantage in clawing its way windward. He motioned for the ship’s intercom; most likely, his words would be blown away in the wind, but the effort would at least reassure him.

“Men,” Hendrington started, “By now you all know the fate of our companions-in-arms aboard the Aphrodite. There is nothing we could have done or can do to save them - we can, however, avenge them. Just three thousand yards off our port bow is the dastardly perpetrator of this sneak attack, that same Effitian who has plagued honest Shieldian shipping and killed honest Shieldian sailors from the Noropian Horn to Cape Deliverance; it is my intention to torpedo and sink them.” He paused. “There is a good chance that none of us will ever see home again, be it sunk by our adversary or smashed upon the shore. However, this is our only chance to make a show of it and I know that God almighty will cast a favorable eye upon such cheery derring-do. So to your posts, men, with my every confidence! There’s a job to be done, and no Shieldian ever backs down from a challenge.”

“Captain, the Ibrahaim is turning,” noted Jacobson. “Could be they intend to cut across our bows.”

“Full right rudder,” ordered Hendrington. “Fire torpedoes as they bear.” No one noticed him make the sign of the cross in silence. The dull thud of compressed air and the port torpedoes were in the water, streaking across the boiling blackness in hardly a second. Twin pillars of sea water rose from where the Ibrahaim had been struck and the Effitian cruiser gained a noticeable list to starboard almost as once, though she did not sink as quickly as had the Aphrodite.

“We’ll never be able to avoid her,” said Jacobson, his tone almost disinterested.

“No. Tell the men to brace,” replied Hendrington.

With a grinding wrench, the Homeric slammed her bow into the Ibrahaim almost directly amidships. The good Shieldian steel crumpled next to the Effitian armor belt, and the two ships were almost completely meshed together. Off in the distance, Hendrington could swear he saw the white of breakers smashing against Cape St. Jean.

“Shall I have the men abandon ship, sir?” asked Jacobson.

“I think that would be wise.” Hendrington withdrew a thin, black plastic container from his shirt pocket. Opening it, he withdrew the fine Gallagan cigar and cut off the end. He puffed contentedly on it as the Ibrahaim’s decks vanished below the waves; Homeric was well down by the bows. “Well, Mr. Jacobson, I’d say we made a good show of it. Best of luck.”

The captain and his first lieutenant exchanged salutes, and then the latter picked his way off the shattered bridge. Hendrington watched as Monday turret vanished under the waves and took another puff on his cigar - how sweet it was.

----

Grand Admiral Martin Hansfield, who had taken his place as Iansisle’s First Sea Lord after Sir Hunter Kennington had been forced into retirement, walked briskly down the hall of #3 Jameston Place, his boots echoing in the marble hallway. Taking a left, he strode into the posh office of the Director of War. Lawrence Madders’ secretary waved him straight through into the inner office.

Where he found the short, balding director sitting with a sheet of paper posed in his hand.

“Ah, Admiral Hansfield. Have a seat, please.”

“Thank you,” replied Hansfield, settling into the chair. After a few seconds of awkward silence, he coughed into his hand. “Erm, you wished to see me, Director?”

“The cruiser Empress Aurora, one of our newest eight-inch ships, damaged in air attack near Insula Modesta. The mobile aeroflyer dock Aphrodite and three destroyers lost in a storm off Cape St. Jean. More than 70,000 tons of merchant shipping sunk in the last month alone by Effitian raiders and submarines. Four destroyers lost to mines off the Effiitan coast. The cruiser Hector damaged so badly by Confederate torpedo boat - Gallers, for Christ’s sake - that she was forced to limp back to Vollumbo with her decks awash. And, of course, the ship of the line Indomitable - which was completed at far greater cost to the public than originally estimated - torpedoed and heavily damaged by an Effitian submarine while in Mansmouth harbor!”

The First Sea Lord sat impassively as the impressive list of last month’s casualties was read off.

“Are you quite sure the Navy is winning its war, Admiral?” asked Madders. “After all, the Assembly will not be happy when I report these figures, not happy at all.”

“I’m sure that the Assembly can appreciate the intense difficulties of organizing and executing an offensive naval war so far from our home ports and against a country with such a huge volume of coast line, Director.”

“Humph. I’ve proposed to the Assembly again that we use Ranalte’s army and your fleet to effect the rejoining of the Foothills and Noropia to Iansisle. I’m sure that the fleet would greatly enjoy the use of ports in Château and Cape Deliverance?”

“It could help prevent a disaster such as the one off Cape St. Jean. Those northern seas are treacherous.”

“May I then propose to the Assembly the plan once more, this time with the navy’s explicit support?”

“You’d have to speak to the First Lord in that matter, Director.”

“Of course.” Madders checked his watch. “I really must be off, Admiral. I have to see over Field Marshal Pennyman’s trial. It’s hard to believe that such a man - one who won us the war against Thortraia and Weshield - could be a traitor against the Assembly.”

“I trust that the court will be lenient in its decision?” said Hansfield, rising with Madders and grasping his cap.

“It’s hard to say. Pennyman’s being tried for cowardice in the face of the enemy and crimes against the state - capital charges, both of them. He abandoned a perfectly defensible position north of Lakeriverwood and left that city to the ravages of the Effitians. I shall attempt a defense upon his record at the Battle of the Sundral and the Battle of Haldsborough, but our Gadsani compatriots are crying bloody murder. I shouldn’t be surprised if Pennyman were hanged tomorrow in Gull Flag Square.”

“It is a disaster on the Effitian front, from what the NIO has managed to decipher from Army reports.”

“Yes. Unless there is some sort of miracle, we may be pushed straight out of Gadsan. There are traitors everywhere, Admiral, dirty reactionary royalists with dreams of what was.”

“You don’t think that even the reactionaries would stoop to selling information to the Effitians, would you?”

“Anything is possible. Admiral, I fear that something huge may be descending on the Shield. If anything should happen, can I count on the Navy’s support for the Assembly?”

“Of course, Director.”

“Thank you, Admiral,” said Madders. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must be running.”

(Things! Things are happening! They'll not get done without a tagging. Damn you, Nation States, I am as far out of date as, well, yeah...)

*tag*

(Things! Things are happening! They'll not get done without a tagging. Damn you, Nation States, I am as far out of date as, well, yeah...)

((heh, things *are* happening, but I guarantee you they'll be happening. very. slowly. :D

Stay tuned for the next post, due out "sometime in the (hopefully) near future"!))

EDIT - PS: sorry about the excessive melodrama in the above post. Sometimes I just get in a melodramatic mood :p

(Heh, while I shan't saythat I didn't notice, I will say that I didn't mind. After all, it's Iansisle! Walmingtonians wouldn't have any fun without melodrama, anyway. *Goes back to writing-up the civil service's reports on why certain X-type ships should be classified as Y so they'll better fit into flow-charts that make it look like we know how to defend ourselves*)

After all, it's Iansisle!

((I'm fairly certain I ought to be insulted by your insinuation! :P

I'm equally certain that I cannot deny your insinuation, either... ;)))

This looks very interesting, Iansisle. Any chance of old LRR getting involved?

Of course, LRR, I'd be delighted to have you along! :)

I should warn you, however, that this will be moving very. slowly.

Anyway, I intend for this thread to set up the next stage in the revolution - one step closer to at least a mildly stable government. Any suggestions on how people can get involved are more than welcome!

involved? Amazingly my little nation dosen't even know it's going on. Somehow we've no knoledge of naval warfair at all.

That's offically. Unoffically, there's leaks about everything onto the web, and teanage girls are gaga over your navy officers....

Of course, LRR, I'd be delighted to have you along! :)

I should warn you, however, that this will be moving very. slowly.

Anyway, I intend for this thread to set up the next stage in the revolution - one step closer to at least a mildly stable government. Any suggestions on how people can get involved are more than welcome!

Excellent! Well, I'll try and get in a post tomorrow.

In the heavy swells off the east coast(s) of the Robotic archipelago, a flock of ASW sloops and corvettes does their very best to protect the Robotic exclusive economic zone. Fisheries Patrol Squadron 6, it is called, and its small constituants fight to stay upright in the horrendous conditions. The crews have to give KGV shipbuilding credit, though. Their little Type 14 and Type 17 (OCC: Think Flower and Black Swan) antisubmarine escorts might roll and yaw like nothing else, but experience has shown them to be virtually impossible to capsize. Sure, they might be slow, uncomfortable, and poorly armed, but when it comes to stormy weather the small corvettes have proven safer than many of the earlier frigate designs.

But the same degree of safety and redundancy does not extend to an unfortunate many trawlers. And so, in the middle of the storm, the wireless operator bursts into the bridge of HMRNS Violet. "Captain sah, there's a trawler out there callin' mayday!"

Captain Hussayn Marley soon spots the unfortunate vessel, listing heavily to port not three kilometers distant. "Bring us around," he anxiously orders to the helmsman before rushing down to the deck.

"You there, is everyone on a lifeline?"
"Aye, sah!"
"Ensign!"
"Yes, captain?"
"I want all idle hands to the deck immediately!"
"Aye, sah! Idlers to the foc'sle!"

The corvette swings around towards the sinking trawler as crewmen collect on deck. Lifelines are tied and the crewmen, some dressed in nothing but wool sweaters and lined pants for protection against the elements, asemble along the port and starboard sides, holding ropes, grappling hooks, life preservers, and long poles.

With a spluttering cough, Flight Lieutenant the Honorable Richard Newton’s MPAF-5N SeaSteed settled onto the runway and slowly came to a rest. He flew the naval version of the venerable prop-driven fighter because, as part of the Royal Iansislean Navy’s aerocraft reserve, it was simply all that could be found. The unneeded sealing against salt corrosion cost him a few knots of airspeed, but it was much better than facing Effitian aeroknights without a mount of his own.

The mechanics were already crawling all over the craft even as Newton taxied to a halt under a camouflage netting. RIFC Fourth Whitman hardly deserved the nomenclature of an airbase - it was nothing more than a dirt runway, a radranger station, some buildings, a sandbag bomb shelter, and one concrete hanger. In that hanger sat one MPAF-9 Noriker, its 5000-pound thrust Graye-Hudson Quicksilver engine propelling it to the forefront of Iansislean aviation, even, given the logistical logjam in Delton and the other Gadsani ports, the lack of fuel made its dominance quite hypothetical.

“Hatch?” asked the lank mechanic who opened Newton’s cockpit.

“Down. I saw a parachute - but we were over Lakeriverwood.”

“I see. You’re carrying quite a bit of lead here yourself, Dick. Looks like they got the fuel line, too - I’m surprised you even made it back.”

“You know what they say about bad ken, Joe,” grunted Newton as he levered himself out of the cockpit and dropped down onto the port wing. “Whose Bicycle is that?” He pointed at the stubby transport flyer halfway across the field.

“Oh, another redsuit, come up from Delton. He wanted to talk to you.”

“To me specifically.”

“Yeah. Said they were going to give you the Eye-Cee.” Joe the mechanic cackled with laughter. “That’ll be the day.”

Newton threw a joking salute and then turned to walk towards RIFC Fourth Whitman’s measly officers’ mess.

“Hey, Dick?” called Joe.

“Yeah?”

“I’m no good with words, man - you’ll say a prayer for Hatch for me, won’t you?

Newton reached up and felt the small bump under his flight suit that was his cross. “I already did, Joe. Don’t worry about Hatch - he’s a bad ken too.”

----

It didn’t take long to sight the man from Delton that Joe had mentioned. Although scarlet tunics had been the uniform choice of Iansisle’s first aeroknights, who risked their lives over the battlefield in machines of wood and cloth, the newer generation of flyers had found the bright red most impracticable when shot down behind enemy lines and adopted a more conservative variation of army khaki. However, senior officers - especially those who sat four hundred miles behind the front pushing paper - clung to the archaic red and wore it every chance they got. As Newton crossed the room, he noticed a pair of army men standing in the back of the room smoking, but ignored them.

The man in red looked up. “Flight Lieutenant Richard Newton, I presume?”

“That’s me.”

“I’m afraid I have orders to put you under arrest.”

Newman blinked once. “What?”

“You’re to be taken to Ianapalis and tried by court-martial on the suspicion of crimes against the state.” The redsuit nodded slightly, at which the two soldiers moved up to his elbow.

“This is outrageous! - you can’t do this! I’ve never done anything except fight up there, every damn day, to save Iansisle and preserve her liberties from the Effitians!”

“I suggest, Flight Lieutenant, that you align your behavior more with that of an Iansislean officer and gentleman. If you have done nothing wrong, then you have nothing to fear from a simple court-martial.”

----------

His Iansislean Majesty James I Callahan, by the Grace of God of Iansisle King and of Gallaga Emperor, trotted his horse briskly down the path between Dûn Ádien Gate and King Ian’s Great Hall, the statues of his ancestors - who had ruled in Shadoran and Iansisle for seven hundred years - flashing past. He drew up sharply, out of room, near the platform where his statue would stand. James, first united King of Iansisle - and last High King of the Grand Empire of the Shield. It had been the dream of every High King since Ian to meld the disparate peoples of the Shield into a single, cohesive whole, and now that every one of his subjects was (in theory) an Iansislean subject before a Weshielder or a Shadoranite or a Northman, James felt the weight of history all the more heavily.

A chill wind, blowing from the southeast and the vast black expanse of Troobodia Bay, swept through the small courtyard. Dûn Ádien, perched upon a rock scarcely three acres in area, was the last holdout of James’ childhood, the Old Shield.

“James?” Anna’s voice drifted to him on the gale, sweet as could be though she must be shouting. Her body, rounder than before, was silouhetted in the eerie golden light of the Honeycomb. “It’s been hours.”

“Poor Jacob. He hasn’t had a chance to stretch his legs at all.” James stroked the horse’s mane absentmindedly. “I don’t think I can stand another week on this island, Anna.”

“Weathers told me already.”

“Did he? For the best, I suppose.”

“And what do you suppose raising your banner in the Javian Kingdom - providing that you can even get there - will do, James? Defeat the entire Jameston government and restore the old ways in one swoop?”

“I’ve put a lot of thought into this. Offered the choice, I’d much rather not sit around and wait for the axe to fall - I’d rather be a Charles than a Louis.”

“Mr Bradsworth has proven himself to be perfectly reasonable! Why throw away the work of the last three years on one foolish toss?”

“Because I don’t think that Mr Bradsworth will be the sole authority on the Shield, Anna.” James swung off his horse and landed fairly gracefully. “I’m getting old - this may be my last chance for glory. My last chance to respect my ancestors and my heritage. I will not sit around and wait for fate.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “You have your path - to Noropia, to live with my sister and her husband. I have mine.”

“They’ll catch you, James, before you can get within a dozen leagues of the border. You will be another Louis, dragged back to Ianapalis in disgrace.”

“I must go, Anna, danger or not. For all three of us.”

---------

Let Charles Bradsworth have the marble halls of Jameston for his own. Let the Man With The Golden Tongue waste his words on bureaucrats and lawmakers. Lawrence Madders knew where the real power in Iansisle was. He braced himself against the southeastern wind, that strong sea breeze of winter on the Shield that cuts right through to the bone, and stepped up to the microphone.

“Thank you all for coming out to this, the fourth anniversary of the start of the Grand Enterprise, and welcome to the Grand Street Steelworks. It was here, on the fifth of December, 1951, that troops fired on unsuspecting workers protesting for the most basic liberties and, for the first time, Iansisle’s people decided to fight back.” Madders’ voice was ragged in the breeze and he spoke with the blunt, brutal approach that had always characterized his speeches.

“Much has changed since that fateful day - we have started to build a new Iansisle. We have eliminated the plutocrats who plundered the wealth of our great people. We are controlling the arrogance of the aristocrats who claim to be better than us. We have raised a new flag over Jameston Place.

“And yet everything is now threatened by inaction from the central government: Mr Bradsworth’s cabinet even now sits above the Cross of St Patrick in the halls of the ancien régime, while Effitian troops march freely across the Lower Gadsan and even threaten our bases in Del and the Jaizarmarch. Traitors abound in our military, who would rather see an Effitian occupation of the Shield than the underclasses rise to power.

“But I have never had more faith in Shieldian stock. I know that we shall, with an effort from every citizen from Shadoran to Weshield, from Troobodia Bay to the Normarch, prevail on both fronts. Long live the Gull Flag! Long live the Revolution! Long live the New Shield!”

--------

((ooc: Yeah, it's not so good, but I needed to write SOMETHING.

LRR: not sure how I should respond to that, but then again it is very late. I'll take another look at it in the morning. :)

Stonedeep: I'm gaga over them too :P))

OOC: There not after me yet...SCORE! Good read anyways.

OCC: Meh, its more of a glorified bump than anything else. Sets the scene, I suppose. But, the trawler is not all what it seems to be...

IC:

As the Violet's crewmen lift the last few survivors aboard, they begin to notice their very navy-like appearance. In fact, reckon some sailors, they appear to be wearing rank patches on their sweaters.

"Where's your captain, sailor?"
"Over there, eh, sah."

As the rescue party files inside the relative comfort provided by the foc'sle, the Violet's crew encounter a number of uniformed officers and sailors who are most certainly not part of the corvette's crew, being obliged to salute them and act in a much more presentable fashion than required by captain Marley. Hussayn himself is approached by a soaked and shivering man, dressed in a wool sweater with Captain's insignia.

"Are you captain Hussayn Marley?"
"Yeh, what can I do for you?"
"It is imperative, captain, that nobody knows where our trawler went down. Understand?"
"Yes...um...sah. You can warm up inside."
"Most kind, Marley."

Several Days Later

"Three weeks of the most important signals work we've seen in the entire course of the situation, sunk in ten minutes! Captain Efran, you are lucky that I don't revoke your bloody pension right here and now!"

Emil Efran stands at what could be more or less described at attention before the desk of a full Admiral of the fleet, commander of the intelligence squadron. A bottle of scotch whiskey sits uncorked, surrounded by shot glasses, conveniently inside the admiral's reach.

"You of all people should at least have had the presence of mind to save at least one bloody tape," mumbles the admiral before pouring himself a glass of scotch.

"My most sincere apologies, sah. I did not mean for us to sink. I thought the bilges would last."

"You thought the bilges...I'm not going to talk about it anymore. I'll hurt myself at this age, all this stress. But hear me, you are going to go back out there, and you are going to find something about this whole thing to report back, something useful."

"Yes, sah."

“Escaped?” demanded Charles Bradsworth of the voice at the other end of his telephone. “What do you mean, ‘escaped’, Madders?”

“All of Dûn Ádien - the King, his consort, the servants, the Grenadiers - they’re all gone. We can only assume that they’ve scattered inland or to sea.”

“How do you know this?”

“Let’s just say that I have sources close to the King - and it pays well to remind them who their master is with occasional visits.”

“But why has he fled?”

“I can’t know for certain - but I have an idea. Let’s just say that, if James manages to reach either the Foothills or Noropia, he will be the most dangerous threat that this government has ever faced.”

“Your military - Ranalte’s army - they won’t be able to deal with the situation?”

“I trust my men and, to a lesser extent, the newer officers such as Ranalte. However, the upper ranks of the Army, the Navy, and the Flying Corps are rank with traitors and royalists. They could force their men to take up arms in defense of the King. My men have already uncovered a number of traitors in our armed forces; there may be an unfathomable number more.”

“I’ve seen the executions - three a week in Gull Flag Square.”

“Regrettable, the bloodletting. But necessary if we are ever to have a stable military that will pose no threat to its own state.”

“All right, Director. Find James. Bring him back to Ianapalis before he reaches Noropia, or the Foothills, or wherever he’s going.”

“You can count on me, Premier.”

-------

The barn door creaked open. James rolled off the sack of oats that had been serving as a makeshift bed and fumbled for his sword in the dark. The handle of a hundred-general sabre, the last possession of a dear friend long gone, seemed to reach out and grasp his hand; silently, James crouched behind a box and watched as two dark figures crept inside, evidently pleased with the stealth of their midnight endeavor.

Like a shadow, three of the King’s First Grenadiers fell upon them. One of the intruders let out a muffled scream; the harsh thud of metal against flesh silenced it. The barn door creaked shut. James lit a small lantern and, shielding its light, moved it over the faces of his assailants.

“Boys. Probably coming out to tip the family cow or steal seed,” sighed James. Two young men, of perhaps twelve and fourteen years, lay on the dirt floor of the barn. The elder one bled profusely from the spot on the back of his head where Saunders’ pistol’s butt had silenced his cry. The younger, Weathers’ hand clamped over his mouth, looked up at James’ face in awe.

“He’s recognized you, Your Majesty. We can’t let him tell anyone who he saw here,” whispered Weathers.

“I know.”

“They may think it was brigands, Your Majesty,” put in Saunders.

“If I could just borrow Your Majesty’s sword?” asked Weathers. “Please, my knife’s awful dull - we ought at least to make it quick.”

James flinched away from Weathers, drawing Tri’s sword closer to himself.

“Your Majesty, we haven’t a minute to lose,” insisted MacPherson, the other Grenadier. “No telling when these two will be missed - we must be well on our way by then!”

“We can’t just kill him! He’s just a child!”

Weathers bit his lip. “Your Majesty, everything depends upon the stealth of our journey. We took a risk coming into this barn tonight, and this is the price which much be paid for our gamble. Lawrence is outside with our horses; we must get to him and be long gone before that family wakes up. And we must leave no trace of your presence here; if Bradsworth knows your route, we’ll never make it.”

“Gag him,” said James. “Gag him and bring him with us.”

“Your Majesty!”

“I will not murder a little boy,” said James loudly. The other three men hushed him violently.

“All right, all right!” Saunders tore a piece of his shirt and stuffed it under Weathers’ hand. “Lawrence is not going to be happy with this,” he muttered.

"Before you start the boulder rolling, it is wise to make sure that it can be stopped." ~ Aguan Proverb

The Divine Imperium and the nations across the narrow White Sea had never been the closest of friends. The monarchy's collapse had been effected in no small part by Imperial sabotage -- at least, that's what His Most Divine Illuminated Majesty's Foreign Service believed, and they were quite content to go on believing that for as long as it took to make it true. Certainly, the Grand Empire's breakdown into its component pieces had been a matter of dignified (quiet) celebration in Tarnaqin, once the 'anglophile' Tsar Daniel and his wife had been packed off and replaced with a more...appropriate ruler.

Once the threat of a unified Shield had been banished, and the 'Gull Flag Republic' had taken the place of the most powerful states, Roania and its own subject nations were content to just ignore their neighbours now. At least, that had been the policy so far, and it was... to an extent, still followed.

Unfortunately, revolutions abroad could often spread to revolution at home. And the White Sea, so briefly a lake where the Firebird Cross was the most powerful flag, had once again sparked into a conflagration. And so, compulsively and by degrees, the eyes of the Imperial Diadem, the Burghers of Novaya Archangelsk, and the Divine Aquatic Navy all turned to the territory across the lake, wondering what steps, if any, should --could-- be taken.

((Glorified Tag!))

((It's good to see you're back around, man. I was starting to wonder if there really was anyone on the other side of the White Sea/Western Marches :P))

((It's good to see you're back around, man. I was starting to wonder if there really was anyone on the other side of the White Sea/Western Marches :P))

((Aw, I'm touched. But I have to be around. Without Roania, what will Shieldian mothers scare their children with? The Boogeyman?))

His Most Divine Illuminated Imperial Majesty the Tsar of Novar Ohan, the Prince of Roania, Sovereign of Derricks and Agua, of Altara and the Free Cities, the Lord Protector of the Sunset Isles, the Protector of the Faith, the Supreme Arbiter, the Master of the Empire, the Most Beloved Knight Commander of the Imperial Legions, the Lord of The White Sea, and Most Blessed Christian King (to give him the short list of his titles) Adrik Alexei Daniilevich Chyornyev stood at the end of his massive study. He was looking out his window at the towers of Tarnaqin. "So..."

"Most Soveriegn lord, I promise you. If we do not act strongly now, the Reds will be at our threshold! That...repulsive Madders...one week, he's proclaiming global revolution, the next he's threatening our hold on the north..." The Chief Executive of the Guild, Louis Ver'chan, rubbed his hands together to warm them in the chill of the Tsar's office. "If it wasn't for the Effitian situation, I'd be willing to bet we'd see even..."

"Ver'chan." The word was spoken quietly. "If you were to look out the window now, what would you see?" Adrik Alexei stepped aside, to allow the other man unparralled access to the view.

"The Cathedral of the Archangel Michael, Most Gracious and Beloved Lord."

"And beyond that?"

"The desert of Roan."

"And beyond that?"

"I can see...yes...some of the border hills with Agua, and the Derricks Mountains." Ver'chan paused, and coloured. "If it pleases my lord to jest, let him jest, but kindly allow your servant to understand it."

"Humour me, Guild Executive. If you could see beyond that, what would you see?" Adrik Alexei yawned, politely covering his mouth with a well-manicured hand. "Oh, forgive me."

"I would see Altara, and possibly the city of Novaya Archangelsk."

"Now, my Lord Executive... who does all that you see belong to?"

"...Why, you my lord." Ver'chan narrowed his eyes. "Most Blessed and Divine Lord, I would like to understand what it is you wish to show me by reminding me that all...ohh..."

"Exactly." Adrik Alexei returned to his desk and sighed. "Everything that is on this island belongs to me, Ver'chan. You. Your wife. Your little daughter, my, how fast she's growing, she's two already, where does the time go..." The Tsar blinked as if realising he was rambling, and sat rather more upright in his chair. "I know where you live. I know where you work. I know where your wife spends her days, I know where your daughter goes to school." Adrik Alexei leaned forward and narrowed his own eyes. "Do I need to make myself clearer?"

"No, My Lord Tsar."

"Excellent. A place for everyone, and everyone in their place. And so long as they know where their place is, Ver'chan... you and I and all the nobility and merchants in the Imperium? We're safe. So let the Iansislians slaughter themselves, hum?" Adrik Alexei pulled out a comb and deliberately fixed his hair back into place. "Their revolution continues only until such time as I choose to end it with the Legions."

"But...Madders..."

"Oh, don't let me confuse you. Madders and his ideals are a threat, Ver'chan. But I control them. I direct them. He just doesn't realise it right now..." His hair fixed, the Tsar pulled out a glass of wine and sipped it gingerly. "But if it will...ease your mind, I will remind our...Mister Ouvrier of the debt this...'republic'," for the first time in that conversation, the Tsar showed emotion as he spat the word, "owes to us. "Adrik Alexei dashed some notes on a scrap of paper. "Someone will be dispatched. And...on the other matter... Bradsworth, certainly, could do with a show of strength in the White Sea. He's getting...what's the word...uppity."

Ver'chan bit back the obvious reply of, Are you so sure you're in control? That wasn't a question it was safe to ask. Regardless of this man's power on the other side of the White Sea, in his own office Adrik Alexei was as unto a god. So, the Guild Executive quietly bowed his head and whispered, "My Lord is most wise..."

There is a rather unique sound that identifies a high revving V12 motor. It is somewhere in between a low burble in idle, and a screaming roar, a banshee's wail, at full throttle. It was the sound that could send children running for cover, and bring goosebumps to the strongest of men. And in the tiny village on the Iansisleanian coast, it was very out of place.

The silverish Lamborghini Murciélago roared ferociously over the road, the concrete not yet finding disturbance from massive trucks or daily traffic. No oil was leaking on the lighlty used road, nor were there cracks to expand and contract and destroy the surface. And the massively powerful V12 beast used every bit of this road to its advantage.

It was an odd feeling, controling a wheeled rocket capable of obtaining speeds well above the second century mark with ease, and it was that feeling that Fortier loved. As he slammed into fourth, creeping past 190, he let the massive tires scream briefly before quickly pulling the rear end back in, not letting the car enter a full drift. As he sped past trees, all but a green blur, he came to the full realization of the power at his fingertips. He had used a grey market dealer to sell his BMW M5, and purchase this Italian beast, not knowing exactly what he would be in ownership of. Even his Ferraris had not given him this much sheer pleasure. The Prancing Horse was pure sophistication with refined power, but this Raging Bull was raw power with a hint of class when parked. It was fast.

The hour long liesure cruise came to a quiet end as he pulled into the parking lot of a small village cafe, and exited the pasta rocket. While the younger adults, and older teens, in the small village had taken far more than "just an interest" in the arrival of the Imitoran and Tanaaran, some of the older occupants looked on in disdain. The two did their best to stay out of affairs and politics of the small village, and the nation as a whole, yet seemed to have no probelm at all with stiring up controversy with their odd vehicles and soemtimes stunt like attitudes.

Fortier grabbed a news paper, and smirked his signature smirk at one of the many small town girls that had a school girl crush on the strange foriegner. Two younger boys, maybe 15 at most, were admiring the strange beast that he had taken into town, the light catching the blueish silver metal, glinting, and fading, absorbed into near one way style window tint. He nodded as he approached, pressing the button on the key fob which caused the drivers side door to automatically open, sliding up and away from the car.

It was moments later when he pulled into the garrage of the small cottage sitting on the cliff over looking the raging waters. He exited the vehicle, and entered the warm house, sitting at the table in the kitchen across from his current love interest, Mercedz Hexx. "Ya know," he said, leaning over to kiss her, "its really wierd drivign a car that could probably out run some of the fighter aircraft here."

He smiled, and looked down to read the paper, finding a bit of interest in the current events. He sighed, leaning back, amazed that Bradsworth, and the others pushing for this so called republic, had lasted this long, with an unspoken yet well known long list of people who wanted them dead, for one reason or another. Fortier alone knew more than his fair share of INSA and ICIC operators who would be more than willing to take the shot, and put James back into power. He sighed again, and took a long sip of his coffee.

OOC: Glorified retag, considering I haven't had a single IC post in almost a week now, and was feeling rusty. Also letting ya know I'm still here.

Though the spy game was not one often played on the Shield, the Naval Intelligence Office did its best to keep tabs on the fleets of the major world powers. Naval attachés in Iansislean consulates across the world monitored the comings and goings of warships, radranger buoys sprinkled liberally across the Western Marches reported on passing vessels and other, more clandestine agents hovered in ports from Walmington on Sea to Calarca.

Any report of a ships in the Divine Imperial Navy making ready for sea unannounced would bring the entire Home Fleet of the Royal Iansislean Navy - three whole Battle Squadrons, the Battlecruiser fleet, four fleet and six light aeroflyer docks, more than two dozen cruisers and nearly sixty destroyers under the command of Admiral the Marquess of Westergate in ports from Harbor City to Shield's End - to short notice for steam. Should those ships actually sortie in strength, the fleet would steam out to meet them. With the distance between the two shores so short and the tensions so high, the RIN could ill afford to allow Roania domain of the Western Marches.

((Yeah, it's short. I don't have a complete list of the ships in home fleet; an outdated list can be found here (http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=288295&page=3), but it's definately changed with the loss of the Noropian ports and the start of the Effitian war. I'll get to sorting that out sometime when I'm awake :D))

((Hey, Ian, what would happen if the DIR withdrew recognition from the Gull Republic pending discovery of the loss of the king? And trust me, ICly I will find out.))

((In the mean time, here's a little teaser for all you folks back home who've been waiting for me and Ian to blast the crap out of each other...))


They were...ungainly. That's the word that Pierre Levaul was looking for. The young aerosergeant had just graduated into the naval corps when someone had contacted him about a new occupation. "Sir, you have to understand that the science is unprepared. Yes, the Japanese and even the worthless British led the way, but really... I mean, this is something that we can build, given infinite time, funding, and..."

"Your concern does you credit. You have the entire Imperial treasury and 5 years."

That had been nearly 7 years ago. Pierre sweated nervously when the uniformed man studied the plans, and the small working model before him. The eyes darted back and forth for a moment. "...Sergeant? Does it have to surface before they can be launched?"

"Um...yes sir, with our current technology. The problem is that we really...well, fixed wing aircraft don't..."

The uniformed man threw some papers down on the ground. "Try rotary, then."

"Oh, sir, you know that those won't really work for extended combat..."

"We don't want extended combat, Sergeant. We want them to be able to go on short range attacks and then...vanish. Hell, if we thought we could get away with it we'd use our nuclear weapons, but the targets we're considering for these are too close for the rockets." The Admiral leaned forward and planted his face close to his subordinate's. "Right now, we have...a parity with the Shieldians, Pierre, when it comes to naval matters. That parity hinges upon our being the only possessor of long-range nuclear weapons, and submarines capable of launching them. And for all we know, that no longer exists." The plans were picked up and thrown to Pierre. "I want at least one of the current model in the water by the end of this year. And then we'll talk about expanding."

((We’re actually still the United Kingdom of the Shield, and I don’t know how withdrawing recognition would affect us. I don’t think that a revolutionary government would mind terribly much, unless agitators were sent in to try and restore the old government. And don’t worry, I *know* you’ll find out. :P))

It was a picturesque scene that day in mid December when the Third Evanpass Rifles marched down Long Street to the rail junction at Furthingham, first stop on a long journey that would end on the front in Gadsan. The bagpipes sang, the drums rolled, hastily-invented regimental colors flew at the vanguard of the column, and the entire population of Furthingham turned out - for the third time this week - to cheer the fresh-faced warriors of the Shield on to their battle.

No one really noticed that a mere two weeks of drilling hadn’t quite turned the conscripts into Prussians. Every soldier had his eyes cast sideways to the person next to him in line, trying to synch up their footfalls, with the result that not a single one was really marching in time.

Private Hugh Wray, who had been just three weeks ago Hugh Wray, second son of James Wray the baker, did his absolute best to look like the other two thousand, two hundred and forty-nine men as the colonel galloped past; he had felt Sergeant Stockton’s cane too often to try and draw attention to himself.

Wray thought back to that day, just three weeks distant now, when his younger brother had come running into the back room of his father’s bakery with a flyer announcing that ‘All Able-bodied men of the Class of 1953 are now requested and required to take up Service in the Name of HM the King to fight the heathen Effitian.’ Just a scant few hours later, a dozen cavalry men had arrived in Bestwick-on-Inger to round up Wray and the other six boys, each a mere twenty or twenty-one years of age, who fit that description.

He could see the train yard now, he could see the engine and the cars that would bear him three hundred miles from home to the front. Wray did not know exactly how things were going out there; he had read in the papers that several officers - aristocrats left over from before the revolution - had betrayed their men and their country. He had read that the Effitians had sacked Lakeriverwood (though he wasn’t sure exactly where that was - there weren’t many maps in Bestwick -on-Inger) and that the Shieldian armies were fighting with their backs to the sea. However, he had also heard from the men in his camp that Field Marshal Chapman - who had replaced the traitor Pennyman - was readying the Army of the Jaizar for a counteroffensive as soon as reinforcements arrived.

Wray felt his nose start to bleed. This damned weather! - winter on the Shield was the driest (the only dry) season of the year; the twenty degree weather and the lack of moisture combined to dry out his nasal passages something terrible. He tried frantically to snort the blood back in and resisted the urge to bring up his free hand to clog it up. Wray could feel Stockton’s eyes on his back, just waiting for him to screw up and rate a beating. And so, as they boarded the trains, Wray allowed the first blood spilt in his campaign to dribble down onto the front of his poorly-sewn khaki uniform.

--------

“By decision of the Court-Martial of December the Seventh in this, the Year of Our Lord Ninteen-hundred and Fifty-five, Flight Lieutenant the Honorable Richard Newton, son of Lord Newton of Sandisberry, of the Seventh Aeroknight Squadron of the Royal Iansislean Flying Corps is found guilty of the following charges: high treason against the State and the King, conspiring to commit said high treason, sabotage of state property, and the murder in cold blood of one Flight Lieutenant Eberson Hatch. The decision is final; the sentence is to be hanged by the neck until dead. Does the condemned have any last words before sentence is carried out?”

“I have only ever served my country and His Majesty the King.”

“Carry out the sentence.”

The trapdoor below Newton’s feet opened, his body fell through and was arrested violently by the snapping taut of the hangman’s noose. There was the sharp crack of a neck snapping and Newton dangled lifeless from the gallows in Gull Flag Square. The crowd, huddled together against the biting cold, let out a vicious cheer.

I don’t think that a revolutionary government would mind terribly much, unless agitators were sent in to try and restore the old government.

OOC: *Ahem* I do believe I reserved the shot on bradsworth should a foreign power take the shot, LOL.

OOC: *Ahem* I do believe I reserved the shot on bradsworth should a foreign power take the shot, LOL.

((I don't know why you're so hard-set against Bradsworth. He's really a very nice guy. :P))

OOC: *Ahem* I do believe I reserved the shot on bradsworth should a foreign power take the shot, LOL.

((I do believe that as nearest and most capable neighbour, I can shoot whomever I want in the Iansislian government.))

((I don't know why you're so hard-set against Bradsworth. He's really a very nice guy. :P))

I like James more. Anyways, I'll try to get some decent government based post in here sooner or later, more than just my ass hole character stiring up shit in a Lambo in the country side. Probably tommorow, well...today. And Roania...considering the one guy in Imitora who dislikes Bradsworth & CO. the most is currently living in Iansisle...I think I got you beat to the punch.

"The floor will recognize the MA from Desitian for questions," said the Speaker of the Assembly, bringing down his gavel. The echo rumbled through the gigantic and mostly empty #1 Jameston Place.

The Most Honorable Lord Alabaster of Desitian, who led the loose gathering of royalist Assemblymen from across the Shield, stood up.

"Honored members of this Assembly, prestigious members of the Government: it strikes me as a curious omission that funding as preparations for the state Christmas Mass at St Patrick's and Winter Gala at Dûn Ádien has not yet been provided by Mr. Bradsworth or the Director for Internal Affairs. Surely the government would not attempt to end one of the most storied and important celebrations of long tradition without so much as putting it to a vote?" His question was answered with cheers from the royalists' side of the Assembly.

"A point of order, Mr Speaker," said Reginald Gaiden, who had quietly taken up the job of ensuring that Premier Bradsworth's voting block remained intact (though, of course, there were no political parties on the Shield, and certainly no party whips).

“The floor will recognize the MA from Editraequán for a point of order,” said the speaker.

"It would appear that my honored colleague intends his question to introduce a new bill before this body, and not to question the policies of Mr Bradsworth’s government.”

“The MA from Desitian will answer the MA from Editraequán’s charge.”

“Mr Speaker, every single government on the Shield, from the very first empowered Parliament in 1774, has included a Christmas Act among their December bills - including this very body in December 1953 and 1954. The very exclusion, without explanation, of such a bill is a matter of government policy, and I want to be able to tell my constituents why there will be no public Yuletide celebration in Ianapalis.”

“His constituents are three hundred leagues away in Tramd,” muttered Gaiden under his breath. “Why should they care about festivities in Ianapalis?”

“The question is fair,” ruled the Speaker. “The government will answer.”

“I will answer for the government,” said Bradsworth.

“The floor recognizes His Excellency the Premier.” The royalists hissed and the Gull Flaggers cheered. Two years ago, Bradsworth would have bet real money that they would have tired of such puerile games left over from the days of the Combined Parliament by now.

“Mr Speaker: I hope that the most generous Assemblyman from Desitian will realize that, even now, this United Kingdom is fighting for its very independence and liberties against an Effitian tyrant. Thousands of brave young men have died along the banks of the Jaizar; thousands more will die in the coming months.

“The government submits to the honorable representative that his constituents would be well-advised that every single keneral is now being counted; there simply is no more money for a Christmas Gala. The government also humbly requests that the good citizens of Desitian continue to buy war bonds that there may be many more happy and free Christmases on the Shield henceforth.”

“Is the MA from Desitian satisfied with the government answer?”

“No, Mr Speaker. I beg to continue the question.”

“The floor will recognize the MA from Desitian to continue the question.”

“Thank you. Mr Bradsworth’s words are, as always, sweet in my ears. However, and forgive my incredulity, but surely the cost of one little celebration is insignificant compared to the expenses - million upon millions of generals - of a war that this government is losing? And would not a lavish celebration distract dreary hearts from the casualty lists and renew the morale of the Shieldian peoples?

“Mr Speaker, I charge that Mr Bradsworth’s government lied to this body with his answer, and likewise lied to every Shieldian.” Already, the Gull Flaggers were rising to their leader’s defense with indignant cries, but the Baron Desitian brought his voice above them all. “I charge that Mr Bradsworth’s government is refusing to hold these celebrations, in which His Majesty the King plays so prominent a part, because it has lost control of the body of the King!”

There was to be no single voice heard in the clamorous din that followed Lord Alabaster’s indictment. For a second, it seemed that a fist fight might break out between several of the Gull Flaggers and other Royalists. The Speaker banged his gavel and called frantically for order, but no one paid his the slightest mind.

In the front row, the Director of War watched the developments. Lawrence Madders wasn’t quite sure whether to be worried or delighted. On the one hand, the Royalists’ possession of that privy information indicated a traitor somewhere in his military. On the other hand, this was the largest eruption yet in the frigid alliance between the moderate Gull Flaggers and the conservative Royalists (if such parties did in fact exist on the Shield). With the two largest powers quarreling, what room would there be for his liberal Grand Street (not a) party? Traitors could always be purged later: this wedge driven between Bradsworth and Desitian was worth ten times the secrecy of the King’s flight.

Madders sat back, quite enjoying himself, as Harold Pugh, the young, hot-blooded Gull Flagger from Clyfton-on-Daldon shrugged off attempts to hold him back and launched himself into the Royalists’ back bench, fists striking out in all directions.

((You can assume that James' flight is public knowledge now :)))

Admiral Sir Klaus Salien frowned and leaned back, pursing his lips in consideration. "An..."

"An incident." Lord Fleet Captain Commander The Duke of Thylacia finished for the Admiral, leaning forward and clasping his hands. "We want to seal the straits, Admiral."

"It...could be difficult."

"You've read the intelligence reports, Salien. You've watched it happen yourself. They can barely protect their own central gulf, how would they stop us?" Thylacia picked up a map of the White Sea and tapped at a pair of islands on the northern straits. "Here. The Malen'kiy Bliznetsy will be easily blocked. I don't want another Effitian ship in Nashe More."

"What about the south? Surely Ianslii will interfere there. It is too broad for them to do otherwise."

"...it would be, for More Bely as it currently stands." Thylacia picked up another map, this one of the global positions of Imperial Fleets. "With Somalia and the other Arabians pacified, and the Islands resigned to their position, we can withdraw..." His finger traced down to a red cutout of a ship, "I will withdraw Zuretsky from Krasny and send him to the southern straits of Bely."

"To what purpose, if I may ask?"

"With the Anglo-Saxons out of the way, we will be able to move Galier and Surinoff in for the ultimate prize." A knife appeared in the Duke's hand, and was stabbed into a peninsula that jutted down into the Gallagan ocean. "Da zdrastvuyet Tsar Adrik Aleksei, Kniaz Gallaga!"

"Let's not...move too far ahead, Your Grace. There remains still the question of what incident will do?"

"You're an intelligent man, Admiral. I trust that you can be relied upon to come up with something."

As a small, old, and uncomfortable (yet surprisingly seaworthy) trawler motors out of Dubton harbor, sprouting an unnatural assortment of antennae, a Robotic Aerospace Industries RAt. 12 transport makes towards not terribly distant Iansisle, or at least some part of it. Parliament could never quite keep track. The small communications plane, similar in profile to the Bristol Buckmaster, roars over the choppy North Pacific seas at a stately 404 miles per hour, outrageous for a transport. But, after all, the RAt. 12 is a specialized diplomatic aircraft, built for moving very fast over long ranges.

On board, a Parliamentary diplomat looks through a pile of assorted documentation, detaling this and that, as well as his mission. While not very far from the collection of principalities and semi-autonomous states known by Robotstanis as 'Iansisle,' the Robotic Commonwealth never actually bothered to send an official diplomatic mission. All that is about to change...well, with luck.

A pair of Venom fighter-bombers escort the RAt. 12 as far as the Robotic EEZ, and after that it is on its own.

Ideally, barring engine trouble (RAt. 12s are notoriously unreliable), interception, or prohibitively bad weather, Parliamentarian Basil Ulyanov should arrive over Ianapolis in a few hours.

"His Imperial Majesty James III, High King of the Grand Empire of the Shield! His Royal Majesty James VI, King of Shadoran!"

A low murmur swept through the gathered functionaries sprinkled through the throne room of Michael IV, Javian King of the Foothills. Such titles had not been heard in three years.

"Your Imperial Majesty," said Michael, rising in the presence of his sworn liege. "Beg forgive the disastrous state of affairs - we had thought to expect a visit from James I, King of Iansisle."

James did not let the subtle barb pass. "Are you displeased with Our visit, Javial King?"

"Of course not..."

"We have come," said James, not letting his northern cousin finish, "to see that the Javian King upholds the promise to Our most glorious ancestor made in 1697."

"What would Your Majesty have of the Foothills?"

"Unrest sweeps the land; the sanctity of the Grand Empire is threatened by evil men and their lies. We require that the Foothillsmen ride to the rescue of the Empire as they are sworn to do."

"The Foothills would never abandon their duty to Seldaonur Nûmmaonur Res."

James let out a deep breath, as quietly as he could. It was a hard game to play, this one. After three years, he barely remembered the correct interaction between the High King and one of his great lords. It felt good to make history, though: never before had a Javian King so willingly given aide to a lord of the House of Callahan, their sworn enemies.

((I'll have actual responses for people tomorrow morning :D))

((Roania: awaiting more concrete declarations. Are your admirals actually carrying out this plan "as we speak"?))

LRR: Assuming that the RAt. 12 broadcast its intentions and rôle as a diplomatic courier, there would be no interception by Iansislean aircraft. Aerospace security had been much curtailed over large areas on the western and central Shield as increasing Effitian raids, staged from new bases on the mid-Jaizar, brought even Ianapalis and much of Shadoran under the shadow of the Pater's range. Other strikes against the pipelines and refineries of Dianatran threatened Iansisle's supply of fuel for its vehicles, aerocraft, and ships, meaning that unnecessary sorties of any sort were generally avoided; the need to conserve all fuel for defensive efforts made an offensive aerowar of the sort carried out against Chiang Maï and Ercolana impossible.

The RAt. 12 would be directed to land at RIFC Pentonbridge, a base some miles north and west of Ianapalis proper. The pilot would be warned that any diversion from a direct course there - such as the intent to carry out malicious acts against the densly-populated capital - would bring his craft's swift destruction.

Colonel Walter Othering (RIAC), the commander of the Ianapalis Army Garrison, waited at RIFC Pentonbridge to receive whoever was aboard the Robotic craft. He would escort them swiftly - but economically - in the single black Westerton Jackrabbit sedan to Jameston Place, where a meeting had been scheduled with Benjamin Rinehart, the director of foreign affiars.

--------

"We need to pull the Eighth Thorial Rifles off the line," said Colonel Frank Beshon, the Royal Iansislean Army Corps' Operations Officer, tapping the map at a location some twenty miles north of Delton. "They've been hit hard by the Effitians - 40% casualties in the space of two weeks. Their commander reports that there is talk of mutiny."

"Instigated, no doubt, by royalist traitors within their lower officer ranks," replied Lawrence Madders.

"Of...of course. Naturally, this would create a hole in our lines at a critical point, but we can plug it with the Third Evanpass Rifles and the Ninth Editraequán Rifles. They've just left Furthingham on their way to the front."

"I thought I had asked for those two divisions to be attached to the Army of the Daldon?"

"With respect, Director - we cannot allow the Effitians to break our lines again. We need all the reinforcements we can raise on that front. In fact, I submitted a proposal just a day or two ago that the Army of the Daldon might be better employed defending the Del.."

"I read your proposal, Colonel, and rejected it. Have you not heard that James raised his banner in Topton, and that northmen, along with Noropians from across the Gap, are now flocking to it? He'll have an army of twenty thousand before long. Ranalte can only call upon three regiments right now - a mere seven thousand men-at-arms."

Madders shook his head. "No, Colonel Beshon, those regiments must go to join the Army of the Daldon. Even if we were to defeat the Effitians, a loss against James' army would undermine everything the revolution has worked and bled for."

((No plan is being carried out yet.))

<Taggy for future postingness>

The RAt. 12 flies along towards Pentonbridge, pilots slowly cutting back the throttle. The bank towards the airfield is accomplished through relatively significant effort on the part of the copilot as the pilot deals with the complicated fuel budgeting apparatus. Finally, when the transport is lined up with the runway, its light (quite delicate by Robotic standards, where fighter aircraft are regularly operated off dirt and grass strips) landing gear drop down and lock. A moment later, the RAt. 12 settles down on the tarmac.

When it rolls to a stop, the exit hatch is pushed open and the flight crew, plus Ulyanov, emerge. After the long flight in the RAt. 12's cold and cramped interior, the first thing all three do is stretch their legs.

It isn't long before they notice a black high-end car headed their way, and Ulyanov runs back to fetch his attache case. Under a wool flight jacket, life preserver, and parachute is a rather low-quality business suit, typical of Robotic disregard for formal things. The pilots move off and sit under their airplane, and Basil straightens his suit.

The biplane flew over the narrow straits. On board, a special envoy sat, checking the notes. It was the eleventh hour, he knew that. And if this mission failed, it was over.

Tsar Adrik Alexei had heard about the raising of the royal standard in 'Topton', and ignored it. If it came to anything, then he'd take action. But right now, the recognised and dangerous government was Bradsworth and Madders.

Nicademus Darsalin, Chancellor to the Imperial Diadem, checked his watch. Soon, he would be landing.

~~

And miles and miles away, the fleets began to move...

Colonel Othering clutches his heavy overcoat around himself all the more tightly against the chill wind and moves to meet the Robotistani delegation.

"Ambassador Ulyanov, I presume?" he says in the peculiar Shadoranite way of speaking, where each word is spit from the mouth as if it had a bad taste. He also grossly misprounounced Ulyanov's name. "We've been expecting you, Excellency. If you'll be so good as to follow me, we can get out of this damned weather."

Othering opens the door to the Westerton Jackrabbit and motions Ulyanov and whoever is coming with him into the leather cabin before moving his own rather impressive bulk. The suspension groans a little with the Colonel's girth but recovers nicely.

"To Jameston!" says Othering. "Avanti!" Turning back to Ulyanov, he adds "This is a most unexpected surprise, Mr Ulyanov. What chances to bring you to the Shield at this hour?"

----

Several hours later, the Roanian biplane is directed to the very same landing strip, although - unlike the Roboti aerocraft - Iansisle's military planners give it an 'escort' of two naval fighters. Benjamin Rinehart, Iansisle's Director of Foreign Affairs, is on hand to receive the Chancellor.

----

Home Fleet had been brought to short notice for steam on the first indications that the Divine Imperial Navy was making ready for sea; all major units had weighed anchor and made for the Western Marches just forty-five minutes after the Roanian ships had sailed.

The main battle fleet, under Admiral the Marquess of Westergate, sailed from the Mansmouth Roads after its destroyer escorts and cruiser screen had formed up. The battle cruiser fleet, under Admiral Sir Kennith Jones, sailed from Harbor City.

Westergate's fleet was arranged in typical Iansislean fashion: the battleships were arranged in two columns, sailing in line ahead. The mobile aeroflyer docks sailed on the weather side of the fleet, ready to turn into the wind and launch aerocraft if need be. Two flotillas of destroyers, one close to the major units and one ranging father with ASDIC pinging, surrounded the fleet. Further out, cruisers operating independently acted as the eyes of the fleet, scouting with radrangers for the Roanian ships.

Westergate knew that his fleet was not as powerful as it could be - only eight of Iansisle's eleven ships of the line and only three of its four battlecruisers. The Gargantuan, which had been out on patrol for nearly a year before the revolution, was laid up in Vesshampton for maintance; the Indomitable was still repairing damage suffered in the embarassing Effitian submarine raid on Mansmouth; and the Prince of Shadoran and King Ian V were on detached duty in the Gallagan Ocean and the Atlantic, respectively.

Still, eight ships gave him 16 15"/42 guns, 24 14"/45 guns, and 36 16"/45 guns - over 146,000 pounds of metal in a single broadside.

"I am here to establish diplomatic relations with the Gull Flag republic, something that my Parliament believes is somewhat overdue."

Ulyanov hardly notices the weather, coming from a country where icebergs float down main shipping channels all months of the year, and where warships are designed with icebreaking hulls. In fact, the RAt. 12 is one of very very few RAI aircraft that does not facilitate ski landing gear.

The Colonel's manner is also not viewed with distaste, as in the Robotic Archipelago several months of near-complete darkness will do quite a bit to one's temperment. In fact, the only thing about it Ulyanov is not used to is the car. In the Archipelago, even cabinet ministers use 4x4 jeeps or the train to get around.

"Our nations being so close and all...one of our Shackletons even crashed in your waters a while back..."

At Whiteharbour dock, events proceeded much as was usual on a weekday. The Divine White Sea Fleet sat in its anchorage, the guns and swoops ready for combat. It was a large naval group, as befitted an area where the Imperium expected to fight another industrialised state should war ever occur. Destroyers, their rockets and cannons tucked primly beneath smooth exteriors, sat side-by-side with immense aircraft carriers, on which rockets waited patiently next to Ivanushka Fighter-Bombers. Beneath the water, ordinary and Rocket Submarines patiently bided their time.

But pride of place amongst them all was given to a large grey sillhouette just outside the port proper. Squat and rectangular, the Tsar Damien was the only one of its kind in active service in the Imperium, if not the world. A submersible helicraft carrier. On board, a new weapon of war waited patiently for the days when the audible hum of its rotating wings would be as recognisable as the noises of its more conventional brothers.

The 'Iansislians' might have the advantage of numbers for now. But technology and the march of time lay, the Roanians believed, firmly with them. And when the Red Sea Fleet, with the Roanians fully confident in the weakness of 'perfidious Walmington', was completely transferred (even if its ships were slightly dated), the Roanians would close in upon Iansisle like a vice, should peaceful measures fail.

And that was just the aquatic section of the plot to make the White Sea a Roanian lake. The Holy Legions had their own little plans, too...

~~

Lord Chancellor of the Divine Imperial Government, Senior Advisor to the Imperial Diadem, Minister-President of the Duma, and Lord Premier. These were the assorted titles which Nicademus Darsalin had picked up. A tall, aquiline man with a duelling scar crossing his face, the Chancellor wore his patriotism 'on his sleeve', as it were. The foremost of the new breed of Imperial 'Politicians', he was as determined to destroy the vile scourge of 'egalitarianism' as he believed Bradsworth and Madders were to spread it.

His relationship with his master was puzzling and confusing to the outsider. The two of them would often have loud shouting matches over policy, matches which he won as often as not. The unassuming statesman had been behind the coup which had 'vanished' Daniel (who had quite literally disappeared after abdicating when he learnt public sentiment was against him) and his wife (who was currently taking a rest cure in a heavily guarded and locked down compound in the mountains of Derricks) in favour of a scion of the infinitely more normal Damien. As such, Adrik Alexei knew that he needed Darsalin, and was forced to put up with his various foibles.

Darsalin's relationship with the people who had nominally elected him was quite different. His job was to govern, and he had been elected and chosen to do that job. And the best thing the people could do afterwards was stay out of his way.

Nicademus Darsalin knew that some would consider this mission beneath him. He also knew that he had never been the most diplomatic of men. But that wasn't important. He had been sent to deliver a message. And that was exactly what he was going to do.

So, as he stepped off the tarmac, flanked by armed Legionaires, every inch the confident statesman, he was loathe even to acknowledge the existence of the Foreign Minister. Not like he could recall the man's name anyway. Still, feeling like something was required, and not liking the idea of a Shieldian getting the first word, Nicademus made an elegant bow, his pressed and tailored silk suit shining even in the slightly overcast skies. "Greetings, from the Divine Imperium. I trust all is well?"

This thread has been flagged by Her Majesty's Ministry for External State Security....that's right, a tag so I can extend representation to James' government this evening or tonight.

"I am here to establish diplomatic relations with the Gull Flag republic, something that my Parliament believes is somewhat overdue."

"Of course," replied Othering, suddenly very quiet. He hadn't known that the Robotstani were quite so eager to open relations with a Republic only days old, with a man still wandering around claiming to be its king. The recognition of a nearby power would aide the Republic greatly in its coming battle for the acceptance of the international community.

Othering knew well the Robotstani reputation for being easy going and good natured; however, with so much on the line, he couldn't help but wish that Jameston had sent out someone a bit more gifted with words.

"Well, the Republic is proud to welcome you to the Shield," said Othering after a long pause. "And we hope that your visit might end with both sides in hur - erm harmonius agreement, as, ahem, as it were." The big man's face flushed red with his faux pas.

"Our nations being so close and all...one of our Shackletons even crashed in your waters a while back..."

"You don't say. All crewmembers were rescued safely, I hope?"

Outside the Jackrabbit, the semi-rural terrain of south-eastern Shadoran rolled by. In the distance, the skyscrapers and smokestacks of Ianapalis were visable.

--snip naval stuff--

((wait, so your fleet's not putting to sea? Pardon me if I misread that, but I'm just a bit confused. It's probably the late hour. :)))

So, as he stepped off the tarmac, flanked by armed Legionaires, every inch the confident statesman, he was loathe even to acknowledge the existence of the Foreign Minister. Not like he could recall the man's name anyway. Still, feeling like something was required, and not liking the idea of a Shieldian getting the first word, Nicademus made an elegant bow, his pressed and tailored silk suit shining even in the slightly overcast skies. "Greetings, from the Divine Imperium. I trust all is well?"

Benjamin Rinehart, sixty-three years old, was a veteran of Charles Bradsworth's original marches and rallies in the days before the Corporate Yoke. What sparse hair he had left around the edges of his hair was nattily trimmed and quite silver. His face was clean-shaven and friendly, if gaunt and worn by years of laboring in eastern Ianapalis before the Revolution. Rinehart was not a statesman by birth or training, but nearly ten years as the best friend of Charles Bradsworth had taught him a thing or two about the political game.

His suit, worn under a black overcoat, was a common dull shade of brown but obviously well-cared for. One hand clutched a brown bowler to his head against the biting wind; to it was stuck, of course, a cockade of green, white, and red - the colors of the Gull Flag. No one on the Shield let good fashion sense get in the way of proclaiming their support for the Revolution and the Republic.

"Chancellor Darsalin, I presume?" said Rinehart after the Roanian's somewhat curt opening statement. "I'm Ben Rinehart - Foreign Director of the Republic." Even as he extended a hand to shake, Rinehart knew that his statement would be viewed as quite inflamitory: he had made sure not only to mention the fact that Iansisle's styled itself a Republic now but also to refrain from calling Darsalin 'Lord Chancellor.' So much the better.

"If you'll follow me, Chancellor," said Rinehart, gesturing towards another Westerton Jackrabbit, "I believe that Citizen Brasdworth himself has allotted time to meet with you. Good relations between your state and the Republic are, of course, of the highest priority in Jameston these days."

With the roughly concurrent, "troubles over in the Ians' continent" and, "negative turn in domestic satisfaction exaserbated by the Yanks", the latter culminating in the return to power of George Mainwaring, it was fair to say that the exact result of the former event had been light on detail so far as Walmingtonian understanding went.

This was in part owing to the decreased interest paid by the last Tory government to all things outside the realm of Walmingtonian empire and especially to the vague unfavourable taste that the aforementioned Pacific troubles left on its extremely conservative palate. Usual avenues of communication had been allowed to degrade somewhat, and it was only now that Mainwaring's own Whigs looked to recover the Kingdom's damaged position in the world.

That was the line originating in Walmington Street, at least, and that guided diplomats back to the Shield in force as Walmington enjoyed its most liberal administration since 1804 Parliament Acts opened half a century of relative racey...ness.

Other elements within the Empire were less than convinced that the Gull Flaggers were the right way to lean, however, unsure -with their limited intelligence on that neglected side of the world- if it was going to survive for terribly long. Still, in the short term, it seemed the place most likely to allow cruiser squadrons to put in during the long range patrols that the Admiralty insisted must be kept up against, "unsustainable regrowth" in the US, which could otherwise be called post-war anti-American piracy with an official stamp on it.

More than that, it seemed the proper thing to do that the Empire should make a point of its strength and resolve (after such a shaky few years) by steaming directly through conflict zones as if they didn't concern Great Walmington in the slightest.

In short, Walmington hadn't much to say (but took a long time getting around to that point), and by chance was one of its cruiser squadrons hoping to reaffirm just how fine the world was by putting in at the North Pacfic continent in what may or may not be a show of support for somebody and may or may not be part of a commerce raiding mission against the Yanks or somebody else out of favour.

(OOC: God, I think I'm dying of heatstroke or something. I'm not sure what I was even trying to say. I'm sure it's not just a vague attempt to keep WoS from dying of inactivity! Maybe we'll make more sense next time [slumps])

Darsalin raised an eyebrow over this patent insult, but otherwise let it pass, giving the Minister's hand a perfunctory shake. Sliding into the automobile, he held his hands rather primly together, as if afraid of contamination from his surroundings. "I'm glad to hear it, of course. You see, recent events in..." His lips curled around the words 'The Republic', and then he recoiled from it in disgust, "Iansisle have made Tarnaqin nervous, and the Tsar is...concerned."

The Lord Chancellor inspected the skyline of Jameston for a moment, and then added, "I have been asked to bring the Imperial perspective before...Premier Bradsworth and Madders."

((Ian, the Red Sea and Gulf of Aden fleet is on the move, not the White Sea. I'm trying to tease your navy into launching an unprovoked attack, is all...:P)

James whirled his mount around in a sudden panic. It had been far too long since he had had to ride like this. He kicked the horse, borrowed from King Michael's stables, into a full gallop and shot down the field, Prince Haldra of the Foothills just a step or two behind. The cold, dry wind of the Normarch stung his cheeks to a bright red as it rushed past.

The thundering of Haldra's horse's hooves drove home to James just how close he other was. With a quick prayer that he hadn't lost all skill in those long years as a virtual prisoner at Dûn Ádien, he turned to the right, causing Haldra to rein in sharply. Another sharp turn to the left and he was completely in the clear, looking over his shoulder. Lawrence passed between Haldra and the Duke of Geddering. James reached out with his mallet and redirected the pass straight into the goal.

On the sidelines, the Javian King applauded quietly for his overlord. James trotted over, sweat dripping from his face despite the thirty-five degree weather.

"A most splendid display, James," said Michael quietly. The formality of the throne room vanished on the polo field. "You haven't lost a step - I used to see you play, you know, years and years ago when you were still the Prince of Shadoran."

"I didn't know," said James, dabbing his brow with a cloth. His horse, which had far more spirit than did poor Jacob after three long years on Ian's Island, pranced up and down restlessly in front of Michael's mount.

"They say that some day the motor-car will make all horsemanship a thing of the past."

"I've heard the same. But the king of games will always be the game of kings, eh?"

"Agreed."

James examined Michael's face, which was some years older than his. "There's something on your mind, and its not about the game," he said. "Why don't you just tell me?"

"That storm hit the Gap last night."

"Oh."

"There's three feet of snow already on the ground. It'll take a week to clear, and that's only if the storm keeps moving." Michael shook his head. "We have to assume that we've been completely cut off from Noropian supply and reinforcements."

"We'll have to march soon, then," said James. "How much food can we have left for the men? One week? Maybe two?"

"Maybe. And there's the civilian population to be considered - they can't go on eating roots and their boots."

"We'll march as soon as we can. Has Ranalte crossed the frontier yet?"

"Not yet. My scouts report that he's concentrated near Beshon..."

"I was born there, you know. At Beshon Court."

"Ah, yes. Anyway, there's no telling when he'll start, but I'm willing to venture that the rail junction at Nurntop is his first objective."

"Can we defend it?"

"No. Say, James, you would know better than I - what is this Ranalte like?"

"Well," said James, "He's Sentrian, for one. Conducted himself with honor at the battles of the Sundral and Haldsborough. I offered to knight him, but he refused. When the Effitian war started, Pennyman wanted him on the front lines; Madders sent him here instead." He shrugged. "I know it's not much to go on, but I haven't even met the man."

"We will, soon enough." Michael nodded to James. "Go. Finish your game. I didn't mean to concern you overmuch."

((ooc: weeell, I know there aren't any replied *quite* yet, but I have to keep the plot moving along as well. Hopefully LRR will post soon and I can have something a little more interactive :P))

Darsalin raised an eyebrow over this patent insult, but otherwise let it pass, giving the Minister's hand a perfunctory shake. Sliding into the automobile, he held his hands rather primly together, as if afraid of contamination from his surroundings. "I'm glad to hear it, of course. You see, recent events in..." His lips curled around the words 'The Republic', and then he recoiled from it in disgust, "Iansisle have made Tarnaqin nervous, and the Tsar is...concerned."

"Indeed?" asked Rinehart. His tone was light, as if he had decided to mock Darsalin for reasons unknown. "I shouldn't have thought that anything in Iansisle might concern the mighty Tsar"

The transition from rural Pentonshire to suburban Westergate was a sharp one. The rolling green hills of the Shield vanished and were replaced by expensive townhouses, which gradually built up into the skyscrapers of western Ianapalis. And everywhere hung the banner of revolution, its spread-winged gull enveloping the entire city.

The Lord Chancellor inspected the skyline of Jameston for a moment, and then added, "I have been asked to bring the Imperial perspective before...Premier Bradsworth and Madders."

"And it will certainly be appreciated," nodded Rinehart. He spared hardly a glance out the window as the Jackrabbit rolled by Gull Flag Square. At the gallows which had been set up on the northern end, a body in the scarlet of the (former) Royal Iansislean Flying Corps was cut down and dumped into a simple wooden casket. In the lap of Queen Jessica's statue, which had been defaced, a straw figure burned brightly. A sign below proclaimed it to be 'James the Northman. James the Tyrant. James the Traitor.'

((Ian, the Red Sea and Gulf of Aden fleet is on the move, not the White Sea. I'm trying to tease your navy into launching an unprovoked attack, is all...:P)

((ergh, that's my bad, then. I'll retcon the whole Home Fleet business and see what Gallaga Fleet can do about it - probably very little; all they have is Prince of Shadoran, a handful of cruisers and a flotilla of destroyers.

Anyway, I suppose I had just enough energy for one response. :D *collapses*))

Nicademus's expression barely changed, his eyes retaining the same friendly look and general regard for all living things that it had held since he had stepped off the aeroplane. "I suggest you do not attempt to second-guess the thoughts of the Tsar, Foreign Minister."

"At any rate," The Lord Chancellor yawned genteely, "the situation is unstable. And..." His expression flickered while he was looking at the burning statue. "And we... are concerned about certain elements spreading to the Divine Imperium's shores."

OCC: Sorry for the delay. I've started work so when I get home I sleep for a few hours, and sometimes I forget to go on NS.

IC:

"It is my hope as well, sir," says Ulyanov, taking no notice of Othering's lack of grammarial tact. (Robotstanis tend to speak a very crude Russian themselves). "My government would very much like to see a friend in the new republic. It takes me back to the 1938 revolt..."

Ulyanov launches off into the story of his service as a Parliamentary marine during the most recent anti-royalist uprising in Robotic history...

Meanwhile, in the North Pacific, Emile Efran and his crew putter eastward. Their small 'communications' trawler rolls heavily in the high swells, and if its hold hadn't been filled with cork it would probably be in very deep trouble. Waves wash across its deck just as Efran himself enters the wheelhouse, drenched in cold seawater. The trawler's radar picks up occasional airborne and seaborne contacts as it nears its destination, but it is hoped that, despite the wide array of aerials that sprout from the wheelhouse, the trawler will pass as a simple fishing vessel.

Nicademus's expression barely changed, his eyes retaining the same friendly look and general regard for all living things that it had held since he had stepped off the aeroplane. "I suggest you do not attempt to second-guess the thoughts of the Tsar, Foreign Minister."

"At any rate," The Lord Chancellor yawned genteely, "the situation is unstable. And..." His expression flickered while he was looking at the burning statue. "And we... are concerned about certain elements spreading to the Divine Imperium's shores."

At last, the Jackrabbit pulled into Jameston Place, the heavy wrought-iron gates being shut behind them by soldiers not in the green and blue of the King's Grenadiers, traditional guards of the house of parliament, but the khaki of the regular Army. Red Gull Flags fluttered from every pole in the courtyard and were draped down the marble buildings wherever there was a suitable façade.

Beyond the gardens, which sloped gently down to the lapping surf of Ádien Bay, one could just make out the granite form of Ian's Island, Dûn Ádien perched atop it like a bird. The lighthouse of Feinwick Point, even further out, swept its dispassionate patrol in endless circles, warning ships off of the rocks and into the safety of the largest natural bay on the eastern Shield.

A soldier came up to open the Lord Chancellor's door, standing at (rather sloppy) attention while Darsalin and Rinehart exited.

"Director," Rinehart reminded the other man. "Not 'minister'. Director of Foreign Affairs." He walked briskly towards #2 Jameston Place. "Things have changed here on the Shied. We no longer have a king, so we no longer have need for a King's ministers."

They entered a long hallway. The floor was tiled with the Cross of St Patrick, but the walls were draped in the omnipresent Gull Flag. A soldier, every one of them in a more shabby uniform than the one before him, stood every few yards; they were nothing more than boys trying to play up to their new clothes.

"Have you ever heard the saying, Chancellor," started Rinehart as they reached an ornate door. "That a revolution is rather like a fire? It burns brightest where the tinder is dry? I've heard it's very dry in the desert."

Rinehart then pushed open the door to reveal Charles Bradsworth, the One-Handed Leader, the Man with the Golden Tongue, the Hope of the Masses. He looked tired today, more tired than he had ever been before, even when his rallies drew thousands into the streets of Western Ianapalis.

Lawrence Madders, on the other hand, looked quite calm and collected as he turned from the window overlooking the Bay and turned to meet their visitors.

"Chancellor Nicademus Darsalin, from our dear neighbors across the Marches," introduced Rinehart. "Chancellor, Citizen Bradsworth and Citizen Madders."

"It really is a pleasure, Lord Chancellor," said Bradsworth, standing and extending his good hand. "Welcome to Iansisle. But please! do sit. We have much to discuss, so very much."

((ooc: response coming, LRR, I promise. Time seems to be as much at a premium for me as it is for you. So please, don't worry if your reply is a few days in coming - it's very much appreciated. I should have one for you later tonight.))

OCC: Sorry for the delay. I've started work so when I get home I sleep for a few hours, and sometimes I forget to go on NS.

IC:

"It is my hope as well, sir," says Ulyanov, taking no notice of Othering's lack of grammarial tact. (Robotstanis tend to speak a very crude Russian themselves). "My government would very much like to see a friend in the new republic. It takes me back to the 1938 revolt..."

Ulyanov launches off into the story of his service as a Parliamentary marine during the most recent anti-royalist uprising in Robotic history...

Othering did his best to keep up with the conversation, making nods and injecting words wherever he could.

"Well, it's, ah, very pleasing to have a sympathetic ear in this nasty business," said Othering. "Sometimes, I think the entire bloody world is a bunch of reactionaries."

Their Jackrabbit pulled up to Jameston Place and Othering led Ulyanov out. He had been supposed to take the Robotistani to see Director of Foreign Affairs Rinehart, but - well, times changed. He instead led Ulyanov into #2 Jameston Place, the various Iansislean functionaries trailing after him in confusion.

He found Bradsworth in the hall.

"Citizen Bradsworth, may I present Colonel Ulyanov of Lunatic Retard Robots?"

Bradsworth arched his eyebrows. "Well, Colonel Othering; Colonel Ulyanov. This certainly is a surprise."

Meanwhile, in the North Pacific, Emile Efran and his crew putter eastward. Their small 'communications' trawler rolls heavily in the high swells, and if its hold hadn't been filled with cork it would probably be in very deep trouble. Waves wash across its deck just as Efran himself enters the wheelhouse, drenched in cold seawater. The trawler's radar picks up occasional airborne and seaborne contacts as it nears its destination, but it is hoped that, despite the wide array of aerials that sprout from the wheelhouse, the trawler will pass as a simple fishing vessel.

After the disaster off Cape St Jean, the Navy had pulled most of its patrols from the Noropian coast, leaving a lot of uncovered water. However, the closer the trawler got to the Western Marches (aka the White Sea), that narrow stretch of water which seperated Iansisle from Roania, the more likely it was that it would be that light forces, on one side or the other, would spot it and have some questions to ask.

Basil is surprised at the attachment of a rank to his name. After all, the furthest he got in the marines was corporal.

"My apologies for the extremely short notice. We thought it best to come as soon as possible."

Ulyanov extends his hand towards Bradsworth while reaching the other up towards his mouth to contain a sneeze.

"Eh, pardon me. I seem to have contracted a bit of a cold."

OCC: You know...I don't really think the trawler thing is going anyplace. I think I might stop it.

Basil is surprised at the attachment of a rank to his name. After all, the furthest he got in the marines was corporal.

((Aw, heck. That's my fault, isn't it? Aw, well, moving along :D))

"My apologies for the extremely short notice. We thought it best to come as soon as possible."

Ulyanov extends his hand towards Bradsworth while reaching the other up towards his mouth to contain a sneeze.

"Eh, pardon me. I seem to have contracted a bit of a cold."

"Ah, well, it is nasty weather we're having, isn't it?" asked Bradsworth, shaking with Ulaynov using his good right hand. He seemed oddly flustered. "Perhaps you could excuse me, Ambassador? I just need a quick word with Colonel Othering. Please help yourself to the, uh, coffee and I'm sure Ms Edmonds here would be pleased to fetch you a danish or, um, something if you need it."

Ulyanov then got to witness the distinctly unusual scene of a slight politician with only one hand violently ushering a military man of over twice his girth into a nearby office.

"Erm, can I get you a danish, Ambassador?" said the petite blonde who must have been Ms Edwards. "Or perhaps a croissant?"

-------

"Wait!" whispered Othering "I can expl..."

"Colonel, are you aware that Citizen Madders' damned National Papers Act is up for debate in only ten minutes? Or that, without me there, a lot of assemblymen are likely to break ranks and vote with Madders tomorrow? Now please tell me what is so damned important that you decided not to go to Director Rinehart, as we had agreed?"

"Because," whispered Othering, rather irritated, "Ulaynov out there has said that he'd be willing to recognize the republic. I don't think he's the sort of man to push off on a mere director, citizen."

"Oh," said Bradsworth. "I see."

He pushed the door open. "Ms Edwards, please contact Ben and let him know that I need him on the floor at #1 as soon as he likes, he'll be taking my place. Now please, Ambassador, allow me to apologize for this little conference. Welcome to the Gull Flag Republic, and please! - come in, come in!"

OCC: You know...I don't really think the trawler thing is going anyplace. I think I might stop it.

((ok, whatever you want. :) I'm willing to see where this goes, if you want to keep going.))

*snip*

(OOC: God, I think I'm dying of heatstroke or something. I'm not sure what I was even trying to say. I'm sure it's not just a vague attempt to keep WoS from dying of inactivity! Maybe we'll make more sense next time [slumps])

((I'm still trying to come up with a good response both to this and Roania's Gulf of Aden fleet movement, but everything I type keeps sounding stupid. I'll try to have something up later tonight. :)))

(OOC: Hey, I should probably think of something to say about the Roanians, too, but, well, look at me fail! Anyway, er, don't strain yourself, I ended up doing little more than to see some interesting activity about the background to which I am woefully out of date, and to blindly thrust a couple of cruisers at it to see what happens ;) I mean [hangs head in shame].

Oh well, while I'm here, a note of update: WoS under Mainwaring's Whigs is socially a little more liberal, economically a little more social, and militarily a lot more like she was before the jet-fired atomic-powered American debacle began, ah, just so that everybody knows. And the rusty Royal Oak is still flagship of the Gallagan Ocean Fleet.)

God Save Our Glorious Tsar...

The old song sang from the mouth of every guard in the throne room as Nikita Ryalin, Minister of His Divine Illuminated Majesty's Chancellery With the Portfolio of Foreign Affairs, waited on his knees for his Lord and Master to condescend to hear him. The song was intended to remind visitors to the Tsar of their own smallness, of the crime of wasting his time.

Nikita was a very small man. Privately, Nicademus referred to him as 'That Shieldian'. Standing in at only 5'4", he was already intimidated by the large members of the Praetorians -- the Legion which guarded the palace and person of the Emperor. The song had made him scrunch up and wish that Nicademus was present to take care of matters for him. Unfortunately, the Lord Chancellor was away, and that meant that the daily report had to be given to the Tsar in pe... Wait, had the curtain swished?

Cowering, Nikita adjusted his hairpiece and calmed his shaking hands. Last time the Tsar had been displeased with an aspect of his presentation, he had been forced to give the report again -- the second time, standing on his head. Sure, he had managed to call the Patrimony of Effitia the 'Republic of Ryansisle', and almost caused a major war, but... Wait, the curtain had moved! And...and... "My Lord...My Lady!"

Lady Adele Rinaldi, fiancé of the Tsar, stepped quietly into the room and flashed an encouraging smile at Nikita as she sat down on her own little chair besides the throne. One of the heralds blinked and walked around to check for the absentee Emperor. He turned around to find Adrik Alexei already sitting, several documents in his hand.

Nikita blinked. He hadn't seen Adrik Alexei enter the room, either. One minute the Obsidian Throne had been empty, the next, it was occupied by the young man. Even the guards seemed confused, though Adele had frowned and was currently shaking her head disapprovingly at her future husband. Flustered, the herald took a deep breath. "His Divine Illum..."

Adrik Alexei held up a hand. "Bartimaeus, is this going to take half-an-hour of you bellowing again?" At the herald's terrified nod, the Tsar frowned and tapped two fingers to his chin for a moment. "It is? Oh, my dear Bartimaeus...you've gone and upset me..." The herald squeaked as Adrik Alexei pointed his thumb at him and motioned to the guards. "Take him away and..."

"Get him a cool glass of water and some food." Adele interrupted, shooting a deadly glance at her fiancé, who acquiesced with barely concealed bad grace.

After the herald had departed, Adrik Alexei leaned forward and fixed Nikita with an inspecting gaze. "I expect that a minister in my government doesn't need to be told who I am."

"Of...of course not, Most Blessed Sovereign Lord."

"Good. I understand you have some reports for me? Very well, let's hear them."

"Ah...the reports, yes. Well. The Effitians have once again sent a request, well I call it a request, really, it was more of a demand, but I digress, the Effitians have once again requested we attack the Shieldians across the White Sea."

"Hmmm. Intriguing. And you told them?"

"I told them that we have no intention of breaking our bonds of loyalty with our brethren across the straits."

"Very good. Do carry on."

"The...the..." Nikita fumbled through his papers for a moment, and then nodded. "The Tharians have declined our offer to send garrison troops in to protect them from renewed Iansislian aggression."

"Hum... as they will. Inform their ambassador that we are only acting out of the kindness of our hearts, and we would advise them most firmly to consider their refusal. Dress that up in diplomatic terms." Adrik Alexei yawned genteelly and leaned back. By his side, Adele glanced up at him and shook her head. Scowling, the Tsar sat straight again and directed his minor anger at the most suitable target. Nikita. "Get on with it!"

"Ah...um...of course, milord." Nikita almost dropped his papers and then chose another interesting tidbit. "Valinon has sent a message of support..."

"Inform our brother, the King of Valinon, that we offer him the same sentiments."

"Of course, milord. Um...that's...pretty much the entire..."

Adrik Alexei yawned once more and then fixed his minister firmly back in his sights. "James still running free in the Shield? Noropia, I believe? Or maybe it was Javial?"

"Um...um...um...yes, I think so." Nikita squealed.

"Hum... Interesting. Very well, dismissed."

Nikita bowed low and then walked backwards. Behind him, the guards swung the door open so he could leave. Once the door had shut with a resounding clang, Adrik Alexei steepled his hands. "Hum...very interesting indeed."

"What are you planning, Alyosha?" Adele whispered.

"Planning? What makes you think I'm planning anything, Della?"

"You never get that smile on your face when you're about to do something nice, Alyosha."

"I'm just happy that my brother in Iansisle is fine and well, and thinking of what I can do to support him...that's all..."

(Phew... Okay, Ian. If anything needs editing, tell me so I can stab myself with a stapler.)
~~

We have much to talk about... Darsalin repeated the words to himself as he shook Bradsworth's hand, giving up on aristocratic indifference. "It is always a pleasure to talk with our friends across the straits, Pr...Oh, what am I thinking, Citizen Bradsworth. And there is indeed much to discuss between us."

Nicademus examined the self-proclaimed director for a moment, and frowned in hidden annoyance. "I am sure you have much to tell me, indeed." The Lord Chancellor repeated, almost to himself.

~~

The fishing trawler was indeed noticed and commented upon, but those Imperial Patrol Boats covering the northern sea had more important things to deal with than it. Such as playing chicken with the Iansislian patrol boats doing the same stretch of water.

((And I suppose I'll wait for you, Ian, to do something with the Gallaga fleet before I do something with my people. Walmy, me old buffer, I just transferred the Red Sea and Gulf of Aden fleet away from Somalia and Yemen. Egypt is now a lot more secure than it's ever been. So, the question is...whatcha going to do? :P))

Ulyanov politely declines Ms. Edwards' offers, stating that he had already eaten on the airplane and was quite full.

Basil, a short man of Mongolian ancestry, wipes his hand on his overcoat and follows Othering and Bradsworth into the office.

"Thankyou, minister. Er...it seems as though you have something of a full schedule so I will try to be as concise as I can. I have been sent on behalf of the Robotic parliament to announce that Robotstan is willing to recognize the Gull Flag Republic as soveriegn over, well, the territory that it currently governs. Provided the Republic follows proper democratic procedure, of course. I don't want to sound overly confrontational, but I am obliged to tell you that such support is conditional on the Republic not engaging in the oppression of major political or ethnic groups. We tend to be quite adverse to such things.

But as long as that type of thing doesn't happen, Parliament announces its willingness to aid the Republic with limited military commitments."


Meanwhile, Emile Efran decides that his vessel is just about as close as he really feels safe for it to be. As fishing nets are cast, a number of crewmembers stand on watch with high-quality spotting scopes and notebooks.


Back in the Robotic Archipelago itself, the fisheries patrol squadron is reinforced rather heavily. Under Admiral Edouard Igomo, another squadron of warships is assembled. While the new squadron's backbone is undoubtedly the light cruisers Oman and Kuwait of the Arabia Class, a number of new ships are included. Daring-class destroyers, River-class ASW frigates, and a number of 'dual conversion' Battle Class destroyers.

What an observer would notice about the converted Battles is the fact that a set of four large, rectangular boxes occupy the space formerly reserved for the foreward-most 6in turret.

Walrus amphibians remain aboard the Oman and Kuwait, in continuous service ever since the 1930s, although a number of helicopters also flitter about overhead.

Adrik Alexei yawned once more and then fixed his minister firmly back in his sights. "James still running free in the Shield? Noropia, I believe?"

...

(Phew... Okay, Ian. If anything needs editing, tell me so I can stab myself with a stapler.)

((All I noticed: James is in the Javian Kingdom of the Foothills (which can be called either the Javian Kingdom, Javial, or the Foothills), the extreme north-west of the Shield. He's cut off from resupply by land, because of the snow storm in the Noropian Gap, and by sea because Javial is surrounded by the Republic. Air flights through Noropia and the Gap would be possible, if dangerous.

You were spot on in everything else :)

and responses...tomorrow morning? I hope? *collapse*))

We have much to talk about... Darsalin repeated the words to himself as he shook Bradsworth's hand, giving up on aristocratic indifference. "It is always a pleasure to talk with our friends across the straits, Pr...Oh, what am I thinking, Citizen Bradsworth. And there is indeed much to discuss between us."

Nicademus examined the self-proclaimed director for a moment, and frowned in hidden annoyance. "I am sure you have much to tell me, indeed." The Lord Chancellor repeated, almost to himself.

Bradsworth smiled as he sat back down and gestured for the Chancellor to do likewise. Madders remained standing.

"Your Lord the Tsar is in good health, I trust?" asked Bradsworth, not quite ready to give up the small talk and get down to actual business. "These are trying times, trying times, and I'd hate to think that it were causing His Divine Majesty undue harm."

((And I suppose I'll wait for you, Ian, to do something with the Gallaga fleet before I do something with my people. Walmy, me old buffer, I just transferred the Red Sea and Gulf of Aden fleet away from Somalia and Yemen. Egypt is now a lot more secure than it's ever been. So, the question is...whatcha going to do? :P))

Quick, mostly ooc update (because I just don't have the energy for anything else :D): What with the general indifference between Iansislean and Walmington on Sea, Walmington Station - a battlecruiser, some heavy cruisers, and a flotilla of destroyers - was withdrawn and attached to Admiral George Rice's Gallaga Fleet. Gallaga Fleet is responsible for the Arabian Sea, the Bay of Bengal, the Straits of Malacca, and the South China Sea - as such, most of the lighter units are spread out very thinly from Port Laughlin in Iansislean Sarawak to Fort Ash in Gallaga.

However, what with the "punitive campaign" against the Maratha Confederacy, the Arabian Sea contingent includes most of Gallaga Fleet's heavy units - the battleship Prince of Shadoran, battlecruiser King Ian V, two heavy cruisers, and a full flotilla (14) of destroyers. These units operate together under the command of Vice Admiral Thomas Nordan (Rice keeps office on shore in Fort Manly on Batam) and are charged with bombarding the coast of the Confederacy. Currently Arabian Sea Squadron is preparing to return to Nusheld; they have low fuel and are low on ammunition and are far from friendly air support.

There - that should take care of that for now. More updates as events warrant. Oh, and a close watch isn't really kept on your Gulf of Aden fleet; likely its sailing will be noted but no specific response will be taken.

Ulyanov politely declines Ms. Edwards' offers, stating that he had already eaten on the airplane and was quite full.

Basil, a short man of Mongolian ancestry, wipes his hand on his overcoat and follows Othering and Bradsworth into the office.

"Thankyou, minister. Er...it seems as though you have something of a full schedule so I will try to be as concise as I can. I have been sent on behalf of the Robotic parliament to announce that Robotstan is willing to recognize the Gull Flag Republic as soveriegn over, well, the territory that it currently governs. Provided the Republic follows proper democratic procedure, of course. I don't want to sound overly confrontational, but I am obliged to tell you that such support is conditional on the Republic not engaging in the oppression of major political or ethnic groups. We tend to be quite adverse to such things.

But as long as that type of thing doesn't happen, Parliament announces its willingness to aid the Republic with limited military commitments."

"Mr Ulaynov," said Bradsworth, with the utmost conviction. "You have my personal word that this revolution was started to end exactly those tragic and excessive states of affairs of which you speak. The Gull Flag Republic, so long as I draw breath, shall never be anything more than a shining beacon of egalitarian principles in the morass of authoritarianism that is Tilsitia and Novar Ohun.

"Further, I should like to thank both the Robotic Parliament and the stalwart people they represent for their gracious offer in the formative years of this government. Surely, with Robotic help, we can return to a normal state of affairs here on the Shield with a government that truely represents the people."

Oh, he's good, thought Othering, completely in awe of Bradsworth's words.

Meanwhile, Emile Efran decides that his vessel is just about as close as he really feels safe for it to be. As fishing nets are cast, a number of crewmembers stand on watch with high-quality spotting scopes and notebooks.

For a week or so, Efran and his crew record nothing. However, very soon they spot a large cloud of black smoke to the south-west. It's an Iansislean convoy - formed because of the lingering threat from Effitian submarines to Shieldian commerce - steaming around Cape Deliverance on its way to the western coast of Canada at nine and one half knots. The crews are edgy after a close encounter with a Roanian vessel, which continued to pester the convoy even after a warning shot had been put across its bow.

The far left wing of the convoy - the A/S sloop Dalenford - sights the trawler, if only because excessively clear weather in the usually stormy northern seas. The Dalenford's captain, an elderly gentleman (and naval reserve officer) who had been called up some years ago during the American War and who had sailed as a midshipman to meet the Effitians in a war nearly five decades ago, considers his choices. Due to the relative absence of Effitian underwater activity near Cape Deliverance, he decides to alter the Dalenford's course and take a closer look at the trawler.

((post about what's going on with James coming soon!))

"His Majesty is well." Darsalin remarked, watching Madders carefully for a response. "The recent troubles in the...in the..." The Lord Chancellor swallowed and gave a sickly smile, "Republic have, of course, concerned him greatly, especially as to the fate of King James. Or is he Citizen James as well, now?"

Darsalin sighed. "And then there's the piracy attacks. I don't need to tell you our opinion on the Effitians being in the White Sea, do I?"

~~

The trawler was now decisively noted by the Roanian North Sea Patrol, and a small cruiser was sent to investigate from a distance. Of course, the fact it was in international waters, and drifting towards Tilsitia ((OOC: or whatever)) did make the legal basis rather tricky.

The captain was fully aware of this as he steamed out from Anchorage, and thus was willing to let the trawler and Iansislians make the first move.

~~

Aden Fleet remains moving towards the White Sea... and the Admiralty realises it would have been quicker just to transfer the Micronesians. Hindsight.

"Excellent, Citizen Bradsworth. I will send word back to Parliament immediately."

Within the next few hours, the recently-named 'Iansisle Maritime Expeditionary Force' forms into cruising order. Seaplanes and helicopters are recovered and the squadron sets out, soon afteword joined by an oiler and ammunition ship. A division of Motor Torpedo Boats sets out as well, fanning out behind the destroyers, cruisers, and frigates.

At the same time, 17 Valetta transports assemble at Dubton, each one carrying 25 light infantrymen. Armed with Lee-Enfield No. 4 rifles, Tommyguns, and Brens, they are a frightening lot with plenty of combat experience, but are really better suited for local royalist emergencies than conventional conflicts, given their relatively light firepower. Accompanying the Valettas are Nos. 5 and 14 squadrons, flying RAI-built Venom fighter-bombers and Meteor F.6s respectively, as well as No. 202 squadron, equipped with Canberra bombers and No. 101 squadron with its relatively new Hunter fighter-bombers.

All in all, it is a fairly competent force representing a broad spectrum of Robotstani capabilities, including amphibious assault (in the form of around 700 marines embarked aboard the ships of the Maritime Expeditionary Force), air-mobile light infantry, long-range ground attack and anti-shipping, close air support, and air superiority.

*****

As the Dalenford nears Efran's trawler, its paint cracked and peeling and its hold stuffed with cork, the crew hoists the Robotic national flag and folds the numerous communications aerials. Between crests, when the trawler (formerly known as Conqueror, after Robotstan's first ironclad battleship) is within the sloop's line of sight, a morse code message is flashed indicating bengin and friendly persuasion and a desire to travel with the convoy to port.

-snip becuase I have no idea where I was going with this....

OOC: Shit ball post, yes on many levels, but its more a point of refrence for yours truley. I need to talk to Ro before I do anything more drastic anyways.

((responses coming tomorrow :)))

"Welcome to the First and Jacobson Teneral Theatre," said the recorded voice. "Your feature presentation - 'The Long Hands of the Pater' starring Kirk Valoon - will be starting shortly. In the meantime, please enjoy this newsreel, containing the latest from the front!"

The screen flickered to life, in that grainy color that was the newest rage of a Shield long accustomed to black and white. A spinning globe was set against a light red background, with the words IanCorp International set below it. The screen then dissolved into a column of soldiers marching against the verdant hills of the lower Jaizar basin.

"Dateline Fourth Whitman on December Eleven: For the first - but certainly not the last! - time in the Gadsani campaign, old man Effit was given a severe bloody nose by our jolly troops!"

The scene again dissolves into infantrymen rushing across a field. An artillery shell explodes in the background. Strangely, none of the soldiers fall to the machine-gun fire that the theatre's speakers insist is chattering wildly.

"The blare of the trumpet and our boys jump to the offensive! Under a harsh artillery bombardment, they rush the Effitian lines and send the heathen invaders reeling back!"

A single old-model Walmingtonian Cavalry Cruiser rumbles past the camera, the soldiers perched upon it waving to the folks back home with big grins on their faces.

"In one single push, the flower of Shieldian manhood rolls Marcus back nearly twenty miles! What do you say, boys?"

One of the soldiers on the tank flashes the victory sign and calls out "Lakeriverwood by Christmas!" The others cheer.

"This stunning victory has turned the flank of the entire Effitian army! Field Marshal Chapman is rushing reinforcements into the breakthrough area, hoping to encircle the Effies and force them to surrender!"

The scene shifts one last time to Home Fleet at anchor in the Mansmouth Roads.

"With the Navy finally getting the upper hand against the Pater's submersibles, there seems to be no end to the good news! Christmas has come early to the Shield!"

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

"Alexander of Weshield and Nàmera of Mansford, killed in the Weshielder revolt. Clancy of Thortraia dead and John of Vesshampton a prisoner of the Gull Flaggers. John of Wyclyfe - well, God only knows what has happened in Wyclyfe, but I assume the worst. This revolution of Bradsworth's is a terrible business, Michael, a terrible business indeed."

James and Michael were making one final review of the troops as the camp near Topton was disbanded. Men sprung out of the way as their horses thundered past, raising a cry for the Javian King and the High King both. They were a ragged bunch: peasants wrapped up in their winter coats, clutching to their guns, pitchforks, axes, or whatever other weapons they could raise in the defense of their King.

"I wonder if this is to be the last ride of the ancien régime," said James, mostly to himself. "The last two Kings of the Shield, linking arms once again to save their realms. What strange friendships this bloodshed has wrought, to see a lord of the House of Javial so ready and able to defend the rights of a lord of the House of Callahan!

"You have worked wonders, Michael, to assemble such a host on such short notice. I think there is not a realm in the Empire anymore where one might see such absolute loyalty of subjects to their lord, nor of their lord to his. Truly, these twenty-five thousand may be the most gallant and the most able army ever raised by the Shield in its long history."

"Your kind words do me proud, James," replied Michael, "though I must correct you on just one thing: we are not the last two Kings of the Shield - at least, not the last two monarchs of the Shield."

"We are not?"

"There is one more: Jessica of the House of Whitman, who escaped from the Gull Flag forces during the final assault in Thorntree and was the only child and heir to survive her father. She had been in Noropia as a representative for her fallen Kingdom, but she rejoined us to participate in your return to the High King's throne."

"I should like very much to meet this Jessica," said James curiously. "I knew her well enough when she was born - that was just after my father's death - but I imagine the past twenty years have changed much."

"Follow me," said Michael as he led James a small tent under the blue and black banner of Thortraia.

James squinted to identify Jessica from the small group of people mounted in front of the tent as Thortraian refugees worked to disassemble the camp. His blood frosted over at the sight of one of them: never in a thousand years could he forget that face.

"Is something wrong, James?" asked Michael, looking at him with concern.

"I don't believe it. That man..."

"Who?"

"The one on the far right," said James. He drew his sabre - it was one of the hundred general swords that had been awarded to captains during the Third Effitian Invasion for gallantry on the high seas - and kicked his horse into a gallop. His next word was lost to the wind: "Ashtonbury."

((Ian, I'm going to ask you a very large, very big, very massive favour. I really, really, really was planning to send someone to meet with James before he attacked or did anything else absurdly stupid. I know it's against all normal rules and everything, but... can I please, please, please have someone meet with him? If not, I'll just have to struggle along.))

((I've no specific problem with that, of course. The only question is how your man made it to the Foothills; it's surrounded by the Republic, except on its northern border, which is mountainous and currently packed solid with snow. I suppose a flight would be able to make it from Noropia to the Foothills. Anyway, we'll be able to work something in before this last post, I'm sure :).))

"Excellent, Citizen Bradsworth. I will send word back to Parliament immediately."

Within the next few hours, the recently-named 'Iansisle Maritime Expeditionary Force' forms into cruising order. Seaplanes and helicopters are recovered and the squadron sets out, soon afteword joined by an oiler and ammunition ship. A division of Motor Torpedo Boats sets out as well, fanning out behind the destroyers, cruisers, and frigates.

At the same time, 17 Valetta transports assemble at Dubton, each one carrying 25 light infantrymen. Armed with Lee-Enfield No. 4 rifles, Tommyguns, and Brens, they are a frightening lot with plenty of combat experience, but are really better suited for local royalist emergencies than conventional conflicts, given their relatively light firepower. Accompanying the Valettas are Nos. 5 and 14 squadrons, flying RAI-built Venom fighter-bombers and Meteor F.6s respectively, as well as No. 202 squadron, equipped with Canberra bombers and No. 101 squadron with its relatively new Hunter fighter-bombers.

All in all, it is a fairly competent force representing a broad spectrum of Robotstani capabilities, including amphibious assault (in the form of around 700 marines embarked aboard the ships of the Maritime Expeditionary Force), air-mobile light infantry, long-range ground attack and anti-shipping, close air support, and air superiority.

"Fairly competent," in Robotic terms, meant a virtual god send to the hard-pressed Shieldian forces fighting against royalist uprisings in the north and the Effitian armies in the east. "Fairly competent" was a million miles ahead of the hodgepodge of Gadsani irregulars, Shieldian conscripts, and a few regulars left over from the Grand Empire that currently entailed the Army of the Republic. In fact, the only reason that Iansisle was even making a fight of it in the Jaizar River was the fact that Effit's army was, if anything, even more pathetically trained and equipped than the Republic's.

Lieutenant Commander Henry Stafford Lamue (who insisted, in very broken Russian, that the Robotic Officers call him “Hank”) was appointed to be the naval attaché for the Shieldian embassy in Lunatic Retard Robots for a number of very good reasons. His bellicose and often gruff manner, as well as something of a grip on the native language, was seen as an absolute must for such a ..unique posting. Also, they were complete embarrassment to a Navy which prided itself on discipline, order, and the concept of an officer and a gentleman. Lamue was taken off active duty in the days between the German-Chiangese and the American wars after he insulted the honor a Duchess while she was touring his ship and nearly met his death at the hands of her enraged husband (in the duel, Lamue had discharged his weapon into the air intentionally; the Duke’s ball had lodged itself in Lamue’s right arm, which was subsequently amputated for fear of gangrene). Now he was charged with perhaps the most important task of the young Republic’s history: organizing cooperation between Jameston and its newfound Robotic allies until a more competent man could be sent to take his place.

Lamue, who always kept the empty arm of his navy blazer stuffed with straw and tied behind his back in a thoughtful position to make it appear that he wasn’t an amputee, stood on the bridge and tried to dress up the rôle the Iansisle Maritime Expeditionary Force would be filling in an Iansislean Navy that counted fifteen capital ships, nineteen mobile aeroflyer docks, fifty-four cruisers and nearly two hundred destroyers. He was also briefing the Robotic commanding officer on the latest Shieldian identification signals, codes and doctrine.

As the Dalenford nears Efran's trawler, its paint cracked and peeling and its hold stuffed with cork, the crew hoists the Robotic national flag and folds the numerous communications aerials. Between crests, when the trawler (formerly known as Conqueror, after Robotstan's first ironclad battleship) is within the sloop's line of sight, a morse code message is flashed indicating bengin and friendly persuasion and a desire to travel with the convoy to port.

“They seem friendly enough,” ventured the Dalenford master.

Lieutenant Hammond Juss, formerly RINR, nodded slowly. “But they could just as easily be an Effitian Q-ship. He slowly withdrew a pocket watch, flipped open the ancient bronze casing, and examined the face. “Blast - forgot to wind this thing. Benham, what’s the time?”

“Just rang four bells, sir,” replied the yeoman instantly.

“Morning or afternoon watch?”

Benham tried not to be flustered by the question. “Afternoon watch, sir.”

“As I thought. If we stop to search her, we’ll not catch the convoy again before nightfall. Very well, have her come close alongside. Klackton, what nationality did you say that trawler was?”

“Erm, Robotstani, sir,” replied midshipman Clasterson at once. The captain had been calling him ‘Klackton’ ever since he came aboard and the sixteen year old boy didn’t dare correct him anymore.

“I doubt very much Marcus even knows where Lunatic Retard Robots is,” said Juss. “Still, have the men man the forecastle gun. And bring me my speaking trumpet.”

“Shall I wireless our contact to the Commodore, sir?” asked Benham cautiously.

“What? Oh, of course, there’s a good man.”

"His Majesty is well." Darsalin remarked, watching Madders carefully for a response. "The recent troubles in the...in the..." The Lord Chancellor swallowed and gave a sickly smile, "Republic have, of course, concerned him greatly, especially as to the fate of King James. Or is he Citizen James as well, now?"

"Every citizen is now equal under the law of the Republic," said Bradsworth.

"Citizen Callahan would appear to have fled the Republic," added Madders. "Perhaps fearing a pending investigation of links between royalist traitors and himself. I will, of course, withhold allegations before I have proof, but I will say that Citizen Callahan's actions are most unusual for a man with nothing to hide."

Darsalin sighed. "And then there's the piracy attacks. I don't need to tell you our opinion on the Effitians being in the White Sea, do I?"

"I am glad to hear that the Tsar agrees with the Iansislean Peoples in this regard," said Bradsworth. "How soon may we expect to start joint operations against Effitian submarines and commerce raiders?"

Aden Fleet remains moving towards the White Sea... and the Admiralty realises it would have been quicker just to transfer the Micronesians. Hindsight.

((how large of a force are we talking about here? And how close is it coming to Gallaga?))

'Hank' Stafford is accomodated aboard the Kuwait in the captain's stateroom, seldom used and about the size of a small house. Ratings are dispatched to clear out the bundles of fresh fruits and other more spoilable provisions stored there and make the bed. In fact, the entire room is converted from a storeroom into Hank's quarters in a matter of minutes.

The IMEF, as it has started being referred to as, consists of around 30 hulls. The two light cruisers, ten Daring-class destroyers, twelve River-class (think Type 12 Whitby) antisubmarine frigates, six converted Battles, and four support ships are covered by 12 Sycamore helicopters and 2 Walrus seaplanes, and several landing craft are also carted along with the fleet.

Overhead, the air component heads across the stormy North Pacific to the Shield. The Valettas, while the most important component of the airborne contingent, are escorted by the Meteor F.6s, unarmed save for 20mm Hispano cannons, while the fast Canberras, Venoms, and Hunters proceed at a quicker pace.

((OOC: The Gulf of Aden and Red Sea Fleet is a battlegroup. 8 Destroyers, 1 old style Aircraft Carrier, several Escort BattleCruisers and Frigates. And an old Battleship, Prince of Roan. No submarines, they're kept in home waters. It'd be about 150 miles south of Walmingtonian Ceyloba at current moment, and it's making a heading for the Micronesian ports.

I'm guessing your Gallaga fleet could probably deal a heavy amount of damage to it.))

Darsalin's mouth opened and closed at the questioning for a moment, giving an impression of a goldfish for a moment or two. "...Joint operations?" He said, regathering himself. "Well. The White Sea fleet is ready to steam out for the north at any time, to seal the straits from the Effitians. However, there is the problem that we doubt the loyalty of the Iansislian units in the White Sea to your...regime."

He leaned forward. "I've heard from the Admiralty that there have been requests for us to take asylum seekers amongst your ships." It was a lie, he knew it was a lie. But they couldn't know, couldn't be sure. And a purge of the Shieldian navy could only assist the Roanians.

~~

The Cruiser Pride of Altara began to move in closer, trying to pick up the trawler's signals. This close to the Imperial Colony of Alaska, little trust existed between Iansislian and Roanian. And the prospect of a third power entering this stretch of water was...irritating.

~~

Sweat dripped from the Roanian's forehead as he finally stepped into the clearing where the Royalists had been building up their forces. It had been a long and trying ordeal, getting to this place. First, the assorted flights: From the Holy City of Tarnaqin, to Anchorage, to a carrier north of Javial, then a harrowing trip south through turbulence and over republican emplacements and those of Barbaric Effitia. The fact that his 'transport' had been quite possibly the most powerful thing in the skies of the North Pacific wasn't of much help to him.

He once again pondered if it had been worth the danger, if it had made any sense. Certainly, the DIR had not overly lamented the passing of the Grand Empire and its Commonwealth. At least, they hadn't until the United Kingdom had absorbed all the old monarchies and created a joint Iansisle. And now that a Republic stood across the White Sea... The man shuddered and brushed back the sweat. His transport home awaited to the North, in the guise of a fishing boat with a direct link back to the North Pacific Battlegroup that meant that if it was hassled in anyway, Effitia would have a lovely new ally.

The agent flicked back his blond hair and glanced around the forest clearing. He saw a man he vaguely recognised as King James ride across the field to one of the refugees, and groaned. How...Shieldian. Brushing past more milling refugees and 'soldiers', he forced his way towards another man, one he vaguely recognised as the 'King' (though in Imperial Parlance, he was but a Duke) of Javial. And then he slipped on his ring and held it up in the air so that all around could see the glistening Firebird Cross*, and shouted loud enough that the Javian could hear him. "Is it often," Adrik Alexei Daniilevich Chyornyev** asked drily, "that the High King of the Grand Empire is too busy to meet with the Tsar of the Divine Imperium?" ***

OOC:

*The Firebird Cross is, basically, the design of the Imperial Flag, with the cross picked out in diamonds and the firebird in rubies, set into platinum. At least, in this specific case. Only one person (or not, see ** below) may wear the True Cross Ring. Darsalin, as Lord Chancellor, has his own ring, with just the firebird picked out in rubies set in silver.

**You can kill him if you want, but if you do, it won't be the real Adrik Alexei, but rather a bodydouble. So, essentially it'd do nothing but irk us both, and then I'd have to go back to considering pointing nuclear rockets at Jameston and ending Mister Madders's astonishing career that way. ;)

If you don't kill him, it is indeed the real Adrik Alexei. As if a lesser mortal would be tasked to meet with the High King. :)

***I regret that I engaged in a bit of powergaming in writing the above post. My most sincere apologies, but I am rather pressed for time at the moment and I thought it'd be easier if we just assumed my 'agent' makes it in and out (as he probably would have anyway, one way or another, with maybe a couple of less scratches but a broken leg, too.) As always, if there is a problem I'd be glad to delete this and start from the beginning, after the usual round of self-injury

If Emile Efran and the Conqueror were in a mood to run, the time for that had come and passed. Preoccupied by the Shieldian sloop, nobody spots another pillar of smoke on the horizon until the Roanians are within gun range. And just one shot from a secondary cannon could without a doubt devestate the old wooden trawler, although it probably still wouldn't sink even if it broke apart, thanks to its cork-filled hold.

But if Robotstan is a new power in the North Sea, it is certainly not a poorly-armed one. Having fought relatively minor, yet significant by Robotstani standards, wars against fascists and royalists, as well as stalinists, in the past few decades, the Robotic Defense Force has been keeping on its toes, to say the least. Shackleton patrol planes regularly make forays out into the ocean, more than once entering Iansislean airspace, and one time crashing off the Shield. The first aircraft to carry the new anti-ship missiles, Shackletons can now boast very significant striking power. And that's not to mention Canberra jet-powered bombers and the remaining Mosquitos...

((I'm really sorry about this, guys, but I've had to go to Tucson for the weekend to take care of a few things. I'm on a friend's computer right now, but of course I don't want to tie it up too often or too much. The replies tonight will probably be the last ones until Tuesday, and I regret that they're much shorter than I had originally intended. :-/))

'Hank' Stafford is accomodated aboard the Kuwait in the captain's stateroom, seldom used and about the size of a small house. Ratings are dispatched to clear out the bundles of fresh fruits and other more spoilable provisions stored there and make the bed. In fact, the entire room is converted from a storeroom into Hank's quarters in a matter of minutes.

The IMEF, as it has started being referred to as, consists of around 30 hulls. The two light cruisers, ten Daring-class destroyers, twelve River-class (think Type 12 Whitby) antisubmarine frigates, six converted Battles, and four support ships are covered by 12 Sycamore helicopters and 2 Walrus seaplanes, and several landing craft are also carted along with the fleet.

Overhead, the air component heads across the stormy North Pacific to the Shield. The Valettas, while the most important component of the airborne contingent, are escorted by the Meteor F.6s, unarmed save for 20mm Hispano cannons, while the fast Canberras, Venoms, and Hunters proceed at a quicker pace.

Lamue, whose quarters had never been as luxurious as they were on the Kuwait, informed the Robotic commander that his light cruisers would be attached to Rear Admiral James Redford's Second Light Cruiser Squadron (comprised of the Jason, Quest, Geode, and Atlantis), which was currently providing heavy support for the three convoys passing between Cape Deliverance and the Noropian Horn*.

The six battles were combined with the remaining eight seaworthy ships of the Tenth Destroyer Flotilla, which had suffered heavy casualties in the far-extended war against Effit. They were to shift gears from fleet protection into offensive torpedo attacks. The River-class frigates were added to four different convoys (two to Canada, one to Dianatran, and one to Gallaga). The support vessels were to be taken into Home Fleet's vast logistical fleet supporting the protracted operations against the Effitian coast.

The helicopters (or, as Hank called them, belly-thoppers) and aerocraft were eagerly snatched up by a coastal command which had been starved of proper machines by the vicious war in the Jaizar River valley.

The Cruiser Pride of Altara began to move in closer, trying to pick up the trawler's signals. This close to the Imperial Colony of Alaska, little trust existed between Iansislian and Roanian. And the prospect of a third power entering this stretch of water was...irritating.

If Emile Efran and the Conqueror were in a mood to run, the time for that had come and passed. Preoccupied by the Shieldian sloop, nobody spots another pillar of smoke on the horizon until the Roanians are within gun range. And just one shot from a secondary cannon could without a doubt devestate the old wooden trawler, although it probably still wouldn't sink even if it broke apart, thanks to its cork-filled hold.

Dalenford spotted the Roanian cruiser at about the same time as the Conqueror, which was coming alongside her, but it caused more consternation in the sloop than it did in the trawler. Convoy 63-A-7 was covered only by the antique light cruiser Briareus, whose nine six-inch guns were more than thirty years old in design and whose ancient turbines could only propel at twenty-two knots. The convoy's three sloops and five trawlers were only suited for anti-submarine efforts (although Dalenford carried a single four inch gun forward, she had never fired it in anger and only seldom in practice); two destroyers, and their 21" torpedoes, could pose a threat, but a single modern cruiser stood a good chance of overwhelming the convoy's defense piece by piece.

At present, the sloop continued on its heading, the Conqueror near alongside, and watched for what the Roanian would do.

Darsalin's mouth opened and closed at the questioning for a moment, giving an impression of a goldfish for a moment or two. "...Joint operations?" He said, regathering himself. "Well. The White Sea fleet is ready to steam out for the north at any time, to seal the straits from the Effitians. However, there is the problem that we doubt the loyalty of the Iansislian units in the White Sea to your...regime."

He leaned forward. "I've heard from the Admiralty that there have been requests for us to take asylum seekers amongst your ships." It was a lie, he knew it was a lie. But they couldn't know, couldn't be sure. And a purge of the Shieldian navy could only assist the Roanians.

"I have no doubt that, together, we could put an end to this Effitian piracy," said Bradsworth. "Indeed, our Republic and your Imperium have much to gain from combined operations, and only these antiquated - and frankly quite silly - hostilities of the Grand Empire to lose."

"As for the loyalty of Home Fleet," said Madders, "I will answer, upon my position as Director for War, that I retain ful confidence in the men and officers of that force. While I do not doubt that there may be traitors lurking in the fleet, I have good leads as to their identity; all that remains is to observe and, if need be, strike them from our midst."

Madders smiled coldly. "The Shield has had its share of traitors in the past; our new future will not."

Sweat dripped from the Roanian's forehead as he finally stepped into the clearing where the Royalists had been building up their forces. It had been a long and trying ordeal, getting to this place. First, the assorted flights: From the Holy City of Tarnaqin, to Anchorage, to a carrier north of Javial, then a harrowing trip south through turbulence and over republican emplacements and those of Barbaric Effitia. The fact that his 'transport' had been quite possibly the most powerful thing in the skies of the North Pacific wasn't of much help to him.

He once again pondered if it had been worth the danger, if it had made any sense. Certainly, the DIR had not overly lamented the passing of the Grand Empire and its Commonwealth. At least, they hadn't until the United Kingdom had absorbed all the old monarchies and created a joint Iansisle. And now that a Republic stood across the White Sea... The man shuddered and brushed back the sweat. His transport home awaited to the North, in the guise of a fishing boat with a direct link back to the North Pacific Battlegroup that meant that if it was hassled in anyway, Effitia would have a lovely new ally.

The agent flicked back his blond hair and glanced around the forest clearing. He saw a man he vaguely recognised as King James ride across the field to one of the refugees, and groaned. How...Shieldian. Brushing past more milling refugees and 'soldiers', he forced his way towards another man, one he vaguely recognised as the 'King' (though in Imperial Parlance, he was but a Duke) of Javial. And then he slipped on his ring and held it up in the air so that all around could see the glistening Firebird Cross*, and shouted loud enough that the Javian could hear him. "Is it often," Adrik Alexei Daniilevich Chyornyev** asked drily, "that the High King of the Grand Empire is too busy to meet with the Tsar of the Divine Imperium?"

((no worries about the 'power-gaming', Roania. I gave you full permission, and this is as good a post as could have been made considering my move forward too quickly. (that sentence really made a lot more sense in my head :)) Anyway, I cannot forsee the circumstance in which James or the royalists would kill him. James, for one, isn't that sort of man - except around Ashtonbury :D))

James heard nothing except the raging in his ears; he saw nothing except the man who killed Sir Richard Tri. He had the pleasure of watching Ashtonbury's eyes widen in surprise. The other man whirled his horse around and rode off in the face of James' charge. In his sudden blood-wrath, James had only wanted to see him stand; to feel his flesh and bone crumple under his blade. Even seeing Ashtonbury abandon every scrap of honor he had remaining and flee like a coward was not enough. But James was the better rider; he was gaining. Soon, he would have the cold pleasure of revenge.

And then came flying alongside his. The two animals didn't collide, but it was near enough for James' to stop and rear up. He had played far too much polo to be thrown, especially as this was far from the most spirited animal he had ever ridden, but he was forced to drop the sabre and clutch the reins.

"Damn your eyes, Weathers!" exclaimed James. Ashtonbury had ridden off into the woods, beyond his grasp! "Damn them to hell!"

"Your Majesty," was all Weathers had to say. James became again aware of the dignity of the High King and of the eyes watching him: Michael of the Foothills, Jessica of Thortraia and - someone else. He whirled his horse around, not aware of Weathers slipping out of his saddle to pick up the dropped sabre, and trotted back to where Adrik Alexi stood. He observed the Firebird Cross and glanced at Michael, who could only answer with confused eyes.

"I must say," started James, "that I had not expected to receive the Tsar of the Divine Imperium this day, nor was I... were we even aware that the Tsar was present in the Grand Empire." He settled back down into the uncomfortable first person plural of the High King in formality. "We would request of our brother an explanation of how and why he came to be here, as we are most curious."



* - also known as the same area which the Dalenford's convoy is. If the Pride of Altara becomes too aggressive, they will be called in, but are a good 200 nautical miles away right now

The sleek lines of a Windjammer-class aerospace plane rips across the troubled grey-green seascape that stands before the shield. It is escorted by a pair of the barbed, blade-like shapes of the new generation of Needle-class aerospace combat drones. As the small flight approaches the formerly welcoming shores of the Shield, they start to slow immensely. The high-pitched, teeth-jarring wail of super-sonic engines (aided by subtle gravimetric maneuvering engines) fades a way to a mere moan.

The Windjammer and its escorts alter their course, and start to lower to a cruising altitude to something more in keeping with the known areas of Iansisle radar and radio capabilities. The Windjammer lays in its final approach pattern toward the Javian Kingdom, hoping to find one of the localized Foothill air strips still in working order. For the first time since entering Shieldian air space, the Windjammer starts to broadcast a message. It's transmitters try to aim for known receiving stations.

"Javian Local Control, Javian Local Control, this is WJ-13K registered with the United Star Empire of Valinon's Diplomatic Service. We are carrying Her Imperial Majesty's representative, Consul Lucas Rice, to conference with His Majesty, King James, and request permission to land. We do not need support facilities, but would request all available information on local geography so that we could acquire a viable landing area. Repeat, this is WJ-13K registered with the..."

**********

To: His Majesty, Tsar Adrik Alexei Chyornyev
From: Duke Adrian Sterling, First Minister for Her Majesty's Foreign Affairs
Re: The Escalating Situation in the Shield
Encrypt: MFA-Rho-Rho Level, PersCert: DuAdSt, FM; ORIG: IC-NEW KOLN, RELA: KNOOTCAP, HAGUE,

Your Majesty,

Earlier Her Imperial Majesty, Empress Friedelinde Alderman I, conveyed her concern over the affairs in the Shield that have disrupted the rule of His Imperial Majesty, King James of Iansisle, and her willingness to place at your disposal some of the assets of the United Star Empire.

Now, Her Majesty wishes this offer to be made a firm reality. Although numerous concerns in our home territories dictate that the majority of Her Majesty's Armed Forces remain close at hand, Her Majesty and Her Majesty's Government control numerous assets and wish to make them available to you.

Here is what Her Majesty wishes to propose. In return for your assistance in the efforts to return King James to his rightful place, the Star Empire is willing to set aside a proportionate amoung of financial assistance to provide for the war effort, as well as make available to your commanders our expertise in intelligence gathering, covert operations, and logistical support.

We will also be establishing contact with King James to present a similar offer, although more focused in terms of direct intervention and logistical support.

Her Imperial Majesty and Her Majesty's Government will await your response in earnest, Your Majesty.

With regards and respects,
Duke Adrian Sterling

((I'm really sorry about this, guys, but I've had to go to Tucson for the weekend to take care of a few things. I'm on a friend's computer right now, but of course I don't want to tie it up too often or too much. The replies tonight will probably be the last ones until Tuesday, and I regret that they're much shorter than I had originally intended. :-/))



Lamue, whose quarters had never been as luxurious as they were on the Kuwait, informed the Robotic commander that his light cruisers would be attached to Rear Admiral James Redford's Second Light Cruiser Squadron (comprised of the Jason, Quest, Geode, and Atlantis), which was currently providing heavy support for the three convoys passing between Cape Deliverance and the Noropian Horn*.

The six battles were combined with the remaining eight seaworthy ships of the Tenth Destroyer Flotilla, which had suffered heavy casualties in the far-extended war against Effit. They were to shift gears from fleet protection into offensive torpedo attacks. The River-class frigates were added to four different convoys (two to Canada, one to Dianatran, and one to Gallaga). The support vessels were to be taken into Home Fleet's vast logistical fleet supporting the protracted operations against the Effitian coast.

The helicopters (or, as Hank called them, belly-thoppers) and aerocraft were eagerly snatched up by a coastal command which had been starved of proper machines by the vicious war in the Jaizar River valley.





Dalenford spotted the Roanian cruiser at about the same time as the Conqueror, which was coming alongside her, but it caused more consternation in the sloop than it did in the trawler. Convoy 63-A-7 was covered only by the antique light cruiser Briareus, whose nine six-inch guns were more than thirty years old in design and whose ancient turbines could only propel at twenty-two knots. The convoy's three sloops and five trawlers were only suited for anti-submarine efforts (although Dalenford carried a single four inch gun forward, she had never fired it in anger and only seldom in practice); two destroyers, and their 21" torpedoes, could pose a threat, but a single modern cruiser stood a good chance of overwhelming the convoy's defense piece by piece.

At present, the sloop continued on its heading, the Conqueror near alongside, and watched for what the Roanian would do.

OCC: Fine with me, Ian. No problems.

IC:

The Kuwait and Oman quickly recover their Walruses and prepare to split from their battlegroup. Admiral Wellington Yaounde finally shows himself on the bridge, awake from a rather long nap, and reacts to Lamue's presence with a startled "what's all this, then?!" Dressed in a threadbare patterned sweater and standard wool-lined navy blue trousers, he most likely does not make a great first impression. He has proven a good commander, although the last time he served in wartime he was in charge of a Motor Torpedo Boat section.

As the cruisers go off to join with the second light cruiser squadron, the Battles and Rivers also split towards their own assignments. The Darings stay more or less put, awaiting an assignment and until then heading on much the same course towards the Shield. Squadron Leader Viscount Denisov's Canberras, accompanied by the Venoms and Hunters under the combined leadership of Squadron Leader Robert Olatunji, head for the nearest Coastal Command base, if nothing else but to refuel and give flight crews a chance to stretch their legs before moving on to their assigned station.

The Valettas and Meteors arrive near Ianapolis (?), and express their intention to land for essentially the same purpose.

((Have fun, Ian.))

The Pride of Altara steamed on closer to the unusual trawler, her crew fluttering about and trying to discern it and its new Iansislian friend's intentions. Only the day before, The Pride had nearly been fired upon by Effitian 'Merchantmen', which had 'accidentally' prowled into Imperial Waters. And just scant hours ago, one of the patrol boats had been fired on by a Republican convoy.

Caution was thus a wise policy in these times of uncertainty. No one, least of all the Divine Imperium, knew what policy would be adopted towards the Gull Flag Republic. The rumoured appearance of Robotstani ships in the North had been but more worries. And the Pride of Altara was but a simple cruiser.

Her captain glanced at his first mate, and sighed. "Do you think we should gun them down from here?"

"Our armaments could probably blast holes through that destroyer, that trawler, and any other Republican dogs that might wander too close." The mate answered, feeling as he did that he was being hard done-by. "And before you ask, Captain, our rockets would also be suitable. The question is... What would the Admiral do to us when he learnt that we had opened fire and started a third world war?"

"You're quite right... I'm glad I thought of that before we did anything stupid, eh?" The Captain squinted through his binoculars; more for the effect, the mate was sure, than any real need.

"Look, let's hail them. We still have that book of Iansisle protocols, yes?" Before the Captain could answer, the mate smoothly said, "As, of course, you ordered, sir."

"I did? Oh, well. I must have done." Before the Captain could collect his thoughts, the mate was already walking to the speaker's tube between the bridge and the signal room.

~~

"Citizen Callahan, you say?" Darsalin swallowed. His rage at a King being so addressed passed over his face in a brief flicker, and then was gone. "Well, Da Svidanya to him, and good riddance, as you say."

As Madders and Bradsworth discussed the possible benefits to the Divine Imperium of joint patrols in the White Sea, the Lord Chancellor frowned in disappointment, though he covered it up as a thoughtful expression. Confident, is he? Damn. "I am glad to hear that you remain positive of your navy's loyalty, and..."

He knew, without even needing to be told, that the Tsar would find this agreement distasteful. Nicademus Darsalin considered what he was about to say once more and his lip curled, though he strode to hide it. He had to make this decision. His Most Divine Illuminated Majesty wasn't here right now. Citizens Bradsworth and Madders were. Very obviously here.

And Darsalin... Darsalin was scared. Scared of these men, so full of confidence in the rightness of their cause and in their eventual triumph. In quite a different voice to that which he normally used, he choked out, "would be honoured to begin joint patrols in the White Sea and surrounding waters." Adrik Alexei will understand, I'm sure. After all, temporary cooperation with the Republicans now is better than a White Sea filled with Effitians.

Desperate to regain some measure of the authority which his title was meant to give him, the Lord Chancellor coughed. "It is a minor point, Pre... I mean, Citizen Bradworth. But have you given any thought to the suffrage of women as of yet?"

~~

Adrik Alexei gave a courtly bow, seemingly so out of place in these harsh surroundings. "As the pre-eminent member of the Chyornyev family, and Supreme Autocrat of Novar Ohan, and as the son of Tsar Damien Ivanovich, one has come to correct a most grevious wrong performed against our brothers," his eye darted to Jessica, and the Tsar hurriedly added, "and sisters, by our House."

The young man curled his lip as if he found both the courtly language trying, and what he had to say disturbing. "It was the House of Chyornyev which brought upon the House of Callahan and its..." Here, his command of English, so usually excellent, faltered as it tried to find a less insulting word for the rank which Jessica and Michael belonged to than subordinates; aware as he was that the details of the Grand Empire's internal policies eluded him. He tried a couple of words in French and Russian, before murmuring his apologies. Aware that he was making a fool of himself in front of the Shieldians, and a lady, besides (something no self-respecting Roanian man would ever do), he blushed redly, his face contrasting sharply with the blond of his hair.

"Excuze moi." The Tsar whispered in the bastardised French of Calyis, and tried once more. "It was the House of Chyornyev that brought the tide of revolution to the Grand Empire and shattered your thrones. It was the House of Chyornyev which succoured and protected Andrew Madders. It was the House of Chyornyev that transported him to your nations." He gritted his teeth and then slowly knelt to the ground, bowing his head before James and placing his hand on the Earth, slipping the ring of his fathers from his finger and placing it aside. As he did, a hot tear slid down the young man's cheek. "I place myself at your disposal for any action which you or your fellows might choose to take against me." He whispered, all thought of courtly speech gone.

Adrik Alexei closed his eyes and awaited the blow which he was sure would fall. The young monarch had crossed the sea to compensate for what his unknown father had done, had placed himself at considerable risk when the crime had not even been known by its victims. He wasn't even sure why, save for the certain knowledge that if situations had been reversed and it was him or any of his predescessors who now stood without land or throne because of the manipulations of the House of Callahan, James or another man from that house would be kneeling before him.

"I await your judgement." Inside him, a voice yelled out, What am I doing? I don't want to die! I'm getting married! I'm only 25! I don't want to die... And he had no answer but to close his eyes even tighter against the tears that threatened to overwhelm him at any moment.

((I've only got a bit of time while my roommate is taking a shower, so I'll try and get responses to y'all. If I don't, I'll be on again late tomorrow night :)))

"Javian Local Control, Javian Local Control, this is WJ-13K registered with the United Star Empire of Valinon's Diplomatic Service. We are carrying Her Imperial Majesty's representative, Consul Lucas Rice, to conference with His Majesty, King James, and request permission to land. We do not need support facilities, but would request all available information on local geography so that we could acquire a viable landing area. Repeat, this is WJ-13K registered with the..."

The Foothills' entire aeroforce consisted of those few obsolete mounts that were left over from the small RIFC bases in the area. Most of the radranger bases were equally out of date, so that the Valinor craft, as much by its own design as by the inferior technology of the Iansisleans, appeared quite out of thin air.

The theory that it might be an aeroflyer from the Republic come to bomb Topton, against which likelyhood what interceptors as the Javian Kingdom could assemble were readied, was quickly dismissed. WJ-13K was directed to a small aerodock some miles west of Topton, where it was met by a small group of men in something resembling military uniforms. Their leader was His Grace the Duke of Duranhold, who served as a captain of the hussars in James' new army, a great, bristly man who sat on his horse rather as an elephant would sit on a donkey.

The Kuwait and Oman quickly recover their Walruses and prepare to split from their battlegroup. Admiral Wellington Yaounde finally shows himself on the bridge, awake from a rather long nap, and reacts to Lamue's presence with a startled "what's all this, then?!" Dressed in a threadbare patterned sweater and standard wool-lined navy blue trousers, he most likely does not make a great first impression. He has proven a good commander, although the last time he served in wartime he was in charge of a Motor Torpedo Boat section.

"Admiral Yaounde, I presume," said Lamue in something approximating Russian, thundering over and stretching out a hand for shaking. "How the hell are you doing? Lieutenant Commander Lamue, naval attache, but I'd prefer if you call me 'Hank', sir."

It was really small wonder the RIN wanted him as far from the public eye as possible.

As the cruisers go off to join with the second light cruiser squadron, the Battles and Rivers also split towards their own assignments. The Darings stay more or less put, awaiting an assignment and until then heading on much the same course towards the Shield. Squadron Leader Viscount Denisov's Canberras, accompanied by the Venoms and Hunters under the combined leadership of Squadron Leader Robert Olatunji, head for the nearest Coastal Command base, if nothing else but to refuel and give flight crews a chance to stretch their legs before moving on to their assigned station.

The Valettas and Meteors arrive near Ianapolis (?), and express their intention to land for essentially the same purpose.

((Ianapalis :)))

All requests to land were granted at once by the Republican commanders. The ten Darings, meanwhile, were formed into their own flotilla under a Robotic commanding officer and assigned to Home Fleet.

((bah, that's all the time I have :-/. Sorry, guys (and Roania in particular :P) I'll have more tomorrow evening.))

((Heh, he doesn't need it for a bit longer. Sweet :D))

The Pride of Altara steamed on closer to the unusual trawler, her crew fluttering about and trying to discern it and its new Iansislian friend's intentions. Only the day before, The Pride had nearly been fired upon by Effitian 'Merchantmen', which had 'accidentally' prowled into Imperial Waters. And just scant hours ago, one of the patrol boats had been fired on by a Republican convoy.

Caution was thus a wise policy in these times of uncertainty. No one, least of all the Divine Imperium, knew what policy would be adopted towards the Gull Flag Republic. The rumoured appearance of Robotstani ships in the North had been but more worries. And the Pride of Altara was but a simple cruiser.

Her captain glanced at his first mate, and sighed. "Do you think we should gun them down from here?"

"Our armaments could probably blast holes through that destroyer, that trawler, and any other Republican dogs that might wander too close." The mate answered, feeling as he did that he was being hard done-by. "And before you ask, Captain, our rockets would also be suitable. The question is... What would the Admiral do to us when he learnt that we had opened fire and started a third world war?"

"You're quite right... I'm glad I thought of that before we did anything stupid, eh?" The Captain squinted through his binoculars; more for the effect, the mate was sure, than any real need.

"Look, let's hail them. We still have that book of Iansisle protocols, yes?" Before the Captain could answer, the mate smoothly said, "As, of course, you ordered, sir."

"I did? Oh, well. I must have done." Before the Captain could collect his thoughts, the mate was already walking to the speaker's tube between the bridge and the signal room.

"The Roanians are signalling, sir," noted a rating on the Dalenford, looking over his shoulder towards Captain Juss.

"Mr Klackton, if you please," grunted Juss, waving his binoculars towards the Pride of Alterac.

Midshipman Clasterson sighed and raised his own glasses. The choppy waves of the North Pacific made reading the signal difficult, but he eventually got it all.

"Citizen Callahan, you say?" Darsalin swallowed. His rage at a King being so addressed passed over his face in a brief flicker, and then was gone. "Well, Da Svidanya to him, and good riddance, as you say."

As Madders and Bradsworth discussed the possible benefits to the Divine Imperium of joint patrols in the White Sea, the Lord Chancellor frowned in disappointment, though he covered it up as a thoughtful expression. Confident, is he? Damn. "I am glad to hear that you remain positive of your navy's loyalty, and..."

He knew, without even needing to be told, that the Tsar would find this agreement distasteful. Nicademus Darsalin considered what he was about to say once more and his lip curled, though he strode to hide it. He had to make this decision. His Most Divine Illuminated Majesty wasn't here right now. Citizens Bradsworth and Madders were. Very obviously here.

And Darsalin... Darsalin was scared. Scared of these men, so full of confidence in the rightness of their cause and in their eventual triumph. In quite a different voice to that which he normally used, he choked out, "would be honoured to begin joint patrols in the White Sea and surrounding waters." Adrik Alexei will understand, I'm sure. After all, temporary cooperation with the Republicans now is better than a White Sea filled with Effitians.

"Well!" exclaimed Bradsworth, "I'm glad we're all in agreement. Citizen Madders, I am sure, can help your Admiralty arrange all the details with Admiral Clayburgh and Home Fleet. In particular, I'd imagine, Clayburgh would want to better coordinate our northern patrols, which I have heard are quite often bumping into one another."

With a thin, confident smile - no doubt inspired in part by Darsalin's discomfort - he shuffled some papers about, stacked them to one side, and directed his brown eyes back to the Chancellor.

Desperate to regain some measure of the authority which his title was meant to give him, the Lord Chancellor coughed. "It is a minor point, Pre... I mean, Citizen Bradworth. But have you given any thought to the suffrage of women as of yet?"

"A great deal indeed," said Madders before Bradsworth could even get out a word. "In fact, Citizen Hughes, who represents the good people of Inswick-on-Daldon, has just introduced an ammendment to our constitution which would extend the franchise to all women across the Shield." He shrugged. "A few more reactionary royalist groups have, of course, objected. But I am confident that Citizen Hughes' vision, one which I do happen to share, will soon come to fruition."

"It's a hard thing, to change a country all in one day," said Bradsworth, "but I remain confident that the Gull Flag Republic will soon be known as a voice of progress and reason in a backwards world."

"And especially so given the strength of royalist traitor groups across the Shield." added Madders.

((bah, have to go again. More to come!))

The 17 Valettas touch down on the Ianapalis airstrip in formation, and quickly clear the way for No. 14 squadron in Meteor F.6s. Once the aircraft are parked, their crews and passengers waste no time in leaving the aircraft. Light infantrymen mill around on the apron next to the Valettas, checking their various weapons and chatting about this and that, while the flight crews check over their planes and look for somewhere to buy fuel.

The Meteor pilots are also keen to know if the Gull Flaggers' air-launched weapons will even fit their pylons, and eagerly search out air force personnel to talk with.

Elsewhere, the rest of the air contingent lands at Coastal Command facilities. In terms of armaments, they are in the same situation as the Meteors at Ianapalis. While the Canberras arrive with at least a few light bombs in the bay, next to internal auxiliary tanks and bags of gear belonging to the crew, the Venoms and Hunters only have their cannons. However, with another airlift planned into the Gull Flag Republic, this time carried aboard the large-capacity Bristol freighters, it wouldn't hurt terribly badly to replace some of the Light Infantry's Dingos and antitank rifle-porting universal carriers with pallettes of bombs, rockets, and torpedos for the aircraft.

OCC: I'll have the parts I left out tomorrow.

The Foothills' entire aeroforce consisted of those few obsolete mounts that were left over from the small RIFC bases in the area. Most of the radranger bases were equally out of date, so that the Valinor craft, as much by its own design as by the inferior technology of the Iansisleans, appeared quite out of thin air.

The theory that it might be an aeroflyer from the Republic come to bomb Topton, against which likelyhood what interceptors as the Javian Kingdom could assemble were readied, was quickly dismissed. WJ-13K was directed to a small aerodock some miles west of Topton, where it was met by a small group of men in something resembling military uniforms. Their leader was His Grace the Duke of Duranhold, who served as a captain of the hussars in James' new army, a great, bristly man who sat on his horse rather as an elephant would sit on a donkey.


Lucas Ric turns up the collar of his overcoat against the frigid wind of the Foothills' winter. For a moment he looks enviously at the pair of Sardaukar escorting him in their danger suits that protect most of their bodies from the elements, really leaving only their faces exposed. And in this, even that is loosely covered by a draped cloth connecting to their suits. Certainly the weather in one of the few Royalist holdovers in the Shield was a far cry from the weather Rice had left in Knootcap.

Rice looks at the large man astride the horse before him, and approaches him while motioning the Sardaukar to stay behind at the egress ramp of the Windjammer.

"Sir," Rice says in projected tones of confidence, "I am here to conference with His Imperial Majesty the High King James I of Iansisle on behalf of Her Imperial Majesty Empress Friedelinde I of Valinon. If you would be so kind as to guide me to His Majesty, it would be greatly appreciated. I will also understand fully if my security detachment must remain with my craft, considering the current situation that is upon the Shield."

**********

The small consul maintained in the city of Kingston, the major enclave of the Robotic Collective on Earth, had never been of great importance to Her Majesty's Diplomatic Service. It served the purpose of most of the diplomatic missions the Star Empire maintained in the territories of the Collective, namely acting as a trade legation. But the fact that Kingston was such an important city in the Collective had meant that it was considered to be a matter of due course that it should host a consulate rather than a legation. In fact, Kingston would probably host a full embassy except for the fact that Her Imperial Majesty and Her Majesty's Government could not quite determine exactly what sort of government was functioning in the Collective since the end of active war with the Aumanii.

And so the Star Empire bidded its time, quietly waiting for some faction of the remnant government of the Robotic Collective to assert itself and become the center of the notoriously decentralized Collective, its citizens, and its armed forces.

Unfortunately the course of international affairs does not want to wait until the Star Empire can formally recognize some solid basis of Robotic government. And so, Consul Sara Routhe found herself with a very specific list of orders from Imperial Centre itself. She rapidly moves to carry them out, and dispatches a courier to Stanislaw Marley, the Minister of Foreign Affairs for the Collective.

**********

To: The Honorable Stanislaw Marley, Minister of Foreign Affairs
From: Sara Routhe, Her Imperial Majesty's Consul to the Holdings of the Robotic Collective on Earth
Re: Affairs and Policies in Regards to the Shield
Encrypt: Delta-Delta-Rho, PersCert: SaRo, Con; ORIGIN: KINGSTON

Herr Marley,

Recently Her Imperial Majesty and Her Majesty's Government have become increasingly aware of your government's policies in regards to the Shield and the High Kingdom of Iansisle. The United Star Empire of Valinon has long enjoyed a mutual friendship with both the Government of the High Kingdom and the line of the House of Callahan, currently represented by His Imperial Majesty the High King James.

With the drastic nature of affairs currently besetting the Shield, Her Imperial Majesty grows increasingly worried over both the well-being of the Shieldians themselves, and the High King. I would like to formal request and audience with you to discuss these concerns on behalf of Her Imperial Majesty and Her Majesty's Government.

Please respond at your soonest possible convenience.

With respects,
Sara Routhe,
Her Imperial Majesty's Consul to Kingston

If the Star Empire thinks that the Robotic Archipelago has even a slight chance of becoming much in the way of a Robotic capital, it is rather sorely mistaken. Kingston is only in contact with the Robots in space via radio and the occasional merchant who happens to stop by in an atmosphere-capable Dhow or something, and is just another piece of monstrously decentralized Robotic Cooperative's territorial apparatus, albeit locally far more powerful than anything else. Therefore, whatever Parliament on the Robotic Archipelago does has very little bearing on any other piece of the cooperative.

After all, the Archipelago's technology is, at best, thousands of years behind the space-based Robots', mostly because of the very limited amount of material interaction that takes place between the two elements. The lone space-capable craft based in the archipelago, a hopelessly outdated cargo shuttle, sits at an underused end of Kingston airfield next to Air Auxiliary Firefly night fighters and Hurricanes.

But the consulate's communique is recieved nonetheless, and before long Stanislaw Marley trudges out of his office and catches the trolley to the Valinor consulate, located several blocks away from Parliament House. As well as addressing their more immediate concerns, Marley also plans to invite the consulate to an RAF flypast, a common occurrance in Kingston and one that the consulate's staff are in all likelyhood very familiar with.

Adrik Alexei gave a courtly bow, seemingly so out of place in these harsh surroundings. "As the pre-eminent member of the Chyornyev family, and Supreme Autocrat of Novar Ohan, and as the son of Tsar Damien Ivanovich, one has come to correct a most grevious wrong performed against our brothers," his eye darted to Jessica, and the Tsar hurriedly added, "and sisters, by our House."

James' horse, excited by the sudden chase and near collision, pranced back and forth and snorted, the High King's steady hand on the reins keeping it in front of Adrik Alexei. The Tsar's words both intrigued and frightened James.

The young man curled his lip as if he found both the courtly language trying, and what he had to say disturbing. "It was the House of Chyornyev which brought upon the House of Callahan and its..." Here, his command of English, so usually excellent, faltered as it tried to find a less insulting word for the rank which Jessica and Michael belonged to than subordinates; aware as he was that the details of the Grand Empire's internal policies eluded him. He tried a couple of words in French and Russian, before murmuring his apologies. Aware that he was making a fool of himself in front of the Shieldians, and a lady, besides (something no self-respecting Roanian man would ever do), he blushed redly, his face contrasting sharply with the blond of his hair.

The assemblage, which included the last three monarchs of the Shield, waited patiently for Adrik Alexei to continue. Michael and Jessica, as the King of the Foothills and the Queen of Thortraia respectively, held unusual places in the organization of even a semi-modern state. After the failure of the Dàmosaon universal monarchy in the fourteenth century, Ian the Great had been wary of completely disbanding the traditional independent realms. Instead, he bound the six other Kings of the Shield into a vast decentralized Empire, leaving domestic policy to each Kingdom and only requiring a united foreign policy. Over time, the influence of the central government had strengthened these bonds and slowly dragged the Grand Empire away from its feudalistic roots, though the High King never had the power outside of Shadoran that he, as the King of Shadoran, wielded inside of it.

Most everyone present spoke at least a little French, even James (for whom languages had been near impossible to pick up, even as a young child), if few of them knew Russian.

After all, since contact with the Portuguese in the late sixteenth century before 1789, ties between the Grand Empire and Europe (which at that time meant France and that great collection of courts which spoke French and build themselves a miniature Versailles) had been exceptionally strong. The heirs to the High Kingship had traditionally been educated in France, which led to the delusions of the throne that they were monarchs of the Enlightenment. Many of the philosophes, considerably the worse for wear after several thousands of miles through the fevered tropics and across three oceans, had been the guests of the Court of Ádien.

These thoughts just had time to run through James’ head before Adrik Alexei found his voice again.

"Excuze moi." The Tsar whispered in the bastardised French of Calyis, and tried once more. "It was the House of Chyornyev that brought the tide of revolution to the Grand Empire and shattered your thrones. It was the House of Chyornyev which succoured and protected Andrew Madders. It was the House of Chyornyev that transported him to your nations." He gritted his teeth and then slowly knelt to the ground, bowing his head before James and placing his hand on the Earth, slipping the ring of his fathers from his finger and placing it aside. As he did, a hot tear slid down the young man's cheek. "I place myself at your disposal for any action which you or your fellows might choose to take against me." He whispered, all thought of courtly speech gone.

James was quite frankly stunned. Never before, in all the history of the great brotherhood of monarchs, had he heard of anything like this. Wars started sooner than rulers admitted they were wrong, and certainly long before they apologized even to one of their peers. And yet, he saw much of himself in this young Adrik Alexei. He too had come to the throne on the heels of an unpopular - if not reviled - father and had never quite felt comfortable using the royal prerogative or the great theoretical power of the High King. He froze on top of his horse, which had finally settled down somewhat, and a million thoughts ran through his head.

Adrik Alexei closed his eyes and awaited the blow which he was sure would fall. The young monarch had crossed the sea to compensate for what his unknown father had done, had placed himself at considerable risk when the crime had not even been known by its victims. He wasn't even sure why, save for the certain knowledge that if situations had been reversed and it was him or any of his predescessors who now stood without land or throne because of the manipulations of the House of Callahan, James or another man from that house would be kneeling before him.

"I await your judgement." Inside him, a voice yelled out, What am I doing? I don't want to die! I'm getting married! I'm only 25! I don't want to die... And he had no answer but to close his eyes even tighter against the tears that threatened to overwhelm him at any moment.

James slid off his mount and held out a hand to Weathers. With some hesitation (corrected by a sharp glance from the thirty-four year old High King), Weathers handed over Tri’s hundred-general sabre. Three banners - the green and blue of Shadoran and the Empire, the red and gold of The Foothills, and the blue and black of Thortraia - flapped solemnly in the chill southwesterly wind.

“This,” said James, his first word since Adrik Alexei started his monologue. He faltered but quickly managed to find the appropriate words. “This tragic betrayal must surely rank among the gravest episodes in the histories of our thrones.” He shook his head. “Not only has the House of Callahan been insulted and cast out from the position intended for us by God our Creator, but the great and noble people of the Shield, for whom we are responsible, have endured needless suffering.” James shook his head grimly.

“It is very tempting to strike you down here. We doubt very much, given the circumstances, that we would need to answer for this action.” He swung the sabre through the air, its sharpened blade cutting through the cold. James snorted, a great cloud of steam springing from his nostrils and quickly scattered by the wind.

“But, as much as there was supposed to be trust and kinship among Kings, so much is there to be forgiveness and charity. Things must be set to rights, but petty revenge will not bring that. Come, brother, embrace me! - and after, we shall ride to Jameston* - in glory or the grave, our swords drawn together - to repair whatever damage has been done!”

((Responses to Valinon and LRR coming tonight (hopefully, right after this one). I just wanted to get this posted as soon as possible. Sorry about all the delays, Roania!))

* - I also know I've not been clear on how to use the terms "Ianapalis" and "Jameston". Jameston refers to Jameston Place, which is a road/series of buildings, which serve as home to the Assembly (and, before that, the Combined Parliament), located in Ianapalis, the capital city. To draw parallels, 'Jameston' is used in the same way that 'Whitehall' or 'Capitol Hill' is, whereas 'Ianapalis' is used in the same way as 'London' or 'Washington'.))

The 17 Valettas touch down on the Ianapalis airstrip in formation, and quickly clear the way for No. 14 squadron in Meteor F.6s. Once the aircraft are parked, their crews and passengers waste no time in leaving the aircraft. Light infantrymen mill around on the apron next to the Valettas, checking their various weapons and chatting about this and that, while the flight crews check over their planes and look for somewhere to buy fuel.

The Meteor pilots are also keen to know if the Gull Flaggers' air-launched weapons will even fit their pylons, and eagerly search out air force personnel to talk with.

The men of the newly-christened National Flying Corps (NFC) also eagerly seek out the pilots and admire their more modern Robotic aerocraft.

Very quickly, the Robotic soldiers learn that, on the Shield, there are a number of differences of terminology. Fighter pilots, for instance, are called 'aeroknights' (or, more commonly, simply knights) and their craft are referred to as their 'mounts.' Airstrips are called 'docks', hangers 'stables', and helicopters most anything from helicopters to rotating-winged contraptions to belly-thwappers.

The staple mount of the NFC is the MPAF-9 Noriker, which appears so graceless and portly that it was named only after the hardworking but somewhat ugly workhorse of the Austrian alps. Appearances are, as always, deceiving, for the Noriker is powered by a Graye-Hudson 'Quicksilver' engine developing almost 5,000 pounds of thrust and hurtling the rugged airframe at more than 500 miles per hour. The Noriker is far superior to anything fielded by either the royalists or the Effitians; however, native uprisings in the oil fields of Dianatran, particularly near the great Empire-Oasis pipeline, have caused an increasing shortage in the high-quality jet fuel needed by the Norikers.

Also in abundance are the jet-powered MPAF-6 Colt and the properllor-driven MPAF-5 Steed (or, where aerocraft are more limited, the MPAF-5N SeaSteed). These mounts, because of the reserves for them built up over years by the ancien régime, are able to operate whenever needed, even if they have been hard-pressed to find available fuel for training missions.

Air-launched ordinance, a recent development which can only be mounted on the Norikers, is found in the guise of unguided rockets, including the 8" antiship ordinance and 3" antiaerocraft or antipersonnel models.

Elsewhere, the rest of the air contingent lands at Coastal Command facilities. In terms of armaments, they are in the same situation as the Meteors at Ianapalis. While the Canberras arrive with at least a few light bombs in the bay, next to internal auxiliary tanks and bags of gear belonging to the crew, the Venoms and Hunters only have their cannons. However, with another airlift planned into the Gull Flag Republic, this time carried aboard the large-capacity Bristol freighters, it wouldn't hurt terribly badly to replace some of the Light Infantry's Dingos and antitank rifle-porting universal carriers with pallettes of bombs, rockets, and torpedos for the aircraft.

The NFC’s Coastal Command operated primarily the MPAF-8Nr Spirit (Nr), a modification of the venerable twin-engine Spirit made primarily for its use. Although capable of mounting a single external 18” torpedo or two 500-pound bombs in an internal compartment, the three-man aerocraft is mostly favored because of its dependability, rapid climb rate and long range. It is the Spirit (Nr) which scours the Western Marches for Roanian activity and even operates as far north as Cape Deliverance to aide the Navy. Armed with two cannons and a nose-mounted radranger, the Spirit (Nr) is also a capable night fighter, if somewhat handicapped in dogfights.

After years of petitioning, Coastal Command just received from Ianapalis the rights to build a jet-powered torpedo bomber (on the condition that a naval variant also be produced) in the year before the Revolution. Some fifty-six TAF-5s and twenty TAF-5Ns (currently the only jet-powered craft capable of operating off Iansisle’s mobile aerocraft docks) were shipped before Gadsan broke away from the Revolutionary government and fell in with Noropia and Troobodia. More common are the older TAF-4s. Both crafts are capable of carrying a single 18” torpedo, although at very different speeds. The TAF-4 has a slightly longer range, compensated for by its slow speed over enemy ships during the drop. There are no dive bombers, either in Coastal Command or the Navy, and the NFC prefers to concentrate its high-level bombers against targets it is likely to hit.

The Iansislean 18” aerial torpedo (model 1947) is a checkered weapon. Although it carries a more powerful warhead than most weapons its size, its range is limited (in theory) to 1,750 yards and, because of its poor depth-keeping characteristics, must in practice be fired from much closer and from a very low altitude. The Iansislean 21” ship-launched torpedo (model 1948) is based on designs shared by their Japanese allies, although it still pales in comparison to its Long Lance cousin. The oxygen-powered torpedo trades a fairly small warhead in for a range of 14,500 yards and a speed of almost 50 knots. Like the 18”, the 21” is a poor depth-keeper (though, by circumstances, somewhat better, given the smaller drop from the side of a destroyer) and really only effective from inside 10,000 yards.

Although the Navy operates nineteen mobile aeroflyer docks and practices its destroyers in flotilla-scale torpedo attacks, the torpedo is seen only as a secondary weapon. Both the Navy and the NFC are convinced that the purpose of naval aviation is threefold: one, to operate fighters and destroy incoming aerocraft to protect the line of battle; two, to locate and destroy enemy submarines; and three, to hole enemy ships below the waterline and slow them down enough for the battle fleet to catch up. Mission number three is based on the assumption, learned in wars nearly a century old, that the enemy will be hesitant to give battle and, like the Effitians and the Dénians in the wars of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, turn away from the Navy’s thundering broadsides. The great gun is still seen as the ultimate arbiter in naval warfare. It is the job of the battleships to destroy the enemy fleet and merely the place of naval aviation to assist in whatever ways it can towards that goal.

((heh, well, this became much longer than I had intended. Hope it’s not as dry as it seems to me right now :D))

Lucas Ric turns up the collar of his overcoat against the frigid wind of the Foothills' winter. For a moment he looks enviously at the pair of Sardaukar escorting him in their danger suits that protect most of their bodies from the elements, really leaving only their faces exposed. And in this, even that is loosely covered by a draped cloth connecting to their suits. Certainly the weather in one of the few Royalist holdovers in the Shield was a far cry from the weather Rice had left in Knootcap.

Rice looks at the large man astride the horse before him, and approaches him while motioning the Sardaukar to stay behind at the egress ramp of the Windjammer.

"Sir," Rice says in projected tones of confidence, "I am here to conference with His Imperial Majesty the High King James I of Iansisle on behalf of Her Imperial Majesty Empress Friedelinde I of Valinon. If you would be so kind as to guide me to His Majesty, it would be greatly appreciated. I will also understand fully if my security detachment must remain with my craft, considering the current situation that is upon the Shield."

It was somewhat of an insult to Duranhold, who assumed that every commoner (foreign dignitary or not) would refer to him as “Your Grace” and not “Sir”. He puffed out his great mustache with a breath, which could be seen floating away on the chill wind, and nosed his poor belabored horse around.

“Lucas Rice, I presume, here from Knootoss? You’ll forgive me for not getting down to meet you; with my gout, I’ve a terrible time mounting up again.” He waved generally in the direction of the camp near Topton.

“His Majesty the High King has ordered me to see you safely and quickly to meet with him. If you know how to ride, my men have brought along several extra mounts. If not, I shall call for a carriage at once.” He laughed. “You may think us terribly backwards, but gasoline is a precious commodity here, and hay is not.”

He glanced at the Sardaukar. “His Majesty trusts greatly in the honor of the Lion-Empress. Your men are welcome to accompany you in your travels throughout the Shield. With brigands prowling and a war brewing, I doubt they shall be unwanted.”

To:Citizen Michael Bradsworth
CC:Foreign Minister Nikita, Roania; Duke Adrian Sterling, Valinon
From:Donald P. Sinclair, Minister of Foreign Affairs and Relations; Anna Sophia Frateli, First Speaker of Imitora
Re:Recognition

Citizen Bradsworth,

Long as the nation of Iansisle been held in the good light to the eyes of the Imitoran populace, a nation that we have been proud to list among our allies, and a nation that we would gladly assist in any time of need.

However, as recent light as been shed upon the changes of the nation, we have found ourselves less and less inclined to involve ourselves in the affairs of your nation. That is until know, when we have fully come to understand and comprehend many of the factors involved with the situation at hand. Namely, the changes that have taken place within the government and other ruling bodies of this so called "Republic".

After a brief period of discussion among the ruling bodies of Imitora, it was decided that a few changes in Imitora would also take place. As of the moment of this communiqué being sent, The Imperial Green Flag Domain and Lands of Imitora will no longer recognize any government in Iansisle save for one headed by His Majesty King James Callahan IV, High King of the Grand Empire of the Shield and King of Shadoran, or a proper chosen heir under his name.

With this contact, we hereby renounce any authority claimed by Citizen Bradsworth or his government, and offer the full support and backing, moral, militarily, and monetarily, of the Imperial Green Flag Domain to the true Royal government of Iansisle and all her claimed territories.

Signed
First Speaker Anna Sophia Fratelli
Foreign Affairs and Relations Minister Donald P. Sinclair


OOC: Unless I get your OOC permision to do so...I'll try to keep my military out of it. Depending on your response, my next post will be some form of comunication to the Royals.

If NFC pilots expect to find necessarily new models, they are in for a dissappointment. Although the Valetta is only a few years old, it is by no means an advanced or outstanding aircraft, and the Meteor dates from the dawn of the jet age.

While RAF pilots consider their Meteor F.6s to be very good aircraft, they are certainly no longer at the top of their game and nowadays used almost exculsively as close air support platforms. As the RAF's airmen converse with NFC aeroknights, they point out that the two Harold Motors Yates II turbojets on their aircraft can only produce some 3,500 pounds of thrust combined. Several pilots mention humbling encounters with MiG-15s and Sabres, which saw their relatively old Meteors outmanouvered and heavily battered. However, if one thing is to be said for the plane, they say, it is that it will take plenty of abuse and keep flying.

But the Coastal Command personnel are in for a look at two of the RAF's most modern and advanced types. The Hunter, with its swept wings and trans-sonic speed, is the RAF's great leap into the second generation of combat aircraft. A Harold Motors Beast IV provides a walloping 10,000 pounds of thrust, and no fewer than four 30mm cannons are mounted in a pack under the cockpit. And if that isn't enough, says the sales brochure, a ranging radar is mounted in the nose. The Canberra, while from the same era as the Meteor, is significantly more advanced, being furnished with a radar and more powerful Beast II turbojets. The pilots fail to include the fact that one can count the number of operational Hunter and Canberra squadrons on two hands and have fingers left over, so if any NFC aeroknights visit an RAF base they will most likely encounter a collection of numerous propeller-driven types and first-generation jets in various states of maintainance...

As ground crewmen, carried in the navigator's compartments on the Canberras, climb out to have a look at coastal command armaments, two pilots with the rank insignia of squadron leader approach the nearest Coastal Command officer.

If the Star Empire thinks that the Robotic Archipelago has even a slight chance of becoming much in the way of a Robotic capital, it is rather sorely mistaken. Kingston is only in contact with the Robots in space via radio and the occasional merchant who happens to stop by in an atmosphere-capable Dhow or something, and is just another piece of monstrously decentralized Robotic Cooperative's territorial apparatus, albeit locally far more powerful than anything else. Therefore, whatever Parliament on the Robotic Archipelago does has very little bearing on any other piece of the cooperative.

After all, the Archipelago's technology is, at best, thousands of years behind the space-based Robots', mostly because of the very limited amount of material interaction that takes place between the two elements. The lone space-capable craft based in the archipelago, a hopelessly outdated cargo shuttle, sits at an underused end of Kingston airfield next to Air Auxiliary Firefly night fighters and Hurricanes.

But the consulate's communique is recieved nonetheless, and before long Stanislaw Marley trudges out of his office and catches the trolley to the Valinor consulate, located several blocks away from Parliament House. As well as addressing their more immediate concerns, Marley also plans to invite the consulate to an RAF flypast, a common occurrance in Kingston and one that the consulate's staff are in all likelyhood very familiar with.

Once he arrives at the consulate, Marley is quickly escorted by one of Routhe's staff to her office. The young man who was working at a small work station in the consulate's small lobby area raps on the door with his knuckles and then opens it.

"Minister Marley to see you, Frau Routhe."

"Ah, thank you, Raoul," Sara says and moves from behind her desk to greet Marley. All in all the entire consulate seems rather cramped, the Star Empire having merely purchased a former private residence outright and done a little bit of aggressive redecorating rather than construct a new building. Routhe's office is rather plain, with only a scattering of small paintings and pictures adding a personal touch.

"Herr Marley, I am so glad you could come on such notice. Please, please have a seat," she says gesturing to a pair of chairs at a low table on the opposite side of the desk. "Would you care for some spice tea before we start into affairs at hand? I was just having some myself."

Routhe says as she moves to collect a small service from one end of her desk.

**********


It was somewhat of an insult to Duranhold, who assumed that every commoner (foreign dignitary or not) would refer to him as “Your Grace” and not “Sir”. He puffed out his great mustache with a breath, which could be seen floating away on the chill wind, and nosed his poor belabored horse around.

“Lucas Rice, I presume, here from Knootoss? You’ll forgive me for not getting down to meet you; with my gout, I’ve a terrible time mounting up again.” He waved generally in the direction of the camp near Topton.

“His Majesty the High King has ordered me to see you safely and quickly to meet with him. If you know how to ride, my men have brought along several extra mounts. If not, I shall call for a carriage at once.” He laughed. “You may think us terribly backwards, but gasoline is a precious commodity here, and hay is not.”

He glanced at the Sardaukar. “His Majesty trusts greatly in the honor of the Lion-Empress. Your men are welcome to accompany you in your travels throughout the Shield. With brigands prowling and a war brewing, I doubt they shall be unwanted.”

Rice eyes the man, there is something intensely familiar about him from the rather brief series of files he had read in the dossier on Iansisle, but he cannot quite place it. But he nods respectfully at the man that is at least an officer in the Royal Army.

"Yes, I am he, and Lord Reinstadler, Her Majesty's Ambassador to Knootoss and Fourth Minister for Foreign Affairs sends his greetings."

"In a situation of duress, I am more than willing to both understand and tolerate a change of venue where transportation is concerned," Rice says with a wire smile. Actually he is almost sure he was dispatched to the Shield because he could ride and ride well, and the Sardaukar from the Ministry for Foreign Affairs were renowned for their more esoteric knowledge. "My men and I will ride with you, hopefully we will be able to uphold our abilities to a level that can endure your scrutiny, sir."

As he waits a moment for the mounts, Rice decides to establish who his guide is. Hopefully without commit himself to a faux pas.

"If I may, sir, inquire as to who I have the pleasure of riding with? Forgive my ignorance if it delivers insult, but--as I am sure you can imagine--the nature of affairs in the Shield means that I was dispatched from the Hague expediantly. And sadly this means I have had to sacrifice gleaning all the information I could on the Shield and its inhabitants."

((Sorry posts are taking so long, I'm a bit overdone with schoolwork at the moment, something I'm sure you Northern Hemisphere chaps have completely forgotten about.))

To:Citizen Michael Bradsworth
CC:Foreign Minister Nikita, Roania; Duke Adrian Sterling, Valinon
From:Donald P. Sinclair, Minister of Foreign Affairs and Relations; Anna Sophia Frateli, First Speaker of Imitora
Re:Recognition

Citizen Bradsworth,

Long as the nation of Iansisle been held in the good light to the eyes of the Imitoran populace, a nation that we have been proud to list among our allies, and a nation that we would gladly assist in any time of need.

However, as recent light as been shed upon the changes of the nation, we have found ourselves less and less inclined to involve ourselves in the affairs of your nation. That is until know, when we have fully come to understand and comprehend many of the factors involved with the situation at hand. Namely, the changes that have taken place within the government and other ruling bodies of this so called "Republic".

After a brief period of discussion among the ruling bodies of Imitora, it was decided that a few changes in Imitora would also take place. As of the moment of this communiqué being sent, The Imperial Green Flag Domain and Lands of Imitora will no longer recognize any government in Iansisle save for one headed by His Majesty King James Callahan IV, High King of the Grand Empire of the Shield and King of Shadoran, or a proper chosen heir under his name.

With this contact, we hereby renounce any authority claimed by Citizen Bradsworth or his government, and offer the full support and backing, moral, militarily, and monetarily, of the Imperial Green Flag Domain to the true Royal government of Iansisle and all her claimed territories.

Signed
First Speaker Anna Sophia Fratelli
Foreign Affairs and Relations Minister Donald P. Sinclair


"I knew it was all too good to be true, Ben," said Charles Bradsworth with a sigh.

Benjamin Rinehart, as Director of Foreign Affairs, had, of course, already read the report and stood stoically by as the Premier of the Gull Flag Republic cast it across his fine mahogany desk.

"The Imitorans are the first, but - mark me - the Roanians and the Valinor will follow them soon," continued Bradsworth. "The Effitians are already doing their damnedest to destroy us - God only knows if that's connected to the Revolution or not. And the Walmingtonians, bless their Atlantic hearts, have started sticking their noses into the Pacific. And perhaps even the Larkinians or the Calarcans. The world loves the established order, Ben, even when it's wrong.

"I never used to believe Madders' propaganda, Ben, but it is starting to seem like Iansisle really is alone in this endeavor."

"There's the Robots, sir."

"Of course, of course. One country among thousands, perhaps, but it is good to have anyone at all by our side."

A deathly silence fell over the office. Rinehart, suddenly uncomfortable on the lush carpet, shifted from side to side while he watched Bradsworth stare vacantly into space from behind his desk. "A ken for your thoughts, Charles."

"I was just thinking about this enterprise, Ben. Wondering what we've achieved, where it's all going, and if it was really worth all the toil we've put into it."

"Don't talk like that, Charles. You know full well the answer. The Empire was too corrupt to fight the Corporations - they caved in at the slightest flex of RM&M's muscle over matters of international policy. Iansisle was a country run not for its people, but for its business interests. You've changed all that - just look out there."

Rinehart indicated out of the office's window at the buildings of Ianapalis. Nearly all of them were draped in the Gull Flag.

"You've given people the right to hope, Charles. The assurance that every man is equal to every other. You've given them in practice what the Empire could only vaguely promise in lofty royal proclamations. You've let them know that worth isn't measured by aristocratic blood or money, but by personal honor and deeds. That means something to me, anyway."

Rinehart turned his silver head and coughed violently, such was the passion of his speech.

Bradsworth, meanwhile, was lounging back in his chair, an almost sardonic smile on his lips. "Thanks for the lecture, Ben. It refreshes me to know that I'm not the only one left in Jameston with such zeal for the Revolution." He waved Ben over and pointed at a seat across from his. "Come. Work with me. We must have a response, not to our Imitoran comrades, but to the world as a whole." He chuckled. "And, where the Valinor are concerned, the galaxy as a whole."

--PRESS RELEASE--
Given Jameston Place
20 December 1955

IgnoreChange, be it a natural part of man's world, is often hard to accept. However, it is perfectly natural and even preferable; every system, every way of life, when allowed to linger past its life expectancy, starts to rot from within.

IgnoreWhen an existing system embraces change and rides along with it, it may continue fundamentally unchanged in perpetuity. Contrary, when an existing system becomes set enough in its ways as to react violently against change, it is perfectly normal for those resident within that system to rise up, sometimes violently, and demand a better way.

IgnoreFor far too long did that government, known as the Grand Empire of the Shield, rest upon institutions three centuries old and pay only lip service to the reform that was solely needed. It fell to that age-old corruption, greed, that strikes down all archaic systems, and exposed gaping wounds that its officials were well-advised to ignore.

IgnoreThe Iansislean people spoke loudly against that corruption on 4 August 1952. As one body united, they struck down the fetid corpse of the Corporate System and its Imperial lackeys. Iansisle's first constitution was drafted and fair elections, free of the taint of Corporate money for the first time in modern Iansislean history, were held the next 18 May. One man, James Callahan, was allowed to call himself King without the consent of the People United.

IgnoreThat man betrayed the trust placed in him by the framers of the Constitution of 1953 and, by doing so, betrayed the trust of the People. He has raised an army in defiance of the People's Will among the reactionary Foothillsmen and intends to depose the Freely Elected Government. Many foreign powers have expressed an interest in seeing this rebellion succeed. For them, the People’s Government issues the following promises:

LET IT BE HEREBY DECLARED

IgnoreBEING THAT NATIONAL SOVEREIGNTY is only derived from the People in Fair and Honest elections, never again will a King or Queen answerable only to himself or herself be acknowledged as the Sovereign of Iansisle.

IgnoreBEING THAT THE PEOPLE are the Shield, and the Shield is its People, never again may a single man claim Lordship over the entire of the Shield nor any part of it. Only the Government, freely elected by the People United, may legislate to keep the Peace and Order.

IgnoreBEING THAT EVERY MAN on the Shield was Created by the same God: All men are Citizens of the Republic, and all Citizens shall share equally in the Republic's rights, its responsibilities, and its glory.

IgnoreBEING THAT THE RIGHTS and liberties of Iansisle are threatened by those who would circumvent the Will of the People expressed in the above Declarations, the People pledge themselves to fight equally against those traitors who would destroy their Equality as those invaders who would take their Freedom.

AND

IgnoreBEING THAT TRAITOROUS ACTS to destroy the Republic and the People whom it represents cannot be tolerated in any form, all those engaged in Enterprises to suppress the People’s Will and the People’s Government will be Hanged at the Neck until Dead. There can be no mercy when the Rights of the People to govern themselves are at stake.

WE THE UNDERSIGNED, elected by the People in fair and open elections, HEREBY COMMIT OURSELVES to defend, until our dying breath, the principles hereby outlined and to never falter in our righteous cause.

CHARLES BRADSWORTH Premier and Member Assembly for Sâdôrâ
BENJAMIN RINEHART Director of Foreign Affairs and Member Assembly for Pentonshire South
RICHARD APPLETON Director of the Gallaga Office and Member Assembly for Editraequán

[the list continues for 137 total names, representing every Gull Flagger and Grand Streeter in the Assembly. It concludes thusly]

THADDEUS WHIT Member Assembly for Mansbâr Nor
LAWRENCE MADDERS Director of War and Member Assembly for Eastergate

LONG LIVE THE REPUBLIC!

----------

OOC: Unless I get your OOC permision to do so...I'll try to keep my military out of it. Depending on your response, my next post will be some form of comunication to the Royals.

((I’d prefer to keep foreign military participation of a more advanced technological level to an absolute minimum, but I’m always willing to talk about RP possibilities. :)))

((Sorry posts are taking so long, I'm a bit overdone with schoolwork at the moment, something I'm sure you Northern Hemisphere chaps have completely forgotten about.))

((Haha, considering the delays I've had between posts? :D No worries, man, take all the time you need.

...and thanks for reminding me that school'll be starting again in a month. :-/))

The Government of the Divine Imperium has no choice but to both applaud and condemn the stand of the Gull Republic. Applaud, because it has long been the Divine Imperium's deepest wish to see the power of the corporations broken in the former Grand Empire. Condemn, because they take a stand that goes against, and indeed threatens our very way of life. Thus, with the full consent of the Lord Viceroy and in the name of our Tsar, who even in absence illuminates and leads us, we make the following decisions:

*Between the Republic and the Insurgency we hereby will see no difference. We recognise neither government as the lawful government of Iansisle, neither Republican or Royalist. Let others make weighty pronouncements. We hold to the ideals of self-determination for which thousands of our soldiers fought and died for in the battlefields of Alaska and Hawai'i, and against godless atheism and Asiatic tyranny in Vladivostok. Both organisations and their leaders may, if they wish, send personal representatives to be represented in the Most Holy City of Tarnaqin, an offer rarely granted.

*We will, with the permission of the international community, accord both nations belligerent rights, though we express the hope that they will deal rightly with our shipping and trade interests.

*We offer political asylum in the city of Whiteharbour for any citizen who wishes to escape the 'troubles'.

It is our deepest wish for the nation of Iansisle to be reunited and whole. To that end, we would most respectfully request that hostilities be cancelled and a conference be called. Having just come through the horror of the worst war in human history, let us not now begin a new chapter of death and despair.

We, the undersigned, in the name of God the Most High and his Anointed on Earth the Tsar, do accept and agree with the above in all fashions and ways. Thus it is written, so let it be done.

~Nikita Ryalin, Minister for Foreign Affairs and Trade

~Sir James DeCorbin, Permanent Secretary Department of Foreign Affairs, MOSM, KFC,

~ArchDuke Charles d'Arquis, Speaker of the House of Nobles, Imperial Duma

~Joseph Ruslanevich Kalintov, Speaker of the House of Burghers, Imperial Duma

~ViceRegent in the Absence of the Tsar Lady Adele Rinaldi, Baroness of Moreni-Dmitrograd.

~~

Adele stared listlessly out the window of her fiancee's office, downcast. "Do you think it will work?" She whispered, softly collapsing into his large chair and sitting at her desk. She was lonely. That's the only word for it. Why did he have to go?

Nikita looked at his feet for a moment, and sighed. "I don't know, m'lady. Popular opinion is against the government." He paused and inspected that sentence for accuracy. "Government opinion is against the Government in this. If we go to war against the republic, we can expect a revolt in the House of Burghers. Or worse." Nikita whistled through his teeth, a habit which Adele normally found disgusting, but which today she had to tolerate. Nikita couldn't help it, of course. Not for the first time, he cursed that dreadful Nazi Damien. If he hadn't gone and joined the Axis and then had the Holy Legions handed their worst defeat in centuries at the gates of Vladivostok by the Japanese and Russians, the Divine Imperium wouldn't have to worry about such democratic niceties today. Then again, if he hadn't done that, and Daniel hadn't ruled for that short period of time, it might be our heads on the chopping block today. "It's what your fiancee would have done, my lady." I hope. Absolute ruler he may not be, but the Tsar could still make my life both very short and very painful if I miscalculated.

A cough sounded, and the Speaker of the House of Nobles intruded on their private thoughts. "I must say, my sympathies are with the Republic here." Charles stood up from his chair and stretched. "If James had settled down and accepted a constitutional role, then we wouldn't be having this problem now."

"House Callahan would never accept something that House Chyornyev wouldn't, and you know it." Nikita snapped. Then, out of deference, he added, "My Lord."

d'Arquis sighed and waved his hand dismissively. Alyosha knows the way the world is going, and he, unlike his ancestors, is currently young enough to change. "Hopefully, that wouldn't be a problem," was what he said. Sitting back down, he withdrew and lit a cigar, then puffed it experimentally. "It is the way of the world, Nikita."

A normally silent man spoke, quietly. The Speaker of the House of Burghers quietly said, "Imitora and Valinon won't like it. And those Effitians..."

Nikita chortled and withdrew a piece of paper. "Hopefully, the Effitians won't be a problem for much longer. I have here a note which I will have the pleasure of delivering to their boorish ambassador this evening, informing them that if they haven't withdrawn from the Shield by 1:00 pm tomorrow, we will be very pleased to go to war with them. The Russians are bad enough. I decline to share two borders with boorish dogs."

Joseph persisted. "What about Valinor or Imitora?"

"Luchsheye — vrag khoroshego*." Nikita said, with finality. "They can make all the pronouncements they want. But at the end, it is us who will be next to the Shieldians tomorrow."

Adele only sighed and looked out the window. Somewhere out there, her Alyosha was busy running around and upsetting people and generally having a good time, no matter how much he might complain about it afterwards. Alyosha, wherever you are, please be careful and come back to me so I can yell at you for leaving me here...

~~

Rough Waters

>OpenProtocol: 877654312Alpha<
>Transmitted From: SHDIMN The Pride of Altara<
>Sent To: /Designation Unknown/ Dalenford? -- Iansisle Navy<

>Begin Message on Mark?: Y<
>Encrypt to 877654314Delta?: N<

<Mark>

<Good evening, Gentlemen of the Republic. We couldn't help but notice that you and y
our captured smuggler are drifting dangerously close to
Imperial Waters, and we were wondering if you would *per
haps* require a little assistance in apprehending this trawler?

At any rate, we would appreciate knowing your intentions
and port destination, as we would
*hate* for there to be an... Incident from
misunderstanding intentions. Until we have a
response from you, we will continue our
current heading at approx. 75 nmph.>

>End Transmission<

>Close Protocol on Mark<

>Mark<

~~

Lord Chancellor Nicademus Darsalin was not a particularly bad man. He was a patriot, a practising Catholic, kinder to the cleaner children on Earth, and made a point on knowing the names of at least a few of his servants. Thus, his smirk of condescension upon hearing of the sufferage finally being extended to women in Iansisle could be excused in light of the incredible stress he had been placed under in the last 10 minutes. "Well... took you long enough, that's all I have to say."

Even as he said the words, he wished them forgotten. "Forgive me." They floated in the air, though. Would Alysandra Ellestrea have allowed herself to be caught out so easily? Would Christine Bencenoff have fumbled at the critical moment? That's the one problem with female sufferage. Sometimes we men come out looking second-best.Darsalin sighed and bowed his head. "I am aware, Citizens Bradsworth and Madders, that fate might put us on the wrong sides of the barricades. Before I leave, I would like to say this..." He rose to his feet, and offered the two men his hand, Bradsworth first and then Madders. "Let us both follow our conscience, let us both do what we think is best. And know, now, that I hold the deepest respect for the both of you."

~~

Adrik Alexei rose slowly to his feet, his eyes moist. His voice wouldn't come to him for a few minutes, so deep was his emotion. Finally, in a choking half-voice, he whispered, "Spasee'ba. Thank you." He gave the Shieldian kings a perfunctory embrace, clearly a bit undone. "...and...I would be honoured, my brother, to ride with you...to...Ianapolis..." As he heard what he was saying, his eyes widened.

He almost screamed in frustration, but maintained his calm outer decorum, only the whitening of his suddenly clenched fists betraying his inner anger. "My lord, I was going to...if I may... I mean, my word is my bond, but..." Trapped by his word, he sighed and held out his hand for a weapon. "Give me a horse and a gun, my brother, and I shall show you and your militia how a Roanian can fight." Trying to be polite, the Tsar violently throttled back all the bile Roanians normally used for the word ‘militia’.

Well, that’s the original plan scratched. Oh, please, someone ask. Please, someone ask me what I’m stuttering like an imbecile about so I can ride to my death with a clear conscience… or even, God and my ancestors forgive me for a coward, live.

((Haha, considering the delays I've had between posts? :D No worries, man, take all the time you need.

...and thanks for reminding me that school'll be starting again in a month. :-/))

((You're most welcome, of course. BTW, is it just me or is that Bradsworth everywhere? At any rate, I did post. Not as well as I would have liked, but I think it's okay.))

((You're most welcome, of course. BTW, is it just me or is that Bradsworth everywhere? At any rate, I did post. Not as well as I would have liked, but I think it's okay.))

((Well, I'm really very impressed with your post (as impressed as I am by the quality of writing of everyone involved in this thread), and you do yourself a disservice by labeling it as merely "okay."

As for Bradsworth, I think I'm bending the space-time continuum into pretzels. :D There's a number of different times going on here (all of which I squeeze into the month of December 1955 on the Shield; the date I use does not correspond at all to the dates anywhere else. It's just for my timekeeping convenience. :D). So far as I can tell, he met with the LRR delegates in the morning of December (x), (where 20 > x > 5) he and madders met with your man in the afternoon of December (x). This whole business with the declaration is happening on December 20.

Bah, I've gone and confused myself. Let's just say that he has a number of dopplegangers instead :)

Anyway, thanks so much for finding time to post. It really is appreciated, and I wish I could return the favor...but it's nearly 3:35am here, and I really need to get up tomorrow morning (erm, later this morning, I guess) for work. I'll have responses for you, Valinon, and LRR after I get back.))

EDIT: by the way, in case anyone didn't know: out of character spam is both allowed and appreciated in any of my threads. Please, feel free to ask questions, make jokes, compliment one another (and you all do deserve the highest praise for the level of quality achieved so far), or what have you.

*collapses into bed*

make jokes, compliment one another (and you all do deserve the highest praise for the level of quality achieved so far), or what have you.

*collapses into bed*

OOC: Three men walk into a bar. One is Irish, one is Scotish, and one is English. They all order a beer as they sit at the bar. A fly lands in each beer. THe Englishman demands for a new beer and drinks it down after he gets a new one. The Scotsman looks at the fly, then drinks the beer as if nothing happened. The Irishman, however, reaches in, grabs the fly by the wings and starts shaking it violently screaming "Give me back my beer you asshole! I want every last damned drop!"

Anyways, I kidna agree with you Iansisle. Not really wnating ot get my military involved with its tech level verse the tech level of the timeline involved. However, I had two ideas I want to run by you first, get your opinion on it. I was thinking either A) Have maybe one of my spec forces units, just a small platoon or squad, come in on "moral qualms" or something fancy like that to help the Royals, like the Green Berrets with the Montengyards or along those lines. That, or B) Imitoran sponsered (read: caried out) terrorist attacks on Republican areas in the Shield. Don't worry, I wont be detonating my antimater or plasma warheads, just drive bys and run and guns and bombings and what not. Its all your call, and I wont jump in with anything you don't want.

Oh, and regarding ime warp in this thread, I believe the proper equation is T=(A^2)/365*12-(J^2/A^2).5252/Q, Where A=the time Bradsworth is spending with other characters, J=the time James is spending with other characters, and Q=total tourqe at 5252rpm.

OOC: I will pursue a policy similar to Imitoria. Valinon will not be able to committ virtually any military to the efforts to restore the crown, partially for the tech discrepancies and partially because of a war closer to the proper worlds of the Star Empire. I will, however, be deploying special forces from the Reichswehr and Ministry for External State Security (ESS) to assist Roanian efforts on a limited basis, and they will also be trying to see to the security (and if need be evacuation) of the royal families of the Shield. And I will also be contributing significantly to the financial and logistic support of the Roanian operations and Royalists operations in the Shield.

I will only intervene with direct aerospace support if conflict really goes south, and its either I intervene or some military force supporting the Royalists has to go through a Dunkirk. And then I still will not be participating in an offensive action, more just covering a "tactical withdrawal".

As ground crewmen, carried in the navigator's compartments on the Canberras, climb out to have a look at coastal command armaments, two pilots with the rank insignia of squadron leader approach the nearest Coastal Command officer.

"No, no, damn you!" cries a man in the scarlet uniform. "Be careful with those bombs, Jones, for Christ's sake!" He speaks in the clipped accent of the eastern Shield, even though NFC Cape Hunt, near Nenton in Mansford, is about as far away from Shadoran as it is possible to get. The bombs of which he speaks are being loaded into a Spirit as part of its preparations for a patrol across the Western Marches, ostensibly in search of Effitian submarines.

He notices the pair of Robotic airmen at the last minute and turns to them.

"You're the commanders of these fine machines, I take it?" he says as way of introduction, raising one hand in a rather sloppy salute. "Group Captain Patrick Cloon, commanding RIFC - erm - NFC Cape Hunt."

Rice eyes the man, there is something intensely familiar about him from the rather brief series of files he had read in the dossier on Iansisle, but he cannot quite place it. But he nods respectfully at the man that is at least an officer in the Royal Army.

"Yes, I am he, and Lord Reinstadler, Her Majesty's Ambassador to Knootoss and Fourth Minister for Foreign Affairs sends his greetings."

"In a situation of duress, I am more than willing to both understand and tolerate a change of venue where transportation is concerned," Rice says with a wire smile. Actually he is almost sure he was dispatched to the Shield because he could ride and ride well, and the Sardaukar from the Ministry for Foreign Affairs were renowned for their more esoteric knowledge. "My men and I will ride with you, hopefully we will be able to uphold our abilities to a level that can endure your scrutiny, sir."

As he waits a moment for the mounts, Rice decides to establish who his guide is. Hopefully without commit himself to a faux pas.

"If I may, sir, inquire as to who I have the pleasure of riding with? Forgive my ignorance if it delivers insult, but--as I am sure you can imagine--the nature of affairs in the Shield means that I was dispatched from the Hague expediantly. And sadly this means I have had to sacrifice gleaning all the information I could on the Shield and its inhabitants."

In all truth, Duranhold was no military man and equally no diplomat. Desperate times called for desperate appointments. He blinks once or twice, before realizing that, although he is well known by sight in local circles, the Valinor ambassador probably has little idea who he is.

"Major General the Duke of Duranhold at your service, Mr Rice!" he cried at once in some embarrassment. "Commanding His Majesty's Own Hussars - this is my staff." Duranhold waved a hand behind him, obviously not thinking his subordinates - both in military and social circles - worthy of a true introduction.

Duranhold, with his great bulk and his obviously laboring horse, certainly did not meet the usual description of a hussar, aside from his flashy uniform.

"I do hope that you'll send my greetings and respects to Lord Reinstadler at your first convenience," continued Duranhold. "He plays a spectacular rubber of whist - we met once when I was in Knootcap in His Majesty's service.*"

Seeing that Rice and the Sardaukar had mounted up, Duranhold waved a hand forward. "There's not a moment to lose. The army plans to march out tomorrow, and the High King with them."

((* - I hope you don't mind me taking this liberty - I needed a reason why Duranhold looks familiar to Rice. Change the card game, location, time, etc. to fit your whims :D))

Rough Waters

>OpenProtocol: 877654312Alpha<
>Transmitted From: SHDIMN The Pride of Altara<
>Sent To: /Designation Unknown/ Dalenford? -- Iansisle Navy<

>Begin Message on Mark?: Y<
>Encrypt to 877654314Delta?: N<

<Mark>

<Good evening, Gentlemen of the Republic. We couldn't help but notice that you and y
our captured smuggler are drifting dangerously close to
Imperial Waters, and we were wondering if you would *per
haps* require a little assistance in apprehending this trawler?

At any rate, we would appreciate knowing your intentions
and port destination, as we would
*hate* for there to be an... Incident from
misunderstanding intentions. Until we have a
response from you, we will continue our
current heading at approx. 75 nmph.>

>End Transmission<

>Close Protocol on Mark<

>Mark<

The wireless receiver on the Dalenford was old and hardly ever used, but it took the Roanian message nonetheless. The transcribing yeoman handed the hardcopy to Captain Juss, who read it over with a grunt.

"Seventy-five knots? Johnson, damn your ears, you must have heard wrong."

"Yes sir."

"As for our response - let's remind them that we are well out of the Western Marches and far from their precious Imperium. Johnson, make to Ronnie, clear frequency:

"'Message received. No assistance required. Intend making for Vancouver. Currently in declared war area - suggest you make for port to avoid an accident.' Send that off at once, won't you?"

Lord Chancellor Nicademus Darsalin was not a particularly bad man. He was a patriot, a practising Catholic, kinder to the cleaner children on Earth, and made a point on knowing the names of at least a few of his servants. Thus, his smirk of condescension upon hearing of the sufferage finally being extended to women in Iansisle could be excused in light of the incredible stress he had been placed under in the last 10 minutes. "Well... took you long enough, that's all I have to say."

The words hung in a pregnant silence.

Even as he said the words, he wished them forgotten. "Forgive me." They floated in the air, though. Would Alysandra Ellestrea have allowed herself to be caught out so easily? Would Christine Bencenoff have fumbled at the critical moment? That's the one problem with female sufferage. Sometimes we men come out looking second-best.Darsalin sighed and bowed his head.

"Forgiven, Chancellor," said Bradsworth,, who actually seemed very pleased by Darsalin's stumbling. He crossed his arms, tucking the stump of his left hand under his right arm. "These are trying times for us all.

"I am aware, Citizens Bradsworth and Madders, that fate might put us on the wrong sides of the barricades. Before I leave, I would like to say this..." He rose to his feet, and offered the two men his hand, Bradsworth first and then Madders. "Let us both follow our conscience, let us both do what we think is best. And know, now, that I hold the deepest respect for the both of you."

Bradsworth rose alongside Darsalin and shook the Chancellor's hand. "I do hope that this brief meeting has served to clear the air on both sides of the Western Marches. Know that I too have the utmost respect for your great land, your majestic Tsar, and your humble person. May our consciences never have a difference of opinion: friendship is infinitely preferable to a feud."

Madders too shook Darsalin's hand. "Premier Bradsworth, I think, has spoken with enough honey for the both of us. Safe trip, friend, and may all men find the freedom they deserve."

Adrik Alexei rose slowly to his feet, his eyes moist. His voice wouldn't come to him for a few minutes, so deep was his emotion. Finally, in a choking half-voice, he whispered, "Spasee'ba. Thank you." He gave the Shieldian kings a perfunctory embrace, clearly a bit undone. "...and...I would be honoured, my brother, to ride with you...to...Ianapolis..." As he heard what he was saying, his eyes widened.

James smiled, sheathed his sword, and clapped one hand on Adrik Alexei's shoulder. "Then we shall let every man drink deep to this great alliance!"

He say what was, to him at least, fear and hesitation in the young Tsar's eyes. And well it should be - this was a desperate throw of the dice. For a moment, James' heart went out to young man - a boy, almost - as he thought of the impending carnage: blood, bullets, and bile. He certainly was scared; so was Michael, even if the Foothillsman tried to put on a brave face. And Jessica, even if she would remain behind the front lines (and perhaps be the only royal to survive if things went awry), was not immune to the heavy atmosphere which clouded the royal camp.

He almost screamed in frustration, but maintained his calm outer decorum, only the whitening of his suddenly clenched fists betraying his inner anger. "My lord, I was going to...if I may... I mean, my word is my bond, but..." Trapped by his word, he sighed and held out his hand for a weapon. "Give me a horse and a gun, my brother, and I shall show you and your militia how a Roanian can fight." Trying to be polite, the Tsar violently throttled back all the bile Roanians normally used for the word ‘militia’.

James clapped Adrik Alexei's shoulder again, harder this time. The true measure of Shieldian courage was not to know no fear, but rather to overcome that fear when it came. The Marquess of Tri, on his quarterdeck, had quaked with fear at the storm of Dénian shot, but still led his fleet with a jolly word by a confident voice into that maelstrom at Unsterbank and emerged Iansisle's greatest hero. No one bothered to question Adrik Alexei's initial hesitation, for all assumed this to be the case.

"A sword and sidearm for my brother here!" cried James. Weathers appeared almost at once with a sabre, a five-chamber revolver, and an Iansislean M74E carbine.

"And now," said James, "it is bitter cold. Michael, what is in your flagon?"

"Dermingham '48, your majesty," replied the King of the Foothills, nodding as a servant removed the bottle from his saddlebag. "A good northern merlot."

"Then break out four glasses, that we may celebrate this union of monarchs. And, dare I say it, raise our spirits?"

The weak pun drew a strong laughter from all the Shieldian throats nearby, for they owed James their allegiance.

In all truth, Duranhold was no military man and equally no diplomat. Desperate times called for desperate appointments. He blinks once or twice, before realizing that, although he is well known by sight in local circles, the Valinor ambassador probably has little idea who he is.

"Major General the Duke of Duranhold at your service, Mr Rice!" he cried at once in some embarrassment. "Commanding His Majesty's Own Hussars - this is my staff." Duranhold waved a hand behind him, obviously not thinking his subordinates - both in military and social circles - worthy of a true introduction.

Duranhold, with his great bulk and his obviously laboring horse, certainly did not meet the usual description of a hussar, aside from his flashy uniform.

"I do hope that you'll send my greetings and respects to Lord Reinstadler at your first convenience," continued Duranhold. "He plays a spectacular rubber of whist - we met once when I was in Knootcap in His Majesty's service.*"

Seeing that Rice and the Sardaukar had mounted up, Duranhold waved a hand forward. "There's not a moment to lose. The army plans to march out tomorrow, and the High King with them."

((* - I hope you don't mind me taking this liberty - I needed a reason why Duranhold looks familiar to Rice. Change the card game, location, time, etc. to fit your whims :D))

"I will do so at once, Your Grace," Rice says and bows his head. "Please forgive me for not giving you the proper respects of your stature and rank earlier. And I only wish I could begin to challenge Lord Reinstadler at whist, it seems that is one area where the Fourth Minister can claim undisputed mastery."

Rice tests his horse by bringing it along side Duranhold's own. His Sardaukar escorts also test their mounts, apparently finding them satisfactory.

"But I will not delay us any longer. Lead the way, Your Grace, it is time His Majesty learned that his cause will not go unsupported."

"No, no, damn you!" cries a man in the scarlet uniform. "Be careful with those bombs, Jones, for Christ's sake!" He speaks in the clipped accent of the eastern Shield, even though NFC Cape Hunt, near Nenton in Mansford, is about as far away from Shadoran as it is possible to get. The bombs of which he speaks are being loaded into a Spirit as part of its preparations for a patrol across the Western Marches, ostensibly in search of Effitian submarines.

He notices the pair of Robotic airmen at the last minute and turns to them.

"You're the commanders of these fine machines, I take it?" he says as way of introduction, raising one hand in a rather sloppy salute. "Group Captain Patrick Cloon, commanding RIFC - erm - NFC Cape Hunt."

"Its, eh, very nice to be here, Sir. Squadron Leaders Denisov and Olatunji at your service."

Being both squadron leaders, the RAF commanders are subordinate to Group Captain Cloon, which is probably for the better considering that they themselves don't have the slightest idea what it is exactly that they are needed for. However, the protocols of rank are not enforced in the slightest among RDF members. Ratings might tell their captain to commit obscene acts with the vessel's radio antennae and get away with it. Therefore, one can hardly expect the Robotic pilots to talk to higher-ranking officers in an official tone.

"Mind if we have a look at some of your ordenance, sir?"

******

At sea, the Robotic IMEF divisions start arriving at their assignments. Admiral Yaounde finally greets Lamue, after ignoring his presence for the last few days while terribly drunk. As Lamue will no doubt find out, the RN has its fair share of eccentric characters.

"Welcome aboard the Kuwait, er...what's this fellow's name, now?"
"Hank, sah."
"Yeh, Hank. Well, make yourself at home. I'll have someone bring some spirits up to your stateroom."
"Surface contacts, sah!"

A rating from the radar room bursts into the bridge, prompting everyone but Yaounde to look outside with binoculars. Before long, columns of smoke appear on the horizon and the crew assembles along the rail, dressed in anything but presentable uniform. While the dirtiest of all crewmen, engineers from the engine room, remain belowdecks, what idlers can be summoned up are in bright yellow rubbers and whatever sweaters they managed to get their hands on at port, ranging from navy blue service examples to brightly-patterned home knit jobs.

A morse code message is flashed to the cruiser squadron as soon as it is deemed within range and a Walrus is launched with a liason aboard.

*****

Back in Kingston, Raoul Marley takes off his hat and sits, per request of the Valinor consul.

"Its always nice to come by, madam. You were saying about business to discuss?"

Back in Kingston, Raoul Marley takes off his hat and sits, per request of the Valinor consul.

"Its always nice to come by, madam. You were saying about business to discuss?"

"Yes, I was, Minister," Routhe says as she calmly pours the coffee and then sets the cream and sugar closer to Marley. "Her Imperial Majesty and Her Majesty's Government have recently learned of your interest in the creation of the so-called Gull Flag Republic of Iansisle. I have asked you to come here so that we may....discuss this interest."

"I will be quite frank, Her Majesty and Prime Minister the Lady Rolt find the actions of the Gull Flag Republic, and the history of some of its higher officials, an issue of growing concern. There is also the nature of the way they seized power from High King James and his government as well."

Routhe takes a moment to sip from her own coffee, "And so, Minister Marley, where does the government of the Collective on Earth stand in regards to this republic?"

Being one of the Parliamentarians advocating more cautious relations with the Gull Flag Republic, Marley cannot help but agree with at least a little of what Routhe says, but, as he thinks to himself, he has a responsibility to communicate Parliament's fancy, determined by open discussion and a prelimenary vote, whether he believes that it is a good idea or a bad one.

"At the present time, Parliament has given its support to the Gull Flag Republic, as it is the belief of a majority of Parliamentarians, confirmed by the majority of local councils, that the Gull Flag Republic is an improvement over the previous monarchy, and that if properly influenced can be tilted away from the path of revolutionary terror. While military support was at first deemed necessary, many local councils have started to debate this matter and a growing minority advocate at least the capping, if not reduction, of my nation's assistance in the form of combat units.

You might say that we Robotstanis (eh, there really aren't any Robots who permanently reside in the Robotic Archipelago, for practical reasons) have something of a fear of monarchies, as we have come off badly from a few ourselves, and are therefore more inclined to support anti-monarchical movements."

Evidence of Raoul's 'coming off badly' can be seen just across the harbor, where the shelled remains of the Royalist battleship Soveriegn were towed from their previous position blocking a major channel.

"But it is my estimation that if the Gull Flag Republic begins to engage in its own bit of political oppression, Parliament will pull the plug on all support."

*snip*

It is our deepest wish for the nation of Iansisle to be reunited and whole. To that end, we would most respectfully request that hostilities be cancelled and a conference be called. Having just come through the horror of the worst war in human history, let us not now begin a new chapter of death and despair.

*snip*

((Hey everyone. I'd just like you to know that my responses will probably be delayed another day or two, unfortunately. Between work, getting ready to go back to Tucson, and some other things, I just don't have the time right now :-/.

However, I did want to say that I did notice the above little jewel from Roania, even if I was too stupid to make a response to it. Basically, the Republic is all too happy to attend, in the hopes that an international congress about the issue will grant their regime more legitimacy. The Royalists too would want to attend, but I'm thinking it's probably too late for James to call off his march now. (since, in theory, this happens sometime after James' meetings with the Tsar and the Valinor ambassador. erm, I think :)).

Back with more tomorrow or the day after. Sorry to keep you waiting, everyone.:())

"I will do so at once, Your Grace," Rice says and bows his head. "Please forgive me for not giving you the proper respects of your stature and rank earlier. And I only wish I could begin to challenge Lord Reinstadler at whist, it seems that is one area where the Fourth Minister can claim undisputed mastery."

Rice tests his horse by bringing it along side Duranhold's own. His Sardaukar escorts also test their mounts, apparently finding them satisfactory.

Duranhold spurred his unfortunate horse into an easy trot. It is only a mile or two to the fringe of the royalist camp and the road is broad and well-paved. On the way, they passed a refrigerated motor lorry being towed by a team of horses. They back was closed, hiding the contents from view, but the vehicle smelled distinctly of the slaughterhouse. Duranhold quickened his pace past it, letting Rice and the other men catch up down the road a bit.

"Sometimes, I wonder how these men fed themselves before being called into the King's service," Duranhold said with a hint of disgust in his voice. "These are most uncivilized times we're living in, my dear man, most uncivilized."

"But I will not delay us any longer. Lead the way, Your Grace, it is time His Majesty learned that his cause will not go unsupported."

"But have you not heard?" cried Duranhold. "No! - of course not! The news is still not a day old. Just yesternight, none other than His Majesty the Tsar of the Divine Imperium came upon our camp, God only knows whence, and offered his very sword to His Majesty the High King!"

"Its, eh, very nice to be here, Sir. Squadron Leaders Denisov and Olatunji at your service."

Being both squadron leaders, the RAF commanders are subordinate to Group Captain Cloon, which is probably for the better considering that they themselves don't have the slightest idea what it is exactly that they are needed for. However, the protocols of rank are not enforced in the slightest among RDF members. Ratings might tell their captain to commit obscene acts with the vessel's radio antennae and get away with it. Therefore, one can hardly expect the Robotic pilots to talk to higher-ranking officers in an official tone.

"Mind if we have a look at some of your ordenance, sir?"

"It's a pleasure to have both of you," said Cloon, clasping his hands behind his back. "We've had quite the time keeping up with the fleet's demands the past few months. Most Coastal Command mounts were stationed up in Noropia, to keep an eye on old Effie, you know."

He shrugged. "Well, when the Grand Empire fell apart, the Conclave seemed not too keen on handing back our hardware. They sent back our boys with nothing but the shirts on their backs. Coupled with the loss of our bases and early warning stations up there, we've not been able to provide the antisubmarine deterrent we did in the Walmies' War."

Cloon leaned in close to Denisov and Olatunji. "Between you and me, we've also got bigger problems to worry about than a few bumbling Effitians." He jerked a thumb to the west, across that stormy strait Iansisleans call the Western Marches which separates the Shield from the Divine Imperium.

"Our ordinance? Of course you're welcome to take a look. Mr Yates!"

A head poked out from the other side of the Spirit currently being armed. "Sir?"

"Flight Lieutenant Jim Yates, meet Squadron Leaders Denisov and Olatunji, all the way from Robotstan. Gentlemen, meet Lieutenant Yates. He'll be riding that Spirit later. Yates, you have an hour or so before your sortie, don't you?"

"Well, sir," started Yates. He had wanted to check the oil pressure in the Spirit's starboard wing, which had fluctuated a little more than normal last time up. But there could only be one answer to a thinly veiled direct order. "It would be my pleasure to show our new allies around, sir, if that's all right with you."

"Good initiative, Yates. Gentlemen, I leave you in his capable hands. Au revoir." And after answering any salutes, Cloon turned and walked off.

"So!" said Yates, wiping a bit of grease from his hands onto a dirty rag. "What would you like to see, sir?"

At sea, the Robotic IMEF divisions start arriving at their assignments. Admiral Yaounde finally greets Lamue, after ignoring his presence for the last few days while terribly drunk. As Lamue will no doubt find out, the RN has its fair share of eccentric characters.

"Welcome aboard the Kuwait, er...what's this fellow's name, now?"
"Hank, sah."
"Yeh, Hank. Well, make yourself at home. I'll have someone bring some spirits up to your stateroom."

“Thank you, Admiral,” says Lamue with a grin. “They’d be much appreciated.”

"Surface contacts, sah!"

A rating from the radar room bursts into the bridge, prompting everyone but Yaounde to look outside with binoculars. Before long, columns of smoke appear on the horizon and the crew assembles along the rail, dressed in anything but presentable uniform. While the dirtiest of all crewmen, engineers from the engine room, remain belowdecks, what idlers can be summoned up are in bright yellow rubbers and whatever sweaters they managed to get their hands on at port, ranging from navy blue service examples to brightly-patterned home knit jobs.

A morse code message is flashed to the cruiser squadron as soon as it is deemed within range and a Walrus is launched with a liason aboard.

The four ships of the Second Light Cruiser Squadron are steaming west-north-west at an easy twelve knots. They are assembled in line ahead, with Quest leading Atlantis, Geode, and Jason, from which Rear Admiral Redford’s flag flew, at intervals of roughly six hundred yards. The four ships are of the Elemental class, armed with nine six-inch guns (of the newest mark, capable of sustaining a higher rate of fire and turning more quickly than the older guns on the Aegean class), capable of sprinting at more than thirty knots or sustaining a patrol over nearly ten thousand miles. All these capabilities were bought at the price of armor, but the Admiralty imagined that the other attributes of the class would prevent fights from becoming down-and-out slugging matches.

The Jason had already won her laurels during the Walmies’ War, when she encountered the American heavy cruiser Chicago, which had slipped past Lord Westergate’s blockade of Manila and was on its way to Pearl Harbor. Captain Ronald Garland had led his little ship into the teeth of the enemy and had been rewarded for his bravery by reducing the larger vessel into a burning wreck with minimal losses to his own crew. The same battle had resulted in the capture of an American destroyer, the Foote, by the Jason when the former had a shell strike her boilers, lost all steam, and was left adrift. A boarding party from the Jason secured the ship without resistance and the destroyer was towed back to Port Laughlin. All in all, the experience left Jason with not only the historic pride - even arrogance - of the Royal Iansislean Navy but also a hefty sum of prize money.

Back in the present, Quest is the first to detect the Robotic ships on her radranger; the Atlantis first spots the smoke over the horizon. The Quest receives the IMEF’s signal and relays it back to the Jason, which then orders the squadron to heave to to receive the flyer. Almost at once, hydrophones are turned up to full and the sea is bombarded by the cruisers’ ASDIC. The chance of Effitian submarines in the area is slim, but James Redford is not a man to leave things to chance.

Major General Nicodemo Ranalte had never been a big fan of the bagpipes. However, whatever would keep his Shieldian troops both happy and marching seemed like a decent enough sacrifice to make. The wailing assailed his ears as he rode up the line of the Seventh Eastergate Regiment of Foot towards the head of his column. Compared to the King's disorganized militia, the Army of the Daldon was downright Prussian. They were actually able to march in something resembling an order and the NCOs had authority over their charges.

Ranalte hated the cold weather. Every step northwards - and there had been many of them now - sent a chill through his bones. The roads in the Javian Kingdom were not as well-maintained as those in the Republic, and his horse often balked at the uneven surfaces. Needless to say, Ranalte had also been forced to leave his artillery train in Beshon. While the rapid-fire of the 17-pounder field gun would have been a nice addition to his small force, he simply could not afford the time it would take to muscle the artillery pieces along these roads, nor the lack of mobility they would afford his army.

Supplies were also thinner than he would have liked. The Republic sent up meat, both dried and canned, and hard biscuits and his own men foraged for fresh meat, fruits and vegetables in the farms near the road. However, his ammunition was surprisingly low - just about seven magazines per man and five belts per machine gun. Ranalte had no doubt that the Royalists were in even worse shape.

Ranalte suddenly noticed Captain LaVigne, one of his staff officers, at his elbow.

"Beg your pardon, sir. Merry Christmas, sir."

Ranalte's olive features split out into a grin. "So it is, Captain. I had quite forgotten."

"I was thinking perhaps we might make camp early today, sir, and give the men a chance to write letters home."

"I'm afraid, Captain, that you'll think me a most heartless man, but we simply cannot. Every hour draws more men to Topton; every hour gives James another chance to contact men outside of the Shield. A day of peace is not affordable in a year of war."

LaVigne may have had something else to say, but Ranalte spurred his horse and leapt ahead. He was nearing the vanguard now; the Gull Flag hung alongside the colors of the Second Vesshampton Rifles. The great mountains of the Noropian Range hung like purple giants in the very far distance. He was too close to glory to stop now.

The Speaker's gavel banged against its pad. "Then, by a vote of 105 to 21, with 99 abstaining, the Unified Calendar Act passes."

With that proclamation, it ceased to be the 25th of December on the Shield and all other areas under the Gull Flag and became the Ninth of Nevinosa in the Year IV of the Revolution.

It is much easier, reflected Charles Bradsworth that Christmas Day, to pass reforms ever since the entire Royalist faction refused to take oaths of loyalty to the Republic and are now locked out of Jameston.

((Quick OOC guide to the Iansislean Revolutionary Calendar:

-The calendar starts on what used to be 3 August 1952 (now 5 Gullaréa I)
-The calendar is broken down into 8 months of 45 days and one holiday of 5 days. Each month is broken into nine weeks of five days (1-4 work, 5 rest).
- 30 July - 3 August (1-5 Gullaréa) are a national holiday, with four days of rest leading up to the celebration of Gull Flag Day.

The months are as follows:

Summer:

Thararéa - Aug 4 - Sep 17

Autumn:

Plunaroy - Sep 18 - Nov 1
Secularoy - Nov 2 - Dec 16

Winter:

Nevinosa - Dec 17 - Jan 30
Fluînosa - Jan 31 - Mar 16

Spring:

Júdonolo - Mar 17 - Apr 30
Cupodìnolo - May 1 - Jun 14

Summer (again :D):

Andaréa - Jun 15 - July 29
Gullaréa - July 30 - Aug 3

I (and therefore they) haven't figured out how to handle leap years yet...probably an extra day in Gullaréa every four years or something :). Any questions?))

Nicademus Darsalin bowed to both the men and rose to his full height, before turning to depart. As he did, a thought slowly came to him. "Pardon me, Directors. But I would like to have a meeting with the former queen, Citizeness Callahan."

~~

Adrik Alexei shivered, then stilled himself. "And so, like old warhorses, we leap forward as the trumpets sound?" He asked, drily. The young man's arm sagged temporarily when he gripped the offered weapon, so much heavier than its Imperial counterpart. Then he laid it on the ground with reverence and drew his own blade, softly touching its point to the ground and sketching a line in the dirt. "And I take it you would have me be like my cousin Tsar Alexander of Russia, who spoke of Authority, Obedience, and Brotherhood?" He answered his question with anothr question. "Or maybe you have something different in mind? I hope so, my lord."

He was being direct, and he knew it. But he also knew his own place. And as the reigning Emperor of Novar Ohan, with more power over more people than James or his subordinate Kings could ever imagine, that place was on top. He had sworn to obey James in this, and he would charge blindly into hell itself if that was what honour demanded from him. But if the cause lacked in honour, what was he to do? "You wish to lead your untrained militia into combat against another untrained militia. For what?" It was a politely phrased question, and Adrik Alexei offered a half-smile as he said it.

"For King and Country? Then they'll die. Because the enemy has the same tactics and training as your men, and they are fighting for themselves." Adrik Alexei sketched, with quick movements on the dirt, a castle. "Even the strongest fortification, King James, can be undermined if the people attacking it believe they are fighting for their own lives." He sighed and moved on, sketching the old Fatherland Front symbol (The Firebird Cross with the swastika inside).

"My father learnt that to his cost. And the end result was that I never knew him." The image was brushed out with a quick movement of his foot. "Do you know what that's like? I don't think you can. And in the end, he and his supporters died for nothing. Or worse than nothing. They died to bring back a way which was long gone." Adrik Alexei faced down the older man, something like courage filling him there. "I have sworn to support you. And if need be, I will throw my life, my duty to marry my fiancee, my duty to my nation, aside for you. But none of us will be called upon to make those sacrifices. We shall be captured, I shall be repatriated, you will be imprisoned. No, it is your men who will pay the ultimate price. And I and they have the right to know. For what?"

"I want to hear you tell me, in all honesty. Here and now. On this field, where the eyes of your men are upon you... that should we attain victory, you will make Iansisle a better place for all your subjects." Adrik Alexei clenched his fists and stood his ground, staring at the High King. "Because if you can't tell me that, then you have no right to that crown you wear. Because if you can't tell me that, how many other children will be without fathers after this work is done? Without even the certain knowledge their fathers died for something?"

"I'm afraid you're too late," said Bradsworth, "Or else not in time. Anna, who our records show was wedded in secret to James but a few months ago, has also fled Dûn Ádien. We have no clue as yet whither she has gone..."

"...But we will find her," said Madders. An annoyed glance flickered from Bradsworth to his Director of War. "And make sure she returns safely - and her unborn child with her."

-------

"I want to hear you tell me, in all honesty. Here and now. On this field, where the eyes of your men are upon you... that should we attain victory, you will make Iansisle a better place for all your subjects." Adrik Alexei clenched his fists and stood his ground, staring at the High King. "Because if you can't tell me that, then you have no right to that crown you wear. Because if you can't tell me that, how many other children will be without fathers after this work is done? Without even the certain knowledge their fathers died for something?"

"Theirs not to make reply," said Michael, "Theirs not to reason why / Theirs but to do and die."

"Michael, please," said Jessica quietly, well aware that the fifty-year-old King of the Foothills was being quite rude to a social superior.

"I doubt very much, Your Illuminated Majesty," continued Michael nonetheless, "that you have ever had the honor of seeing a Northman in the charge. All the parades of the Grand Empire were put on by the Southerners - themselves a noble race, to be sure, but lacking the martial qualities of a son of the Foothills. I have no doubts that they will make quite the show of themselves."

"Your enthusiasm is, as always, appreciated, Michael," said James before he could ramble on any further. "However, I should like to say that I did embark blindly to this crusade.

"As you know, I endorsed the Revolution when first it came. I was there on the Third of August with Charles Bradsworth to write a peace between the government and the governed. I had high hopes that he could forge a new Iansisle - more unified than the old, more free than the old, stronger than the old. I still feel that way.

"But now Bradsworth's star wanes. The stage has been set for a man like Lawrence Madders - so devoted to his ideal that simple concepts like right and wrong or good and evil have no meaning. When I left Ianapalis, it was on the most tyrannical slope I have ever known. The people are afraid to voice dissent with the government; men and boys are taken from their homes at night and forced into the Jaizar River Valley, where their lives mean nothing compared to a few yards of blood-soaked ground." James shook his head.

"Too many good men have died to protect this country just to see it succumb so easily to dictatorship. They are my subjects and my men's brothers - we will see them protected, even if it is from themselves."

Duranhold spurred his unfortunate horse into an easy trot. It is only a mile or two to the fringe of the royalist camp and the road is broad and well-paved. On the way, they passed a refrigerated motor lorry being towed by a team of horses. They back was closed, hiding the contents from view, but the vehicle smelled distinctly of the slaughterhouse. Duranhold quickened his pace past it, letting Rice and the other men catch up down the road a bit.

"Sometimes, I wonder how these men fed themselves before being called into the King's service," Duranhold said with a hint of disgust in his voice. "These are most uncivilized times we're living in, my dear man, most uncivilized."



"But have you not heard?" cried Duranhold. "No! - of course not! The news is still not a day old. Just yesternight, none other than His Majesty the Tsar of the Divine Imperium came upon our camp, God only knows whence, and offered his very sword to His Majesty the High King!"


Rice hesitates for a moment, "Her Imperial Majesty and Her Majesty's Government have been in contact with the Tsar of the Roanians. We were aware that the Roanians intended to intervene on behalf of His Majesty, but we retained our suspicions about the Roanian motives. Although at this point, it is generally not wise to question a gift given so freely. So we had intended to support Roania's efforts to restore His Majesty as well as those of the Shieldian lead by the High King himself. This presents a most fortunate opportunity for all parties, Your Grace. It will allow us to better coordinate our efforts, and suppress the growing danger Madders--and to a lesser extent Bradsworth--present to His Majesty and Iansisle as a whole."

Rice looks back toward the horse-drawn lorry, "I will also say, Your Grace, that the Star Empire has taken an increasing interest in the possibility of providing other means of aid to the Shield. We hope that once His Majesty is restored to his proper place in Ianapolis that he will be willing to entertain our offers to advance the standard conditions of the Shieldian populace at large."

**********


Being one of the Parliamentarians advocating more cautious relations with the Gull Flag Republic, Marley cannot help but agree with at least a little of what Routhe says, but, as he thinks to himself, he has a responsibility to communicate Parliament's fancy, determined by open discussion and a prelimenary vote, whether he believes that it is a good idea or a bad one.

"At the present time, Parliament has given its support to the Gull Flag Republic, as it is the belief of a majority of Parliamentarians, confirmed by the majority of local councils, that the Gull Flag Republic is an improvement over the previous monarchy, and that if properly influenced can be tilted away from the path of revolutionary terror. While military support was at first deemed necessary, many local councils have started to debate this matter and a growing minority advocate at least the capping, if not reduction, of my nation's assistance in the form of combat units.

You might say that we Robotstanis (eh, there really aren't any Robots who permanently reside in the Robotic Archipelago, for practical reasons) have something of a fear of monarchies, as we have come off badly from a few ourselves, and are therefore more inclined to support anti-monarchical movements."

Evidence of Raoul's 'coming off badly' can be seen just across the harbor, where the shelled remains of the Royalist battleship Soveriegn were towed from their previous position blocking a major channel.

"But it is my estimation that if the Gull Flag Republic begins to engage in its own bit of political oppression, Parliament will pull the plug on all support."


Routhe nods soberly, "I feel that is a wise course. Although I cannot say that Her Imperial Majesty and Her Majesty's Government agree with the sentiments on the Parliament in regards to either the government of His Majesty the High King James, or the anti-monarchist principles they seem so willing to demonstrate."

Routhe smiles, "Certainly I would out of hand hold up the Star Empire and House Alderman as prime examples of a successful monarchy and a truly efficient government. And I would ask that you remind the Parliament that Her Imperial Majesty has absolute faith in High King James ability to govern his nation, especially if some of his more...errant and power-hungry ministers were to lose favor in a general government reconstruction."

But then Routhe's expression becomes colder and far more grim, "I would also ask that you discreetly tell the Prime Minister and the Cabinet that it would be wise to not intervene militarily in the situation in the Shield. Especially if this Citizen Madders is to take the fore front in the government of the Gull Flag Republic. I have personal seen the dossiers that the Ministry of External State Security has on him, and his time spent in Roania. I would not call it an exaggeration to say that Madders sees himself as another V. L. Lenin, a savior to a people--regardless if they need his extremist form of "salvation" or not. And I do not think anyone needs to be reminded of where extremism on the scale of Lenin inevitably leads."

Rice hesitates for a moment, "Her Imperial Majesty and Her Majesty's Government have been in contact with the Tsar of the Roanians. We were aware that the Roanians intended to intervene on behalf of His Majesty, but we retained our suspicions about the Roanian motives."

Duranhold smiled. He had his own suspicions as well, although the sudden offer had seemed too good to be true.

Although at this point, it is generally not wise to question a gift given so freely. So we had intended to support Roania's efforts to restore His Majesty as well as those of the Shieldian lead by the High King himself. This presents a most fortunate opportunity for all parties, Your Grace. It will allow us to better coordinate our efforts, and suppress the growing danger Madders--and to a lesser extent Bradsworth--present to His Majesty and Iansisle as a whole."

"I must admit," said Duranhold, "that I worried when His Majesty arrived that we would be isolated and alone to face the might of the Revolution's armies. I do not worry about that anymore."

Rice looks back toward the horse-drawn lorry, "I will also say, Your Grace, that the Star Empire has taken an increasing interest in the possibility of providing other means of aid to the Shield. We hope that once His Majesty is restored to his proper place in Ianapolis that he will be willing to entertain our offers to advance the standard conditions of the Shieldian populace at large."

"Before the Revolution, the Combined Parliament was notoriously unwilling to undertake technological reforms. I hope this situation will help to convince His Majesty and the King's ministers of the necessity of advancement."

They rode through the edge of the camp - in all its squalid glory - and straight to the tent (much larger and grander than all the others, of course) in which James held his mobile court.

((and I think that here is a good place to pause and let Roania catch up to our present. Hehe. :D))

“It’s interminable, Jones, that’s what it is. Simply interminable!” ranted the man who had been the Marquess of Westergate and was now simply Admiral Philip Clayburgh.

“More news from Ianapalis?” asked Kenneth Jones impassively. They were sitting in Clayburgh’s private office in the Fitzpatrick Inn, which had been commandeered in the early 30s and turned into the Navy’s headquarters on shore in Mansmouth. A hundred, even fifty years ago, it would have been anathema for a fleet commander to fly his flag ashore; however, the practical duties (and wire communications) needed to command Home Fleet, spread out over thousands of miles from the Philippines to the Gulf of Alaska, had forced first H.N. Kennington and then Clayburgh to land.

“What else? That damned Bradsworth has passed more of his ‘reforms’ - the Immigrant Nationalization Act (they’re even making Gallers citizens! God damned brown Gallers! Can you believe that?), the Fair Sex Enfranchisement Act* (my better half’ll have a laugh riot over that one. Women voters! What’ll they think of next? - women drivers? Pah!), the National Emergency Act (God only knows what that’s supposed to do - probably burn everyone the king ever knew at the stake), and the National Identification Act (next thing you know we’ll all be carrying ‘papers’ like a good God-damned kraut!). All this in the past fortnight!”

Jones listened to the rant, laced as it was with racism, sexism, profanity and blasphemy, wearing the same stoic face. He had known Lord Westergate - no, Admiral Clayburgh - long enough to recognize the murderous tempers he could have. And well deserved, too, given that nearly his entire family estate was now the property of the first-ever mayor and council of Westergate. As much as it was giving to the people of Iansisle, so much was the Republic taking from its oldest families.

“There’s always the Roanian offer of sanctuary in Whiteharbour,” said Jones, somewhat sardonically.

“What? Defect? To the Roanians? - I’d sooner surrender to an Effitian or kiss a Chiangman!” Clayburgh shook his head. “This is my country, Jones, if not my state. It’s terrible, being torn like this - one the one hand, the King’s revolution is important, even if it could never succeed. On the other hand, every man killed on the northern front is one who could have been serving his people against the barbarian Effitians.” He threw a glance over to Jones. “I don’t suspect you’ve ever been torn like this, have you?”

“A few times,” said Jones. He would have elaborated but for the knock on the heavy oaken door.

“Damn your eyes, Nemers, I said I was to have no interruptions!”

“Of course, sir,” came the muffled voice of Clayburgh’s steward. “But there is a gentleman here who refuses to wait, sir.”

“To hell and back with this rotten business! Send him in, Nemers, and be gone with you!”

“Very good, sir.”

The door swung open and in strode a man, unfamiliar to both Clayburgh and Jones, in the blue and gold mess dress uniform of a Iansislean Navy Lieutenant Commander.

“Admiral Clayburgh?” he asked in a Noropian accent.

“Well, out with it.” Clayburgh was furious that this man had forgotten his ‘sir’, but too eager to know why he should be berating the impudence of the newcomer.

“My name’s Georges Carmeau, Admiral. I’ve been assigned to your staff, in order to facilitate the implementation of the articles of the Navy Act of 1955.”

“Why, you! Carmeau, I don’t know what thinks you have --”

“Orders from the Grand Admiral himself,” said the much younger officer, proffering a document pulled from behind his back. The tone was not one a lieutenant commander usually uses towards an admiral. “I am outside both your command and the traditional hierarchy. I report only to Ianapalis. It is all outlined in the Navy Act, article three, section --”

“‘Facilitation Officer’!?” read Clayburgh off the sheet, which he had snatched from Carmeau. “Facilitation Officer!?”

“Yes.”

“Jones, can you believe this?! The Admiralty doesn’t even trust me!”

“Trust us, sir. I met my new Facilitation Officer yesterday - chap by the name of, eh, Hayes. Nice enough fellow. I’d imagine that old George in the Gallies is getting one too.”

“It really is the end,” muttered Clayburgh, crumpling the sheet of paper in his bear-like hands.

((* - yes, this is a pun. Yes, I hate me too. :)))

If the news of the High Queen's disappearance disturbed Darsalin, he hid it well. "Well, that...that is a nuisance." The Lord Chancellor said, his expression carefully blank. "As I believe goes the expression in your language? Still, C'est la'vie." He bowed once more. "As I said earlier, I look forward to further cooperation with your governments in many matters... Especially, perhaps, to do with the Maharusthan* Confederacy? Should you require me, I will be at the embassy for another few days." And with that, the Lord Chancellor politely bowed out.

~~

Adrik Alexei gave no hint of what he thought as James spoke. The Tsar declined even to respond to Michael's speech, though ordinarily the man's presumption could have led to a duel. Finally, he nodded. "Very well, then. To Jameston! For Saint Michael and Empire!"

Then a thought occurred to him. He had no real concept of what was happening in Novar Ohan, but he did have a trump card. "And perhaps, if we're in Iansapalis, we could stop by the Imperial Embassy..." At least the Embassy Guards would be able to provide a stiffening to this militia...

*I assume this is how it's spelt. And as to what it means... Well, you'll just have to wait, won't you? And it's nice to know that your people hold such antipathy to mine that they won't even consider my genuine offer... :(

If the news of the High Queen's disappearance disturbed Darsalin, he hid it well. "Well, that...that is a nuisance." The Lord Chancellor said, his expression carefully blank. "As I believe goes the expression in your language? Still, C'est la'vie." He bowed once more. "As I said earlier, I look forward to further cooperation with your governments in many matters... Especially, perhaps, to do with the Maharusthan* Confederacy? Should you require me, I will be at the embassy for another few days." And with that, the Lord Chancellor politely bowed out.

"The Confederacy, eh?" asked Bradsworth quietly. "I was afraid the Roanians might take more notice of our Gallagan troubles than is prudent."

The situation in Gallaga was more desperate than any Iansislean news sources cared to admit. Dozens of sepoys and Shieldian regulars were killed or wounded every day. Some thirty per cent of the Raj's sepoy army were either in open mutiny or had their weapons taken away because of the threat of mutiny. Although Shieldian forces occupied every major city of the Confederacy, this new guerrilla war threatened all of Iansislean Gallaga, from the Chiangese border to Ercolanan Gallaga.

"Give him a day or two, and then we'll call him back here," Bradsworth decided.

Madders just nodded. He already had plans of his own.

----

That evening, Madders strode up to the gate of the Roanian embassy.

Adrik Alexei gave no hint of what he thought as James spoke. The Tsar declined even to respond to Michael's speech, though ordinarily the man's presumption could have led to a duel. Finally, he nodded. "Very well, then. To Jameston! For Saint Michael and Empire!"

Then a thought occurred to him. He had no real concept of what was happening in Novar Ohan, but he did have a trump card. "And perhaps, if we're in Ianapalis, we could stop by the Imperial Embassy..." At least the Embassy Guards would be able to provide a stiffening to this militia...

"Spirit, my brother," said James, "is what will carry us prevalent over the Republic. Truly, God will be marching with us."

He glanced around. "And now, I fear, it is time to retire. Shall we meet in my tent tomorrow, brother?"

((to get us caught up with Valinon's timeline. :)))

*I assume this is how it's spelt. And as to what it means... Well, you'll just have to wait, won't you? And it's nice to know that your people hold such antipathy to mine that they won't even consider my genuine offer... :(

((I usually go either Maratha or Maharashtra, but I'm in no way aware of the myriad of different spellings I'm sure are available. :) And a hehe to the second part. I suppose you could say they're Shieldians first and royalists second.))

((to Valinon))

"What name shall I announce?" asked Weathers, who was acting as James' majordomo, of Rice.

"Please announce to His Imperial Majesty that Consul Lucas Rice, representative of Her Imperial Majesty Empress Friedelinde Alderman I and Her Majesty's Government of the United Star Empire of Valinon, wishes to speak with him and present the offers, opinions, and advice of the Star Empire in regards to the current affairs in the Shield."

Weathers pushed aside the heavy flap which served as a door for the tent and stepped inside, holding it aloft for Rice.

"His Excellency the Consul Lucas Rice, representitive to Your Majesty from Her Imperial Majesty Empress Friedelinde Alderman I of the United Star Empire of Valinon!"

The inside of the tent was relatively barren. James sat at a writing table in one corner, near the silk cloth which divided the interior into a receiving area and a sleeping area. Several chairs were scattered throughout and Rice could see a bed - unmade - through the dividing cloth.

"Your Excellency, His Iansislean Majesty High King James III and His Divine Illuminated Majesty Tsar Adrik Alexei." Weathers then bowed and exited without turning his back to the royalty.

"Mr Rice," said James. "Welcome to the Shield."

((A young kid on a skateboard zooms by and tags the thread))

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Rice says as he bows elegantly, first to James then a slightly less deep bow to the Tsar of the Roanians. "I do hope that I am not intruding too much, but Her Majesty felt that urgency dictated lying aside for the moment more formal protoccols."

"Her Majesty is most practical," said James. "Time does indeed weigh heavily over this entire enterprise. Have a seat, Mr Rice, and let us hear this business of yours."

James closed the journal he had been writing in and waved Rice towards a seat.

((methinks this would be a good point to let Roania have some input before continuing. I don't want to leave anyone too far behind. :)))

"It's a pleasure to have both of you," said Cloon, clasping his hands behind his back. "We've had quite the time keeping up with the fleet's demands the past few months. Most Coastal Command mounts were stationed up in Noropia, to keep an eye on old Effie, you know."

He shrugged. "Well, when the Grand Empire fell apart, the Conclave seemed not too keen on handing back our hardware. They sent back our boys with nothing but the shirts on their backs. Coupled with the loss of our bases and early warning stations up there, we've not been able to provide the antisubmarine deterrent we did in the Walmies' War."

Cloon leaned in close to Denisov and Olatunji. "Between you and me, we've also got bigger problems to worry about than a few bumbling Effitians." He jerked a thumb to the west, across that stormy strait Iansisleans call the Western Marches which separates the Shield from the Divine Imperium.

"Our ordinance? Of course you're welcome to take a look. Mr Yates!"

A head poked out from the other side of the Spirit currently being armed. "Sir?"

"Flight Lieutenant Jim Yates, meet Squadron Leaders Denisov and Olatunji, all the way from Robotstan. Gentlemen, meet Lieutenant Yates. He'll be riding that Spirit later. Yates, you have an hour or so before your sortie, don't you?"

"Well, sir," started Yates. He had wanted to check the oil pressure in the Spirit's starboard wing, which had fluctuated a little more than normal last time up. But there could only be one answer to a thinly veiled direct order. "It would be my pleasure to show our new allies around, sir, if that's all right with you."

"Good initiative, Yates. Gentlemen, I leave you in his capable hands. Au revoir." And after answering any salutes, Cloon turned and walked off.

"So!" said Yates, wiping a bit of grease from his hands onto a dirty rag. "What would you like to see, sir?"



“Thank you, Admiral,” says Lamue with a grin. “They’d be much appreciated.”



The four ships of the Second Light Cruiser Squadron are steaming west-north-west at an easy twelve knots. They are assembled in line ahead, with Quest leading Atlantis, Geode, and Jason, from which Rear Admiral Redford’s flag flew, at intervals of roughly six hundred yards. The four ships are of the Elemental class, armed with nine six-inch guns (of the newest mark, capable of sustaining a higher rate of fire and turning more quickly than the older guns on the Aegean class), capable of sprinting at more than thirty knots or sustaining a patrol over nearly ten thousand miles. All these capabilities were bought at the price of armor, but the Admiralty imagined that the other attributes of the class would prevent fights from becoming down-and-out slugging matches.

The Jason had already won her laurels during the Walmies’ War, when she encountered the American heavy cruiser Chicago, which had slipped past Lord Westergate’s blockade of Manila and was on its way to Pearl Harbor. Captain Ronald Garland had led his little ship into the teeth of the enemy and had been rewarded for his bravery by reducing the larger vessel into a burning wreck with minimal losses to his own crew. The same battle had resulted in the capture of an American destroyer, the Foote, by the Jason when the former had a shell strike her boilers, lost all steam, and was left adrift. A boarding party from the Jason secured the ship without resistance and the destroyer was towed back to Port Laughlin. All in all, the experience left Jason with not only the historic pride - even arrogance - of the Royal Iansislean Navy but also a hefty sum of prize money.

Back in the present, Quest is the first to detect the Robotic ships on her radranger; the Atlantis first spots the smoke over the horizon. The Quest receives the IMEF’s signal and relays it back to the Jason, which then orders the squadron to heave to to receive the flyer. Almost at once, hydrophones are turned up to full and the sea is bombarded by the cruisers’ ASDIC. The chance of Effitian submarines in the area is slim, but James Redford is not a man to leave things to chance.

"Hm...well, your air-dropped torpedoes would probably be a good place to start, eh?"
"'S fine by me. What do you think would fit on those?"

Olutanji points to Denisov's Canberras, several yards distant. The big jet-powered bombers are often seen lugging around the brand-new Rb-03 ASMs, but since there aren't any of those available they will have to make do with torpedoes and bombs.

"A Canberra can hold about two thousand five-hundred kilos..."
"Say, oh, a bit shy of six thousand pounds..."
"Mhm, in the bomb bay or underwing hardpoints. I don't know what these Spirits of yours can handle, but I'd imagine that what works on one of those will fit on one of ours."

*****

The Kuwait and Oman also start using their own modest sonar equipment as one of the Robotic Armed Forces' ever-present pipers starts up with the Edinburgh Military Tattoo. In the meantime, the old Walrus makes its approach. While the seas are a bit more turbulent than the pilot feels totally comfortable in, the Shagbat performs a successful, if slightly rough, landing. Thanks to a very rugged construction, necessary for catapult launchings from cruisers, the Walrus can take more than its fair share of abuse and come out the better.

As the seaplane taxis up to the nearest cruiser, a lieutenant positions himself in the foreward hatch with a boathook and a coil of rope.

"Ahoy! P'mission to come aboa'?"

The two cruisers, both of the Arabia class, are not shabby vessels, if a bit old. Twelve 6" guns in four triple turrets provide the ships' principle armament, complimented by eight 4" guns and eight 21" torpedo tubes in two quadruple stations. Besides that are ten 40mm antiaircraft guns and a liberal smattering of machine guns. By far the most interesting piece of equipment between the two ships, this mounted on the Oman, is an experimental anti-aircraft missile launcher dubbed the Slug, theoretically capable of hitting enemy planes almost ten kilometers away.

*****

"I will be sure to communicate your feelings to Parliament, madam. As you are well aware, my station is purely advisory, and all major issues of foreign policy will have to be voted on by Parliament itself. But I will certainly try my best to put your opinions in the clearest terms in my report. I do not know Madders, in fact very few Robotstanis do, and the very last thing we want is a schism with our Valinor friends, and rest assured that our relations with the Star Empire come before those with the Gull Flag Republic. So at this time, that's all I can say with certainty."

"Right, follow me," said Yates. He led the two officers into a concrete hanger and pointed at the torpedoes mounted on the Spirits in there.

"That's our Model 1947 18" air drop torpedo," said Yates. "A smidge more than 2,000 pounds and mounting a 690 pound warhead." He tried to calculate that in metric for Dennisov and Olutanji but failed.

----

As the seaplane taxis up to the nearest cruiser, a lieutenant positions himself in the foreward hatch with a boathook and a coil of rope.

"Ahoy! P'mission to come aboa'?"

The hook and rope is received aboard the Jason and the Walrus tied off. A "permission granted!" floats back on the wind to its crew.

The lieutenant and any of his crew that are coming are helped aboard the cruiser, where they are confronted not only by the captain but also by Rear Admiral James Redford himself.

"Welcome aboard," says the captain.

Jacques Ceascu leaned against the guardpost of the embassy compound, his eyes half-closed. Many members of the Holy Legions cursed being sent on Embassy guarding duty. They were highly trained and generally well educated men, and they felt wasted sitting at guardposts all day.

Jacques, however, relished this opportunity. Less chance of being shot at then you'd find on the battlefields of Jungleton or Africa. He only barely mustered a, "Halt, who goes there!"

His partner on watch resisted the powerful urge to kick Jacques and stepped aside for the director. "Please step through the metal detector, Mister Madders."

~~

Adrik Alexei leaned forward and frowned. "What does Valinon want?" He whispered to himself, fixing the emissary in a glare.

Jacques Ceascu leaned against the guardpost of the embassy compound, his eyes half-closed. Many members of the Holy Legions cursed being sent on Embassy guarding duty. They were highly trained and generally well educated men, and they felt wasted sitting at guardposts all day.

Jacques, however, relished this opportunity. Less chance of being shot at then you'd find on the battlefields of Jungleton or Africa. He only barely mustered a, "Halt, who goes there!"

His partner on watch resisted the powerful urge to kick Jacques and stepped aside for the director. "Please step through the metal detector, Mister Madders."

Madders, with barely a smile at the antics of the two guards - Shieldians, he knew, were often far worst - allowed himself to be put through the metal detector. Other than a watch, his belt-buckle, his keys, and some coins, he had nothing on him.

"I was wondering if it might be possible to arrange a meeting with Chancellor Darsalin," he said.

Adrik Alexei leaned forward and frowned. "What does Valinon want?" He whispered to himself, fixing the emissary in a glare.

James lifted an eyebrow at this. Valinon and Roania, as events had proved so far, might be his two strongest allies - what was this enmity he now sensed between Adrik Alexei and this Rice?

"I will be sure to communicate your feelings to Parliament, madam. As you are well aware, my station is purely advisory, and all major issues of foreign policy will have to be voted on by Parliament itself. But I will certainly try my best to put your opinions in the clearest terms in my report. I do not know Madders, in fact very few Robotstanis do, and the very last thing we want is a schism with our Valinor friends, and rest assured that our relations with the Star Empire come before those with the Gull Flag Republic. So at this time, that's all I can say with certainty."


Routhe nods deeply and smiles slightly, "Thank you, Minister, I greatly appreciate you finding the time to join me. And I have no doubt that you will present the thoughts of Her Imperial Majesty and Her Majesty's Government in the most prudent way before the Parliament. Unless you have further matters you wish to discuss, I believe our business here is concluded."

**********


Adrik Alexei leaned forward and frowned. "What does Valinon want?" He whispered to himself, fixing the emissary in a glare.


Rice smiles and inclines his head toward Alexei, "Your Majesty, House Alderman has long enjoyed a cordial and mutually respectful relationship with the High Kings of the Shield. Her Imperial Majesty is merely continuing that long friendship, and demonstrating that she does not intend to abandon such a noted friend at the merest sign of trouble. Her Majesty's Government is loathe to allow some fanatical revolutionary to overthrow a long-established and viable government in what amounts to nothing more than a fit of passion. Both the Her Majesty and the Diet are incredibly hesitant to allow that kind of precedent to be set in the annuals of history unopposed."

"Finally, Her Majesty and Her Majesty's Government wish to see the Grand Iansislean Empire of the Shield and its Dominions enjoy a long and healthy continuity as a state. The Star Empire fully believes that the true government of Iansisle has demonstrated time and time again it is the best means of advancing the Shield and its dependencies into a new era of prosperity. And we have, to put it quite mildly, our reservations as to where a government under 'Citizen' Madders or 'Citizen' Bradsworth would ultimately lead. Personally--and given the historical precedent set by the likes of Mao of China, Lenin of Russia, and Ansel of New Ortaga--I doubt very seriously the government of either of those gentlemen would lead the people of the Shield into the paradise they prattle on about."

Rice nods his head toward Alexei, "Does that answer the question, Your Majesty? Or would you like additional clarification on certain particulars?"

Rice nods his head toward Alexei, "Does that answer the question, Your Majesty? Or would you like additional clarification on certain particulars?"

"We thank you for your kind words," said James quickly. "And please know that we hold both House Alderman and the Star Empire in the highest possible regard. Indeed this revol - this revolt is a threat to all civilized ways of life, and against it all civilized men must band together."

------

Desington Harbor, Troobodia

The High Queen of the Shield (in name at least) again turned on the captain of the small freighter which James had chartered to take her off the Shield. He saw her coming and turned away quickly, but it was too late.

"Captain Vendau, this is becoming simply interminable! You told His Majesty my husband that you would be able to see me safely to Turnish by the tenth of December - well, it's almost the New Year now, and we are further away from Noropia than we started!"

"With all due respect, Your Majesty," replied Vendau, flicking his cigarette butt over the side of the ship, "I told His Majesty your husband that, barring unforeseen circumstances, I would have you in Turnish safely by the tenth.

"Well, Your Majesty, we are disguised as the Gallagaman Lucknow, with all the papers and documents to prove it. The only problem: the real Lucknow sailed a week earlier than we had anticipated for Port Laughlin. I don't know about you, Your Majesty, but I don't look forward to explaining to the captain of a Revenue Service cutter how the same ship twice exited Troobodia Bay without reentering."

Anna put a hand against her swollen belly, feeling the new life inside of it. "Then take me back to Dûn Ádien."

Vandau blinked in surprise. "Wh - no! Your Majesty, that would be suicide!"

"Well, I cannot stand waiting here without news. I want to return go back to the Shield - I want to see my husband, to hear what has happened to him."

"Your Majesty, I can't do that," replied Vandau. "I promised that I would see you safely to Turnish, and I will do that. We just have to wait for the Lucknow to return..."

"Wait! I'm tired of waiting!" shouted Anna. "Take me to the Shield."

"How about this," Vandau ventured in desperation. "I'll take the boat and go to Copplestone; I can get a fairly recent newspaper there. Will that do, Your Majesty?"

"I suppose for the time being," she said. "But I'm warning you - I want to be in Turnish as soon as possible."

"Of course, Your Majesty."

"Right, follow me," said Yates. He led the two officers into a concrete hanger and pointed at the torpedoes mounted on the Spirits in there.

"That's our Model 1947 18" air drop torpedo," said Yates. "A smidge more than 2,000 pounds and mounting a 690 pound warhead." He tried to calculate that in metric for Dennisov and Olutanji but failed.

----



The hook and rope is received aboard the Jason and the Walrus tied off. A "permission granted!" floats back on the wind to its crew.

The lieutenant and any of his crew that are coming are helped aboard the cruiser, where they are confronted not only by the captain but also by Rear Admiral James Redford himself.

"Welcome aboard," says the captain.


"Eh, they should do."
"Perhaps we should try mounting one..."
"If its convenient for you, Mr. Yates. And we can have some of our own bombs and torpedoes flown in if need be."

*****

"Is a pleasah to meet you, sah. Leftenant Peter Inverness of the Royal Robotic Fleet Air Arm at your service. I come to give you some papas 'bout our ships there."

Inverness produces a wad of rolled-up printed pages, torn out of RN manuals and white papers, which give the reader a rough idea of the capabilities of the Robotic vessels and operating procedures.

*****

"Its a pleasure coming around here once and a while. I certainly hope that I was able to clear some things up for you."

With that, Marley stands, takes his hat, bows, and heads back to Parliament House.

"Welcome to Oasis."

Albert Cooper frowned at the colonel of lancers, clad in his full dress uniform, who met him with a salute at the base of his aerocraft's disembarkation staircase.

"Colonel Geoffrey Baden, I presume?"

"Himself. I trust your flight from Augsburg was pleasant enough, citizen?"

"Doesn't the heat ever go away in this damned country?" demanded Cooper in response. Here it is, the end of December - no, the middle of Nevinosa - and it has to be at least eighty-five degrees out here. He glanced at Baden - the military man must be just as sweltering in all that green cloth and gold lace as Cooper was in his brown jacket and slacks.

"God bless your soul! This is just warm! Come the summer, it'll creep up to a hundred and ten or even a hundred and twenty." Baden laughed merrily. "And this night it'll be well below freezing. Some place, eh?"

"If you please, colonel, you will keep your answers to the relevant information," snapped Cooper.

"Begging your pardon, citizen," said the confused colonel. "I was only trying to make a cordial joke..."

"If I want jokes," said Cooper, stopping dead and whirling to face Baden, "I will be sure to ask you for them. I was not sent here to listen to jokes, nor am I here to make friends or any other fool thing. Ianapalis sent me here to get the job done - a job, Colonel, which was assigned to your regiment and which it has grandly failed to execute.

"We have fifteen regiments strung out on the line from Empire Harbor to Oasis, guarding the pipeline. There has only been one sector where the nomads have become a serious threat to the integrity of the pipeline: right here in Oasis; your jurisdiction, Colonel Baden.

"There have been no fewer than sixty-two successful bombings on the pipeline in the Oasis sector since last Thararéa, which has kept the lifeline of oil from these fields to the refineries on the Shield almost nonexistent. We've been burning every last reserve we had to keep a semblance of activity for the fleet and the aeroforce, but it cannot hold out much longer. The pipeline must be guaranteed against further strikes.

“Now, I may not be a military man, colonel, but I can recognize a job piss-poorly done. The Lancers are supposed to be one of the elite units of the Republic, but I’ll be damned if I can see a single thing they’ve done right of late. And now that we understand one another, Colonel, I’d be most appreciative if you can show me to somewhere we might speak in private so that I can gather the information I need to do your job properly.”

At that last line, a trio of enlisted men put their heads down and pretended to be hard at work moving crates off of Cooper’s aerocraft, as if they hadn’t been eavesdropping on their commanding officer being verbally berated by a civilian.

“Of...of course,” stammered Baden. He struggled to regain his composure, glared sternly at the enlisted men, then led Cooper to his office.

“Begging your pardon, sir - citizen - but we do face some rather unique challenges in this sector. Please, sir, my men have been giving it their all; the other regiments don’t face half the challenges we do.”

“Explain.”

“The Devil’s Boneyard, citizen. That’s what my men call it. The locals call it Sievantach - damned if I know what it means. It’s a series of caves on western slope of the mountain range to the northwest: a natural fortress. There’s game on the sky island and water in the caves. Worst of all, it’s just a fifteen mile ride to the nearest point on the pipeline. They can ride out at night, hit us, and be safely back before we can fly off a search or route enough men to attack them.”

“Have you tried to clear them out?”

“We’ve tried everything, citizen. They take cover in the caves at the sound of our aerocraft and their guns cut us apart if we try a frontal assault - we have, three times, sir, with heavy casualties.”

“These, caves, you have seen them?”

“Oh, yes, when I was much younger.”

“Describe them to me.”

“Faith! - they are most impenetrable. The caves themselves open to the west, for the most part, and travel fairly deep into the side of the mountain --”

“How deep?”

“Not so far as one would expect. There are some deeper recesses, whence come the springs, but nowhere near enough space or ventilation for a good number of men.”

“And which was blows the wind?”

“A few points south of west, I should say: it provides them with a constant source of fresh air. As summer approaches, the wind will shift farther to the south.”

“A westerly wind,” Cooper muttered to himself. “Yes, it is all so clear.”

“Your pardon, citizen,” said Baden, “but I would like to know something powerful if you have an idea.

“Of sorts. It’s a vile plan, a despicable plan, an inhumane plan... but it should work. If you’ll excuse me, Colonel, I must make a telephone call to my superiors at Jameston Place, to check and see if we still have the stockpiles developed by the Empire. Good day.”

And with that, Cooper left the room. Baden could only open his mouth in protest before the door slammed closed and the government man had vanished completely.

Max exhaled very slowly as he trained his rifle's sights onto the mule deer which stood just downwind of him. It was nosing at some sort of foliage under the heavy layer of snow. He drew another deep breath, took aim, and started to squeeze on the trigger.

The deer started: it had heard something. Max sighed with disappointment as it bolted off deeper into the sky island's forest.

“Damn it, Peter, I had him. What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” protested his partner. “Listen.”

For a few seconds, all Max could hear was silence. Then - yes! - a droning in the southeast!

“Iansislean flyers,” he said.

“Should we run?” asked Peter, looking over the edge of the cliff. They were directly above the Sievantach, but it would be an hour walk back.

“No,” replied Max. “Hide in those rocks over there.”

Peter replied instantly, moving across the fallen foliage of the forest with the same nimble silence that he used on the long treks across the burning desert. Max smiled. Peter was a good boy and one who would grow up to serve his people well. He could already serve them well, in his own way, on these hunts and occasionally even on their raids against the Pipe.

Max stood and watched the horizon until he could see the first black dots appear in the sky. Then he climbed into cover beside Peter and waited as the first squadron of three set up for a run from the west. Max was not really worried: the Iansisleans had raided the Sievantach several times with their flying machines, but the explosives never did more than cosmetic damage to the elaborate system of caves.

The first flight of five biplanes came in low over the entrance of the Sievantach. They dropped their payloads and banked around the side of the mountain, so close that Max could read the numbers and see the green shield emblem on its cloth side.

“There were no explosions,” said Peter in confusion.

“It could be that they have rigged them for a timer,” replied Max. “I have seen it before - we assume the danger has passed, and an hour or two later the thing explodes with unsuspecting children playing on top of it.”

“Like the timers we use to blow up the Pipe!” exclaimed Peter.

“Exactly.”

“But - killing children? Don’t they know that the bombs will do that?”

“Perhaps. They do not care one way or the other, so long as they kill someone.”

“The Shieldians are most dishonorable,” sighed Peter, not so much with disgust as with resignation.

A second wave of bombers flew in over the Sievantach and dropped their bombs. However, one had a faulty release mechanism, and ended up dropping its cargo just about a hundred yards in front of Max and Peter.

“Down!” cried Max, shoving Peter to the ground and ducking below the rock formation which was their cover. “We don’t know how long their timers are - we shall have to try and find out way back to the tree line.”

“Should it be making that noise?” asked Peter.

“What noise?”

“That hissing.”

Together, the two of them peeked over the edge of the rock. Max’s hand was still on Peter’s shoulder, ready to shove him back into cover should the bomb explode. The device sat half-buried in the snow. The hissing noise was from vents on its side, which were busy spewing a yellow-brown substance into the air. Max’s nose sniffed at the air, and he caught a scent - had he knowledge of garlic or horseradish, he might have compared it to that - that he had smelled once before, many years ago. The cloud was quickly descending on his hiding spot; he jumped to his feet and saw that the entire valley of the Sievantach was covered by the same yellow-brown mixture. The strong westerly wind was forcing it right down into the caves.

“Run,” cried Max.

“What?”

“Run! As fast as you can to the east!” Max was shoving Peter out from behind the rock. “Do not stop until you collapse from exhaustion, and never return to the Sievantach!”

“But...!”

Max shoved Peter again, with all his strength, and sent the boy toppling over into a snow bank. Peter was frightened - he had never known Max to act like this before. He picked himself up and ran, tripping several times over his awkward snowshoes, towards the tree line.

Meanwhile, a bomber from the third wave had spotted the activity on the ridge. It swept after Peter, firing its machine guns. Max took up his hunting rifle as the cloud swept over him and took careful aim. He exhaled and pulled on the trigger. The forward observer in the biplane clapped a hand to his shoulder and slumped against the side of the aerocraft - an impossible shot. With a mighty roar, the biplane passed close by and the pilot pulled it up and over the trees.

Now Max turned and started to run, but it was too late. The few seconds he had bought for Peter had allowed the cloud to overtake him. Swinging a gloved hand in front of himself, Max limped forward in the almost knee-deep snow - his left snowshoes had broken off - in hopes of outrunning the wind. He collapsed, picked himself up and continued on. Then Max felt a strong arm supporting him on his left side, lifting his leg out of the snow.

“Hop,” said Peter, “on your right foot. Hop - I’ll keep both of us above the snow.”

“No!” cried Max. “You were supposed to run! Leave me now - it’s deadly! These fumes, they’ll kill you or worse!”

“Hop, damn you,” grunted Peter, struggling under Max’s weight. “Either they kill both of us or neither.”

Together, like some three-legged abomination, they managed to struggle to the southeast. Another aerocraft roared overhead, spitting machine-gun fire to little effect. Then they were under the tree line and the noxious cloud passed behind them on its journey to the northeast with the wind. Max and Peter could hear explosions from the direction of the Sievantach.

“They flushed them out of the caves using the gas,” said Max. He turned his head and aside and coughed. “And then they bombed them when they came running outside. They were all already dead, but the Shieldians cannot stand the thought of even one survivor.” Max coughed again, violently.

“We’ll pay them back, won’t we?” asked Peter. “We’ll hit them hard at the Pipe.”

“Dear boy, I think we may be the only two left alive,” replied Max, still another cough raking his body. “And, in time, you may be the only one.” He reached up and grabbed Peter by the shoulder. “Here, help me find something to use as a snowshoe. Revenge will be ours, but we’d do best to find some shelter first.”

((LRR: I'm really sorry. I wanted to get these story posts out before I did anything else. I'll try to have a reply to you this evening, or tomorrow morning at the latest. :)))

OCC: Its fine, Ian. But I wouldn't expect that a gas attack like that would make very many in the Robotic parliament terribly happy...

OCC: Its fine, Ian. But I wouldn't expect that a gas attack like that would make very many in the Robotic parliament terribly happy...

((Yeah, I can't imagine that it would. :-/

As far as this information goes, I wouldn't guess it's too available until someone writes it up in a foreign newspaper, because the local press won't be touching it with a ten foot pole. Still, it is entirely possible to have a spy in Oasis who witnessed the attack, the preparations for the attack, or the aircraft returning from the attack. For instance, the nomads were supplied with explosives and ammunition by Effitian agents working in Dianatran.

In other words, this information isn't ZOMFG DOUBLE TOP SEKRET!, but I would like to know how you know about it. :D))

((Ps - working on that reply now, LRR <.< >.>))

"Eh, they should do."
"Perhaps we should try mounting one..."
"If its convenient for you, Mr. Yates. And we can have some of our own bombs and torpedoes flown in if need be."

Yates checked his watch, glanced back to the crew loading his Spirit, and the looked back to the two Robotic officers.

"Erm, I suppose there would be time." He waved over a couple enlisted men and had them wheel a 1947 out to one of the Canberras.

((your call whether it fits or not))

"Is a pleasah to meet you, sah. Leftenant Peter Inverness of the Royal Robotic Fleet Air Arm at your service. I come to give you some papas 'bout our ships there."

Inverness produces a wad of rolled-up printed pages, torn out of RN manuals and white papers, which give the reader a rough idea of the capabilities of the Robotic vessels and operating procedures.

"Captain Roger Kelly of the Gull Flag Ship Jason," replied the flag captain. "May I present Admiral James Redford, commander of the Second Light Cruiser Squadron?"

Rear Admiral Redford stepped forward and saluted Iverness, his flag lieutenant hanging at his elbow. He then received the tattered papers.

"I must say that it is a pleasure having your ships with us, lieutenant" said Redford.

Just then, a midshipman ran up. His squeaky voice was short of breath. "Begging your pardon, sir - Mr Avery's respects, sir - there's been a distress call from convoy 63-A-7, sir, they're being harassed by a Roanian cruiser, sir."

Redford turned back to Iverness. "Mr Lamue has brought your squadron up to date on our procedures and signals, I trust?"

Anyways, I kidna agree with you Iansisle. Not really wnating ot get my military involved with its tech level verse the tech level of the timeline involved. However, I had two ideas I want to run by you first, get your opinion on it. I was thinking either A) Have maybe one of my spec forces units, just a small platoon or squad, come in on "moral qualms" or something fancy like that to help the Royals, like the Green Berrets with the Montengyards or along those lines. That, or B) Imitoran sponsered (read: caried out) terrorist attacks on Republican areas in the Shield. Don't worry, I wont be detonating my antimater or plasma warheads, just drive bys and run and guns and bombings and what not. Its all your call, and I wont jump in with anything you don't want.


Never saw a repsonse, probably blind, just need a thumbs up or down...

((haha, no way, dude. I'm the one who's blind - I must never have seen the question. :-/ Sorry!

Anyway, looking at it, I like Option B the best. I've actually been considering an unsuccessful assasination attempt on Bradsworth. Shoot me an IM (screen name: 'Iansisle' (I usually have an away message up, but I'll respond if I'm nearby anyway)) and we can work out some of the details.

Same goes for everyone, by the way - if you have any questions and I'm online, feel free to IM me.))

Yates checked his watch, glanced back to the crew loading his Spirit, and the looked back to the two Robotic officers.

"Erm, I suppose there would be time." He waved over a couple enlisted men and had them wheel a 1947 out to one of the Canberras.

((your call whether it fits or not))



"Captain Roger Kelly of the Gull Flag Ship Jason," replied the flag captain. "May I present Admiral James Redford, commander of the Second Light Cruiser Squadron?"

Rear Admiral Redford stepped forward and saluted Iverness, his flag lieutenant hanging at his elbow. He then received the tattered papers.

"I must say that it is a pleasure having your ships with us, lieutenant" said Redford.

Just then, a midshipman ran up. His squeaky voice was short of breath. "Begging your pardon, sir - Mr Avery's respects, sir - there's been a distress call from convoy 63-A-7, sir, they're being harassed by a Roanian cruiser, sir."

Redford turned back to Iverness. "Mr Lamue has brought your squadron up to date on our procedures and signals, I trust?"

When the Iansislean torpedo reaches the Canberra, it draws the attention of two Robotic mechanics. They produce measuring tapes from inside their powder blue work overalls and take a look, finally deciding that it will probably fit.

"It fits, sah."
"Excellent. So, might as well load up, eh?"

*****

"By all 'counts, sah. We's all set fo' action."

Both the Kuwait and Oman are veteran ships, having fought in the Royalist Revolt of 1938 and against the Japanese during the 1940s (Robotstan fought off a number of minor raids on the part of the IJN, and RAF Hurricanes out of Svenland are credited with downing a number of Condor bombers), and their crews are equally experienced.

*****

OCC: Eh, I suppose I'll pursue the spy bit. I didn't mean that Parliament knows about it, but more of when they know. Mh.

IC:

As the biplanes leave the sky over the Sievantach, a dust-covered figure emerges from behind a rock, face protected by a gas mask. Louis Marley-Fernandes, a geologist from the Greater Kingston Museum of Natural History, encounters a terribly gruesome sight. All around him are the bodies of dead nomads, some killed by the gas, others by machine gun fire and bombs. And if there's one thing that makes a former Robotic infantryman and veteran of the 1938 revolt, such as Marley-Fernandes, quite upset, its chemical warfare. The Royalists won a fair few engagements by employing it, before a daring raid by RAF Blenheims blew up both the main processing centers and Royalist stockpile with incendiary bombs.

After having more than his fill of the scene, Marley-Fernandes starts to run, making for the woods in the distance...

((haha, no way, dude. I'm the one who's blind - I must never have seen the question. :-/ Sorry!

Anyway, looking at it, I like Option B the best. I've actually been considering an unsuccessful assasination attempt on Bradsworth. Shoot me an IM (screen name: 'Iansisle' (I usually have an away message up, but I'll respond if I'm nearby anyway)) and we can work out some of the details.

Same goes for everyone, by the way - if you have any questions and I'm online, feel free to IM me.))

Gotcha, I'll shoot ya an IM tonight.

"It fits, sah."
"Excellent. So, might as well load up, eh?"

A pair of Iansislean mechanics assist the Robots in attaching the torpedo. Yates is starting to look a little antsy, checking his watch every few minutes.

“Anything else I can show you, sir?” he asked.

"By all 'counts, sah. We's all set fo' action."

Redford turned on his flag lieutenant. "Signal Kuwait* - tell her to stand by to retrieve aerocraft."

No Iansislean ship, excepting a few odd flying boat tenders, had been equipped with an aerocraft of their own. The time needed to stop and recover the craft was generally frowned upon, and a fleet with nineteen aeroflyer docks could afford to have alternative means of reconnoissance.

“It has been a pleasure meeting you,” said Redford to Iverness with a salute. After the Walrus had been taken back on board the Kuwait, the Robotic ships were ordered to take up positions behind the Jason in line. Then the entire formation came about on a southeasterly course and accelerated to twenty-five knots. It was nearly 150 miles to where the Dalenford had encountered the Roanian cruiser, and a stern chase at that: it would take some time, even at that speed, to reach the convoy.

((* - I'm assuming she's the one who launched the Walrus. If it was the Oman, switch out their names :D))

OCC: Eh, I suppose I'll pursue the spy bit. I didn't mean that Parliament knows about it, but more of when they know. Mh.

((Oops, I hope that didn’t come across of accusing you of godmoding (or however you spell it), because that certainly wasn’t my intent! Sometimes I talk a little too much for my own good. :)))

As the biplanes leave the sky over the Sievantach, a dust-covered figure emerges from behind a rock, face protected by a gas mask. Louis Marley-Fernandes, a geologist from the Greater Kingston Museum of Natural History, encounters a terribly gruesome sight. All around him are the bodies of dead nomads, some killed by the gas, others by machine gun fire and bombs. And if there's one thing that makes a former Robotic infantryman and veteran of the 1938 revolt, such as Marley-Fernandes, quite upset, its chemical warfare. The Royalists won a fair few engagements by employing it, before a daring raid by RAF Blenheims blew up both the main processing centers and Royalist stockpile with incendiary bombs.

After having more than his fill of the scene, Marley-Fernandes starts to run, making for the woods in the distance...

The Iansisleans had bombed the Sievantach with mustard gas manufactured and stored (but never used) during the Chiangese War. It attacked all patches of open skin, but the symptoms did not manifest themselves for upwards of four hours - sometimes even as long as a day. However, the high concentrations used in a confined area such as the Sievantach resulted in terrible and rapid scarring of the respiratory systems, leaving many nomads coughing up blood even before the telltale blisters had started to develop. In time, they would all die: the medical facilities simply did not exist and there was no one left to take care of them.

Off in a corner, a baby was crying. Its mother had shielded its nose and mouth from the gas, but nothing could protect it from the gas, which might linger in the area for more than four days after the attack, seeping in through its skin. Within six hours, it too would be as dead as its mother, her spinal cord severed by a bomb fragment. It really was the Devil’s Boneyard now.

In a very small cave some eight thousand feet over the Sievantach, Peter collapsed with the bundle of firewood he had carried back from the pine forest. Both he and Max were starting to feel the gas’s effects. Max had developed the first blister, on his face, just five hours after the attack. Peter held out almost eight hours before developing one on his wrist, between the jacket sleeve and the glove.

And so they waited in the cave as the temperature on the sky island dropped well below zero, each enduring his own personal hell, to see what the morning would bring.

((And it's great to see a thread just run off without me. :( :P))

"Of course, sir." The two guards waved the doors open, welcoming Madders into one of the most heavily guarded structures on the continent: The Embassy of the Divine Imperium of Novar Ohan and the Sunset Isles to The Kingdoms of the Shield and Their CommonWealth (A name which still was written on the central structure's wall, though a large wooden sign currently hung down over the second part with 'GullFlag Republic' written on it in red ink). It hadn't always been this secure, if that could be believed. Certainly, the addition of Gendarmes, conspicuous in grey trenchcoats and overseeing the embassy as if it was under seige, was a recent touch.

Of course, a great deal of this security had come with the Lord Chancellor. But not all of it. The question was: Was this a fortified compound under seige? Or was this a fortified compound preparing for the attack? (A question occasionally asked in World War 2 of the Shieldian embassy in Port Agua.)

Madders was met at the entrance by a flustered Press Secretary. "Ah! Citizen Madders, welcome to the Divine Imperium!" The Secretary had clearly not been having a good year. Lately, security had been growing tighter and tighter as the situation without grew worse and worse. Then the Lord Chancellor had arrived, making everyone feel as if a vast team of auditors had suddenly appeared and was looking over everyone's shoulders asking, "So, what is it all of you do every day?" (The ultimate nightmare of a Servant of the Imperial Diadem)

And now there was Madders. Hello, Madders. "The Lord Chancellor has been informed of your arrival, and he's in the Slightly Octagonal Office." Gesturing urgently for the Citizen to follow, the Press Secretary took off along one of the paths through the Green, leading Madders to the Chancery (which, as was common practice for the Divine Imperium, housed not only the embassy's offices but also the ambassador's residence.) Up, through the front door, and then to the left and up and through a maze of corridors and... "Oh, blast. No, that wasn't right."

Then down and to the left and the right and through a doorway and into a block of offices, then to the left and into a room where Nicademus sat behind a large desk, savouring what looked to be a small plate of pelmeni. He looked up from what he had hoped to have for repast only grudgingly, and sighed dismally. "Good Morning, Mister Madders. Welcome to the Divine Imperium, as I'm sure you've already heard. What can I do for you?" He quickly shifted a newspaper (Le Imperium) detailing his latest opinion polls underneath a phone.

~~

Adrik Alexei frowned and glanced away. "It's not for me to say, I am only acting here as a private citizen. Apparently, public opinion wouldn't stand the use of force without a casus belli. Especially not after that debacle my father dragged us into." The Tsar felt oddly out of sorts. He had most certainly not been expecting to still be alive today, and the elation was filling him strangely. "Still, once we get to Jameston I might be able to call in some assistance..."

((Slow down there. Did someone just use a WMD? In my North Pacific? Well... that's one more mark on the ol' Casus Belli...))

A pair of Iansislean mechanics assist the Robots in attaching the torpedo. Yates is starting to look a little antsy, checking his watch every few minutes.

“Anything else I can show you, sir?” he asked.



Redford turned on his flag lieutenant. "Signal Kuwait* - tell her to stand by to retrieve aerocraft."

No Iansislean ship, excepting a few odd flying boat tenders, had been equipped with an aerocraft of their own. The time needed to stop and recover the craft was generally frowned upon, and a fleet with nineteen aeroflyer docks could afford to have alternative means of reconnoissance.

“It has been a pleasure meeting you,” said Redford to Iverness with a salute. After the Walrus had been taken back on board the Kuwait, the Robotic ships were ordered to take up positions behind the Jason in line. Then the entire formation came about on a southeasterly course and accelerated to twenty-five knots. It was nearly 150 miles to where the Dalenford had encountered the Roanian cruiser, and a stern chase at that: it would take some time, even at that speed, to reach the convoy.

((* - I'm assuming she's the one who launched the Walrus. If it was the Oman, switch out their names :D))



((Oops, I hope that didn’t come across of accusing you of godmoding (or however you spell it), because that certainly wasn’t my intent! Sometimes I talk a little too much for my own good. :)))



The Iansisleans had bombed the Sievantach with mustard gas manufactured and stored (but never used) during the Chiangese War. It attacked all patches of open skin, but the symptoms did not manifest themselves for upwards of four hours - sometimes even as long as a day. However, the high concentrations used in a confined area such as the Sievantach resulted in terrible and rapid scarring of the respiratory systems, leaving many nomads coughing up blood even before the telltale blisters had started to develop. In time, they would all die: the medical facilities simply did not exist and there was no one left to take care of them.

Off in a corner, a baby was crying. Its mother had shielded its nose and mouth from the gas, but nothing could protect it from the gas, which might linger in the area for more than four days after the attack, seeping in through its skin. Within six hours, it too would be as dead as its mother, her spinal cord severed by a bomb fragment. It really was the Devil’s Boneyard now.

In a very small cave some eight thousand feet over the Sievantach, Peter collapsed with the bundle of firewood he had carried back from the pine forest. Both he and Max were starting to feel the gas’s effects. Max had developed the first blister, on his face, just five hours after the attack. Peter held out almost eight hours before developing one on his wrist, between the jacket sleeve and the glove.

And so they waited in the cave as the temperature on the sky island dropped well below zero, each enduring his own personal hell, to see what the morning would bring.

"No, that should do."
"I shouldn't think those Adens will be useless in ground attacks," says Olutanji, referring to the four 30mm cannons carried by each hunter.
"So yes, thankyou for the torpedoes. We'll let you get back to your work."

Denisov and Olutanji then walk back to their respective squadrons to oversee maintainance operations and tend to their luggage.

*****

As Yaounde and Lamue sit on the Kuwait's bridge, a rating notices the Jason signaling.

"The Jason, is it, man?"
"Aye, sah. They say to stand by for retreiving the Walrus, presumably."
"Mr. Andropov, summon the aviation party and prepare to recover the Walrus."
"Aye, sah!"

The sound of klaxons disperses the groups of sailors milling about on the bridge, and before long the Robotic cruisers turn and prepare to take aboard the Walrus. Due to Robotstan's acute lack of aircraft carriers (only four are in service) and the likleyhood that major surface warships will at some time operate independently, the RN has opted to keep its cruisers and battleships furnished with some aviation compliment, although the Walrus's standing has of late become endangered by the entry into service of the Sycamore helicopter, which does not require the parent ship to make drastic course changes in order to facilitate a recovery.

Aboard the Jason, Inverness salutes admiral Redford and returns to the Walrus. The navigator casts off, and the old biplane sputters away, taking off into the wind and making the very short trip back to the Kuwait, where it is recovered.

As the old seaplane (a veteran of the skirmishes with Japan, during which it strafed an IJN submarine) is hoisted aboard, the Kuwait and Oman again turn around, to fall in line with the Iansislean cruisers.

(OCC: Its fine, Ian. No problem. I tend to loose track quite often myself. ;) As for godmodding, well, it was not my intent to suggest that you were suggesting that I was! Well, all's good. No trouble in that department.)

*****

Miraculously for Marley-Fernandes, when the mustard gas canisters had been dropped he had no exposed skin to speak of, feet and legs being protected by wool-lined RN trousers and a pair of good boots, complimented by a hooded jacket with gloves pulled over the sleeves. To say that he was lucky would be an understatement.

By nightfall, Marley-Fernandes isn't terribly far from Max and Peter, although in criminally better health. As temperatures plummet, the pair might look out to see the glow of a small fire, next to which is seated a figure wrapped in a blanket, who cautiously picks at a can of spam.

Adrik Alexei frowned and glanced away. "It's not for me to say, I am only acting here as a private citizen. Apparently, public opinion wouldn't stand the use of force without a casus belli. Especially not after that debacle my father dragged us into." The Tsar felt oddly out of sorts. He had most certainly not been expecting to still be alive today, and the elation was filling him strangely. "Still, once we get to Jameston I might be able to call in some assistance..."


"Her Imperial Majesty can appreciate your situation, Your Majesty," Rice says reassuringly, recognizing the momentary hostility has past. "Although she wishes to help the cause of her friend in the House of Callahan in any way possibility, grim reality dictates limits upon the Star Empire's contribution. The growing tensions and willingness to pursue open hosilities between the Ortagan Hegemony and the Imperium of Vernii mean the bulk of Her Majesty's Armed Forces are required to remain close to home."

Rice's gaze turns back to the High King, "However, direct military intervention is not the only option open to Her Imperial Majesty, and I have come to present an alternative. While the Star Empire cannot send the Reichswehr to outright support your endeavor, Your Majesty, we can assist you in other ways. Her Imperial Majesty and Her Majesty's government are more than willing to extend both financial and logistical support to your efforts to remove this illegal government from the position it has usurped. Lord Reinstadler also is ready to put a number of the Ministry's Sardaukar Emergency Response Teams at your disposal, and the Kriegsmarine can make satellite observation and reports available to your field commanders as well."

Rice turns back to Alexei, "We are also willing to extend a similar offer to any...private Roanian interest seeking to assist His Imperial Majesty reclaim his rightful position as ruler of the Shield."

Madders was met at the entrance by a flustered Press Secretary. "Ah! Citizen Madders, welcome to the Divine Imperium!"

Madders just nodded. "I should like to see Chancellor Darsalin, as soon as possible."

And now there was Madders. Hello, Madders. "The Lord Chancellor has been informed of your arrival, and he's in the Slightly Octagonal Office." Gesturing urgently for the Citizen to follow, the Press Secretary took off along one of the paths through the Green, leading Madders to the Chancery (which, as was common practice for the Divine Imperium, housed not only the embassy's offices but also the ambassador's residence.) Up, through the front door, and then to the left and up and through a maze of corridors and... "Oh, blast. No, that wasn't right."

Madders wore a tight smile and pretended to be patient as the bumbling secretary led him up one leg of the maze and down another. He remembered those dark, cold days in Port Agua in the days of his exile when he had stood, forlorn, outside the gates of the Iansislean Embassy, the soldiers at the gates just waiting to carry out the "on pain of death" part of his sentence. He had always wondered what it was like on the inside.

Then down and to the left and the right and through a doorway and into a block of offices, then to the left and into a room where Nicademus sat behind a large desk, savouring what looked to be a small plate of pelmeni. He looked up from what he had hoped to have for repast only grudgingly, and sighed dismally. "Good Morning, Mister Madders. Welcome to the Divine Imperium, as I'm sure you've already heard. What can I do for you?" He quickly shifted a newspaper (Le Imperium) detailing his latest opinion polls underneath a phone.

Madders was not a physically impressive man; he was some five foot four inches tall, slightly overweight, balding, and had a weak chin. However, his eyes burned, just as they had that afternoon in Bradsworth's office at Jameston Place.

"May I?" he asked, gesturing at a chair across the desk from Darsalin. He took a seat regardless of the answer. "Mind if I smoke?" Madders again didn't actually wait for an answer, but ignited his lighter and took a puff on the cigarette that had appeared from under his jacket.

"Now then," he said, "to business. It's a terrible tradition of those royalists, to skirt around the issue for almost a half an hour on end - wasting air, that's all it is. Much better to strike at the heart of the matter.

"Which, of course, brings us to your presence on Iansislean territory. Citizen Bradsworth is convinced that this little visit of yours is all that you say and no matter - that the Divine Imperium really has no interest in the outcome of the coming war with the King or the war with Effit. Here, where we're alone, I was wondering if you can be more honest."

He blew out a puff of smoke and waited for the Chancellor to make the next move.

Adrik Alexei frowned and glanced away. "It's not for me to say, I am only acting here as a private citizen. Apparently, public opinion wouldn't stand the use of force without a casus belli. Especially not after that debacle my father dragged us into." The Tsar felt oddly out of sorts. He had most certainly not been expecting to still be alive today, and the elation was filling him strangely. "Still, once we get to Jameston I might be able to call in some assistance..."

"Her Imperial Majesty can appreciate your situation, Your Majesty," Rice says reassuringly, recognizing the momentary hostility has past. "Although she wishes to help the cause of her friend in the House of Callahan in any way possibility, grim reality dictates limits upon the Star Empire's contribution. The growing tensions and willingness to pursue open hosilities between the Ortagan Hegemony and the Imperium of Vernii mean the bulk of Her Majesty's Armed Forces are required to remain close to home."

Rice turns back to Alexei, "We are also willing to extend a similar offer to any...private Roanian interest seeking to assist His Imperial Majesty reclaim his rightful position as ruler of the Shield."

"Good!" exclaimed James, happy that his two allies appeared to be reconciled.

Rice's gaze turns back to the High King, "However, direct military intervention is not the only option open to Her Imperial Majesty, and I have come to present an alternative. While the Star Empire cannot send the Reichswehr to outright support your endeavor, Your Majesty, we can assist you in other ways. Her Imperial Majesty and Her Majesty's government are more than willing to extend both financial and logistical support to your efforts to remove this illegal government from the position it has usurped. Lord Reinstadler also is ready to put a number of the Ministry's Sardaukar Emergency Response Teams at your disposal, and the Kriegsmarine can make satellite observation and reports available to your field commanders as well."

"I ..erm, we can honestly say that nothing would please us more than to accept the United Star Empire's help in whatever capacities they are willing to assist us. Of course, we had planned in breaking camp to-day, with the hopes that we might be able to beat Ranalte's army to the Wonwhich Pass and descend on Ianapalis without opposition. How soon will the Sardaukar be ready to aid us?"

((Sorry about the long delay, everyone - I just moved all my stuff back into my school-year abode. Hopefully, I'll be back in the swing of things now. LRR, I haven't forgotten about you, but right now I need to run off to Target for supplies. :D

More later!))

"No, that should do."
"I shouldn't think those Adens will be useless in ground attacks," says Olutanji, referring to the four 30mm cannons carried by each hunter.
"So yes, thankyou for the torpedoes. We'll let you get back to your work."

Denisov and Olutanji then walk back to their respective squadrons to oversee maintainance operations and tend to their luggage.

Yates salutes the two Robotstani officers. "A pleasure, sir. Anything for our new allies."

After begging their pardon, Yates rushes back to his Spirit and starts the pre-flight checks.

As Yaounde and Lamue sit on the Kuwait's bridge, a rating notices the Jason signaling.

"The Jason, is it, man?"
"Aye, sah. They say to stand by for retreiving the Walrus, presumably."
"Mr. Andropov, summon the aviation party and prepare to recover the Walrus."
"Aye, sah!"

The sound of klaxons disperses the groups of sailors milling about on the bridge, and before long the Robotic cruisers turn and prepare to take aboard the Walrus. Due to Robotstan's acute lack of aircraft carriers (only four are in service) and the likleyhood that major surface warships will at some time operate independently, the RN has opted to keep its cruisers and battleships furnished with some aviation compliment, although the Walrus's standing has of late become endangered by the entry into service of the Sycamore helicopter, which does not require the parent ship to make drastic course changes in order to facilitate a recovery.

Aboard the Jason, Inverness salutes admiral Redford and returns to the Walrus. The navigator casts off, and the old biplane sputters away, taking off into the wind and making the very short trip back to the Kuwait, where it is recovered.

As the old seaplane (a veteran of the skirmishes with Japan, during which it strafed an IJN submarine) is hoisted aboard, the Kuwait and Oman again turn around, to fall in line with the Iansislean cruisers.

It all seems a great hurry whose end result is only another wait. The squadron rushes towards the convoy at a faster speed than is good for the engines, but it will take several hours.

(OCC: Its fine, Ian. No problem. I tend to loose track quite often myself. ;) As for godmodding, well, it was not my intent to suggest that you were suggesting that I was! Well, all's good. No trouble in that department.)

((hehe, glad we got that all sorted out. :D))

Miraculously for Marley-Fernandes, when the mustard gas canisters had been dropped he had no exposed skin to speak of, feet and legs being protected by wool-lined RN trousers and a pair of good boots, complimented by a hooded jacket with gloves pulled over the sleeves. To say that he was lucky would be an understatement.

By nightfall, Marley-Fernandes isn't terribly far from Max and Peter, although in criminally better health. As temperatures plummet, the pair might look out to see the glow of a small fire, next to which is seated a figure wrapped in a blanket, who cautiously picks at a can of spam.

"Do you hear something, Max?" asks Peter quietly. A slightly louder groan than usual is his only answer.

Using Max's rifle as a cane and careful to avoid putting weight on the blisters which cover his face, the space between his gloves and sleeves, and between his socks and pants, Peter lifts himself to his feet. He stumbles towards the enterence to the cave and leans against the wall for support - only to yelp in pain when a blister on his left hand scrapes against the bare rock.

The sound doubtlessly carries all the way down to Marley-Fernandes' camp.

"Do you hear something, Max?" asks Peter quietly. A slightly louder groan than usual is his only answer.

Using Max's rifle as a cane and careful to avoid putting weight on the blisters which cover his face, the space between his gloves and sleeves, and between his socks and pants, Peter lifts himself to his feet. He stumbles towards the enterence to the cave and leans against the wall for support - only to yelp in pain when a blister on his left hand scrapes against the bare rock.

The sound doubtlessly carries all the way down to Marley-Fernandes' camp.

The sound startles him so that he drops a tin full of watery soup into the fire, inadvertently putting it out before scurrying behind a boulder. However, anyone with decent night vision shouldn't find it terribly difficult to spot a rucksack, water bottle, and blanket on the ground beside what was the small fire. And furthermore, after staring into a fire for the better part of several hours, Marley-Fernandes' own night vision is very poor. Therefore, he judges that an escape without vital pieces of kit in the dark, through unfamiliar terrain, would not at all be a good idea.

"Who's there?!"

((sorry to make things hard for you, but...))

Peter didn't speak a single word of English. He had heard it fairly often - usually from the prisoners they took during their raids on the pipeline - so that he could guess what language it was, but certainly not understand the question. For all he knew, it could be "They're over here!" or "Shoot him!" or "I'm your friend!"

Peter was also confused because he had seen the fire, which went out rapidly after he had cried out. He strapped on his snowshoes and stepped out into the night, holding Max's rifle close to him. Minutes passes and Marley-Fernandes' call went unanswered while Peter did his best to sneak around to the side of the little camp, the pain and distraction causing him to make much more noise than any healthy Dianatranian nomad would.

Without any armaments, Marley-Fernandes crawls up against a boulder and hopes for the best. If any Iansislean soldiers found him creeping around an area that they just gassed, he doubts that they will be terribly happy. But given the fact that they didn't respond to a challenge in English, he considers it increasingly unlikely that they would be immediately interested in arresting or killing him.

Marley-Fernandes, as multilingual as any Robotstani (where even in far northern Svenland one can hear Swahili, Arabic, Russian, Yiddish, English, and French over the course of a single walk), decides to give it another try, this time in Russian.

"Who's out there, then?"

Now Peter could see Marley-Fernandes, who is scanning the great black of the sky island's winter forest with unseeing eyes. He considers drawing his knife and finishing the man without any further noise - Max would have beaten him about the ears for this sloppy of an stalk - but is not sure that, in his present condition, he can beat the man, even with the element of surprise and a blade.

Peter hears the second call, but still does not understand the language. He crouches beside a great pine tree some twenty yards from Marley-Fernandes' boulder and takes careful aim with Max's rifle. Looking down the sights, Peter has to fortify himself: this was no different than shooting Iansislean guards at the Pipeline.

He exhales softly and pulls the trigger. The hammer clicked against an empty chamber - how could he have forgotten something so simple!? Max had taken the shot they aimed at the deer - damn!

With a soft curse in the native Dianatranian language, Peter works the bolt, much more loudly and sloppily than when he was in good health.

OCC: Eh, well, it looks as though he's going to be shot Ian. I don't know if you want to shoot him dead or just badly, I'm fine either way, but I don't think I'm going to get old Marley-Fernandes out of this one. After all, I wouldn't surmise that an awfully large number of Robotstanis are especially fluent in Dianatranian, and Marley-Fernandes still believes that he is dealing with English speakers anyhow.

Just a thumbs up to continue with shooting or stabbing him as you see fit...

IC:

The sound of somebody fiddling with a bolt-action rifle doesn't escape the former infantryman, although with nothing but a notebook and a few pencils on his person, things look rather decided. The prospective shooter could be anywhere, for all Marley-Fernandes knows, and there could be more than one.

So Louis searches around for his notebook and jots down his name and nationality on an empty page before propping himself up against the rockside and listening for more signs of activity, hoping that if somebody is about to shoot him they might get it over with sooner rather than later.

Madders was not a physically impressive man; he was some five foot four inches tall, slightly overweight, balding, and had a weak chin. However, his eyes burned, just as they had that afternoon in Bradsworth's office at Jameston Place.

"May I?" he asked, gesturing at a chair across the desk from Darsalin. He took a seat regardless of the answer. "Mind if I smoke?" Madders again didn't actually wait for an answer, but ignited his lighter and took a puff on the cigarette that had appeared from under his jacket.

"Now then," he said, "to business. It's a terrible tradition of those royalists, to skirt around the issue for almost a half an hour on end - wasting air, that's all it is. Much better to strike at the heart of the matter.

"Which, of course, brings us to your presence on Iansislean territory. Citizen Bradsworth is convinced that this little visit of yours is all that you say and no matter - that the Divine Imperium really has no interest in the outcome of the coming war with the King or the war with Effit. Here, where we're alone, I was wondering if you can be more honest."

He blew out a puff of smoke and waited for the Chancellor to make the next move.

The Chancellor frowned and slowly tapped his fingers on the wooden desk in front of him. "You'll understand, of course, that anything I say is not official Imperial policy as of yet," Darsalin sighed. "And it might never be, too. I'm a bit of a lame duck at the moment, actually. Still, I can say without fear of contradiction that the Divine Imperium's greatest desire is for friendly nations on the opposite coast of the Western Marches."

"Unfortunately, the Republic hasn't quite acted in such a manner during its existence." Darsalin paused looked uncomfortable. "Every day, your newspapers are filled with vitriol against my homeland. Your navy and your war with Effitia threaten our shipping and trade interests on the northern Pacific." He sighed. "Right now, the only actions against you are in the hands of private individuals. But public support in the Divine Imperium for your revolution is at its lowest ebb since its inception. You know how to run your own nation best, I'm sure..."

"However, I can only warn you that there are powerful forces in the Divine Imperium, not just amongst the upper classes, I should hasten to add, pressing for a realignment of our interests in the land group, especially in terms of Tharia and Gallaga." Darsalin looked even more uncomfortable, than he leaned forward and clasped his arms together, looking across at Madders. "We...well, I don't want to be your enemy, Director. But I am only a tool of my Tsar and his Parliament."

((blah, school. Back soon.))

The sound of somebody fiddling with a bolt-action rifle doesn't escape the former infantryman, although with nothing but a notebook and a few pencils on his person, things look rather decided. The prospective shooter could be anywhere, for all Marley-Fernandes knows, and there could be more than one.

So Louis searches around for his notebook and jots down his name and nationality on an empty page before propping himself up against the rockside and listening for more signs of activity, hoping that if somebody is about to shoot him they might get it over with sooner rather than later.

Peter finished chambering the round and quickly brought the rifle back up. He looked first one way and then the other for where he thought Marley-Fernandes would have gone, only to discover with no small amount of shock that the man was sitting still, right where he had left him. Again, Peter tried to force himself to pull the trigger, but simply could not shoot a helpless man who was not even attempting to escape.

"Grat!" he called. "Grat! Noot ve bahkaar Yahnz-izlli?"*

((* I presume that Marley-Fernandes would be able to figure out the last word, at least. Just say it aloud :D))

------

"Unfortunately, the Republic hasn't quite acted in such a manner during its existence." Darsalin paused looked uncomfortable. "Every day, your newspapers are filled with vitriol against my homeland. Your navy and your war with Effitia threaten our shipping and trade interests on the northern Pacific." He sighed. "Right now, the only actions against you are in the hands of private individuals. But public support in the Divine Imperium for your revolution is at its lowest ebb since its inception. You know how to run your own nation best, I'm sure..."

"I should think so," replied Madders. "However, you mention 'actions against us by private individuals'. Pray tell, what individuals are those, and where might I find them?"

He smiled. "I too wish for peace between the Republic and ..your country. It will be difficult, though, to arrange peace if even individual Roanians are caught spying and put on a very public trial. The Ianapalis Mob, you understand, tends not to understand the finer points of international relations. Perhaps if you let me know where I can find these people, I will be able to use what personal influence I have to secret them out of the country?"

"However, I can only warn you that there are powerful forces in the Divine Imperium, not just amongst the upper classes, I should hasten to add, pressing for a realignment of our interests in the land group, especially in terms of Tharia and Gallaga." Darsalin looked even more uncomfortable, than he leaned forward and clasped his arms together, looking across at Madders. "We...well, I don't want to be your enemy, Director. But I am only a tool of my Tsar and his Parliament."

"I don't suppose you mean that as a threat, Chancellor?" said Madders. He chuckled. "You may tell the hawks in your government that the Republic will not be intimidated, and we are quite capable of defending ourselves and our interests, both in the Marches and on the subcontinent.

"The Republic does not want a war either," he continued. "But you will understand that it is hard to let down our guard when you are building a fleet just a handful of miles from our western coast and your government - by official channels or unofficial - is making vague threats to our paramountcy in Gallaga?"

((I keep forgetting, Roania, to tell you Effit's response to your ultimatum regarding their war a bit ago. It'll be something along the lines of "Mind your own damn business", only phrased with a little less tact. :D))

OCC: Eh, not a clue Ian. There's a board game along those lines...I forget what its called, but I always loose at it. Sorry about that, I'm just not the brightest bulb in the box, so to speak.

I suppose you'll have to give me a pointer. Now for a bit more on the cruisers.

IC:

Rejoining the Gull Flaggers' line, HMRS Oman and Kuwait are quickly accelerated to a fast cruise, then flank speed, matching the speed of James Redford's cruisers, and their crews prepare for action. Admiral Yaounde and the rest of the bridge crew take time to put on life preservers and helmets, and marines also appear on the bridge with tommyguns and double-action revolvers.

"For you, sah," says a rating to Lamue as he hands him, in addition to a life preserver and helmet, a bottle of scotch whiskey from the ship's liquor pool.

"Its been awhile since I've been in combat, Hank. You'll have to remind me, which way do I point those six-inch rifles?" Yaounde says in his halfway-funny manner.

"I should think so," replied Madders. "However, you mention 'actions against us by private individuals'. Pray tell, what individuals are those, and where might I find them?"

He smiled. "I too wish for peace between the Republic and ..your country. It will be difficult, though, to arrange peace if even individual Roanians are caught spying and put on a very public trial. The Ianapalis Mob, you understand, tends not to understand the finer points of international relations. Perhaps if you let me know where I can find these people, I will be able to use what personal influence I have to secret them out of the country?"

Nicademus sipped from his coffee, and gestured to a servant bringing in a tray of biscuits. "Try some of the caramel creams, Director, do." Then he leaned forward and frowned. "The problem with me doing anything of that nature is that it could also harm the Republic's standing in the Divine Imperium. Hardly a pleasant stance for you when I have recently received report that as a reward for your 'services to the international business community'*, the ITG* and ASC* are looking to begin selling weapons to your armies and there are reports that certain... groups in Altara are training to fight on your behalf. If we are to ban people from helping one faction, we must ban them from helping all."

"I don't suppose you mean that as a threat, Chancellor?" said Madders. He chuckled. "You may tell the hawks in your government that the Republic will not be intimidated, and we are quite capable of defending ourselves and our interests, both in the Marches and on the subcontinent.

"The Republic does not want a war either," he continued. "But you will understand that it is hard to let down our guard when you are building a fleet just a handful of miles from our western coast and your government - by official channels or unofficial - is making vague threats to our paramountcy in Gallaga?"

"To be brutally honest, Director, I've seen your soldiers. If we really wanted to destroy the Republic, we could probably capture this entire state with the guards in our embassy." Nicademus smiled his unfriendly little smile again, and then glanced across the room at a large map of the island group. "Our fleet is a purely defensive one, a neccessary precaution when the Effitians are mining our waterways and continually testing the bounds of neutrality. If we shared a land border, we'd probably have invaded them by now."

"Gallaga..." Nicademus hesitated. There was indeed powerful pressure amongst the trading companies to begin arming the Maharusthan Confederacy, and no doubt some of them had already sent in their private gendarmies to carry that out. "I'm the wrong person to speak to on that subject, I'm afraid. I've never been overly interested in what's happening in the Empire. Furthest I've ever travelled outside of Novar Ohan was to the Sunsets. And here, of course." Then he straightened up a little. "You have my word, Director. If I find any members of the Imperial Government or Military engaged in undermining your position in Gallaga, I will deal harshly with them."[/quote]

((I keep forgetting, Roania, to tell you Effit's response to your ultimatum regarding their war a bit ago. It'll be something along the lines of "Mind your own damn business", only phrased with a little less tact. :D))

((*makes a little note*))



...

Speaker: The House recognises the Right Honourable Leader of His Divine Illuminated Majesty's Loyal Opposition:

Toni Jarves (Belynsk, CDP): Will the Right Honourable Deputy Chancellor kindly tell this house when the government will feel it is able to inform this House of the current activities of the Lord Chancellor?

...

Mikhail Kolenov (Kierstov-Upon-Jyen, PNR): I repeat, as I have stated previously (Many Hon. Members: Ah!), that the Lord Chancellor is in Micronesia on a factfinding mission. He is inspecting recent damages from the large waves that crashed across those islands.

...

Toni Jarves: Would, then, the Right Honourable Deputy Chancellor care to respond to rumours that The Lord Chancellor's plane (Many Hon. Members: Ah!) took off from Novy Archangelsk's airport and flew in the direction of the former Grand Empire? (Many Hon. Members: Shame!)

...

Mikhail Kolenov: I have heard no rumours. (Many Hon. Members: Whitewash! Inquiry!)

...

Toni Jarves: No further questions.

...

Tobias Grey (Whiteharbour North, CDP): Would the Right Honourable Minister for Foreign Affairs be willing to inform this house as to the Effitian response to the note which the Chancellery sent to their leaders?

...

Nikita Ryalin (Roslin Docks, PNR): Y-yes, the Effitian response. Um... let me look at my notes...

....

Tobias Grey: Perhaps my Right Honourable Friend would like some assistance (Many Hon. Members: Ah!) finding the papers in front of him? (Many Hon. Members laugh).

...

Nikita Ryalin: Ah. Um. Yes. Now, the response of the Patrimony of Effitia to our request for an end to violence in the former Grand Empire was...the expulsion of 2 members of our embassy there and a very curtly stated demand that we remove ourselves from the internal politics of the Patrimony. (Many Hon. Members: Shame! Shame!)

...

Tobias Grey: Will the Minister continue to keep the house informed as events continue?

...

Nikita Ryalin: I shall do so.

...

Tobias Grey: No further questions.

...

Ekaterina Kollenz (Whiteharbour, PNR): Would the Honourable Parliamentary Secretary in the House of Burghers and Commons for the Armed Forces please inform us as to the extent of preparations for the protection of trade in the Northern Pacific?

...

Sir Grigor Razlin: Convoys and submarine patrols are increasing throughout the North Pacific and the White Sea. There have been no major incidents in the past months, and we believe that increased emphasis on deterrence has solved the problem.


Speaker: The House Recognises...

*1: Destroying the Company.

*2: Imperial Trading Guild

*3: Aguan Shipping Coster

((All right, folkies, I think we’ve hit a bit of a stagnation in this thread, so I’m giving it a shot in the arm. Please let me know any changes you’d like made to this post, either here, by telegram, or via AIM (screen name: ‘Iansisle’). I still plan to continue those parts of this thread that need wrapping up (Marley-Fernandes being a major example), but we really need to move on. :D))

“It’s Ranalte all right,” said Michael, riding up to the royal position atop a hill outside of Ducksbury, halfway between Topton and the border between the Javian Kingdom and the Republic. “Just where our Valinor friends said he’d be.”

James studied the tree line across the valley. “Is there anyway by which we could avoid a fight? - slip around his rear?”

“No,” said Michael, shaking his head. “We’d never make it far enough before our supplies ran out. We’ll have to fight him, and the sooner the better.”

The army following the King’s banner on its southward march hadn’t been so much a steamroller as it had been a dying elephant: massive, but weak and haemorrhaging its power at an ever-increasing rate. And now the plucky Army of the Daldon stood between them and their targets in the marble halls of Jameston Place.

“They are being supplied by regular convoys from Shadoran,” continued Michael. “Whereas our supplies trickle in at odd and irregular times: more and more men leave every day for their farms.”

“What are you saying?”

“The longer we delay, James, the larger their advantage over us will be. It is better to strike now, while we carry the initiative.”

James nodded his assent. Michael was much older and had actually served on campaigns (well, punitive expeditions in Gallaga) and James had been quick to put him in tactical command of the army.

“We will attack as soon as you’re ready, Michael. For God, St Adie, and the Empire.”

“By your leave, James.”

“Go. Make your preparations.”

Iansislean military doctrine stressed above all else the importance of retaining the offensive initiative. However, that had been penned nearly half a century ago during the last Effitian war, which was fought well before the introduction of the machine-gun and the quick-firing bolt-action rifle to the Shield. As the Republic’s soldiers were finding out in the Jaizar River Valley, where shell-torn mud mixed freely with Iansislean and Effitian blood, those ideas were somewhat behind the technology.

At last the order came ringing down the line: “Forward the King’s Army!”

----

Across the field, Nicodemo Ranalte smiled despite his foreknowledge of the slaughter which was to come. Many good lives would be lost today -- his own men as well as the traitor royalists -- and he was actually giddy about the prospect. Perhaps it was the long, hard march towards the Wonwhich Pass, to which his army had barely beaten James’. Perhaps it was the long hours of preparation, setting up optimal firing lanes for his machine-guns, and the satisfaction of seeing hard work pay off. Whatever it was, he reminded himself, it wasn’t healthy: men were going to die, perhaps even himself. Speaking of which --

“Sir, you really would be better behind the lines,” pleaded his chief of operations again. He had been repeating the same line nearly continuously for the past half-hour.

“No,” said Ranalte, “My men are about to face the enemy’s fire: what sort of leader would I be to cower behind them?”

He watched the great, uneven mass of royalists surge down from Ducksbury, more like a medieval charge than a modern army. He wondered if James was at their forefront, as he would have been in the King’s position.

“Cavalry on the left, sir,” said the chief of operations, as if reading Ranalte’s thoughts.

“Open fire at one thousand yards,” he said calmly. “We will defend the Republic.”

------

The first indication Seamus Annar received that a real battle had started was the burst of a six-pounder shell, from one of the horse-drawn guns Ranalte had brought with him, just a few yards behind him and to his left. Men screamed and fell, dead or maimed, but Seamus didn’t have time to think at all. Now came the chattering of machine-guns and the heavier bark of an M74B. The entire first line fell down - simply collapsed to the ground like deflated balloons.

And then Seamus was leaping over a small, ancient brick wall, perhaps only a foot or two high, a relic of the Sentrian Empire, and launching himself into the Republic’s lines. He felt a .303 round slam into his shoulder, almost sending him reeling over, but he kept moving and brought his broadsword slicing downwards towards a surprised machine-gunner, who hardly had time to put up his hands in self-defense before he was cleaved in two.

Just as Seamus was raising his broadsword again to kill the feeder, he felt an officer’s sabre slice horizontally across his belly at the same time that a heavy .455 slug from a service revolver slammed into his chest. His sword fell from his hands and he collapsed into the dust. The last thing he remembered was the cry going out down the Republican line: “Bayonets! Bayonets!”

All along the front, the royalist army had broken in the face of superior firepower. It was warfare of a type that the Foothillsmen had never before experienced: indiscriminate slaughter. They limped back north over the bodies of the dead and dying. Behind them surged Ranalte’s army, banners flying and bayonets in hand. Elements of the Third Dalenshire Regiment of Horse were also on hand, kept in reserve throughout the opening charge, to help chase down the fleeing remnants of James’ army.

((There’s more coming, but I didn’t want to post too much before others got their two ken in. :) Also, I’m just dog tired.))

OOC: Sorry, folks, been busy with classes and all. I'll try to read up on what has been happening this weekend and make a good posting.

OCC: Nothing to be ashamed of Val, I've started school myself...although I would appreciate a response in From Brick to Marble, Silver to Gold. ;)

By the way Ian, do you have a map of Iansisle that I could mabye copy onto my hard-drive for easy reference?

IC:

In Ianapalis, the Robotic ground regiment, formerly busy getting drunk and doing the things that a Robotic soldier might be apt to do, are called back to the airport and their Valetta transports by news of warfare in the Foothills region. They are put on immediate readiness to deploy, although the state of the area's airfields is unknown and the force is not equipped or qualified for parachute operations.

Since the Valettas arrived, three Bristol Freighters have also turned up at Ianapalis airport, and carry the Robotic ground contingent's compliment of armored cars (two) and Universal carriers (four).

By the way Ian, do you have a map of Iansisle that I could mabye copy onto my hard-drive for easy reference?

((heh, I ought to make a new one of those. I'll get to work on it right now.

I've plenty on paper, but no scanner :-/

Anyway, expect one later tonight/tomorrow))

((All right, as promised:

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v294/DrIquan/shield-city.jpg

I realize now that the white is a tad hard to read against the blue. Erm, sorry =D. That should have all the important places I've been mentioning, though.))

OCC: Much obliged.