NationStates Jolt Archive

It was the most sensational trial in the history of the Shield. The judges: a tribunal of Charles Bardsworth, Lawrence Madders, and Benjamin Rinehart -- arguably the three most powerful men on the Shield. The jury: the other one hundred and sixty-four other members of the National Assembly. The defendant: one James Callahan, formerly His Iansislean Majesty High King James III of the Grand Empire of the Shield. The charges: tyranny, murder, kidnapping, conspiracy, and -- most importantly -- grand treason during a time of war. All were capital charges in a time when the gallows in Gull Flag Square were claiming six or seven necks a week.

“The Assembly will come to order,” said Bradsworth, knocking his gavel. The sound reverberated in the vast space that was Number One Jameston Place: the building had been designed to hold the two-thousand member Combined Parliament of the ancien régime, and the scarcely two hundred people who now called it home were like a drop of water in a bucket. “We will now hear the case of the People of Iansisle v. James Callahan. Secretary, please note the date and time. Mr Cunningham, you may state the Republic’s case.”

“Thank you, Mr Bradsworth.” Albert Cunningham, the Republic’s first choice for the prosecution of the most important criminal in its young life, stood up and turned to address the Assemblymen-cum-jurors. “Honorable peers: the man who sits before you had committed the greatest atrocities against the Shield and its honest stock. He does not do so in the name of any sovereign power, derived from the will of the People United. He does not even do so in the name of God the Creator! - nay, this man, this animal, seeks to destroy the freedom of Iansisle in the vain pursuit of nothing but personal glory!

“The state is prepared to prove that James Callahan, offered the right to be a constitutional part of the Iansislean government, turned his back on all that we love and, with Effitian backing, rode north. His goals were nothing but to regain the absolute power of his ancestors, which we the people worked so hard and shed so much blood to check. And, of course, his actions might have precipitated a full-scale collapse of the Eastern Front, with untold consequences for millions of Shieldians, their sons, and their sons’ sons. Gentlemen, I beg you not to show this man undue sympathy, for he has shown none to our wives and children.”

The opening remarks concluded, Bradsworth entreated James to do the same. “I understand that you have chosen to represent yourself, Mr Callahan?”

“No,” James said, who did not bother to rise. His left leg was wrapped up in a cast; it had been broken at the Battle of Ducksbury, when his horse had been shot from under him and pinned him to the ground with its corpse. “I do not need representation, for I do not recognize the right of this court to try me. I am the son of Toto IV, High King of the Shield, and the grandson of Jessica I. The throne of Iansisle has passed to me in the same unbroken line that has continued since 1361. I am the absolute and unquestionable ruler of Iansisle. Mark that well, secretary, for I know that, whatever the decision of this mockery of a court, God shall prove me right.”

The jeers, which had started midway through James’ speech, rose to a fevered pitch at the last sentence. Bradsworth had to knock his gavel several times before order was restored.

“Mr Cunningham, will you please call your first witness?”

“With pleasure, Mr Bradsworth. The Republic would like to call Major General Nicodemo Ranalte of the Army of the Daldon.”

Upon the announcement followed cheers such as to make the jeers of earlier seem like a mere prelude to the great noise. Most of the hall leapt to their feet to applaud the conquering hero of the Republic; their clapping drowned out Bradsworth’s desperate attempts to regain order. Ranalte, in his khaki uniform and red beret, even seemed a bit disturbed by the length of the applause.

“General Ranalte,” started Cunningham when the noise had died down to a tolerable level. “Will you please, in your own words, describe the action of 29 Nevinosa IV?”

“Of course,” Ranalte said, his Sentrian accent very pronounced. “My scouts encountered what they judged to be the vanguard of a large hostile army late on 28 Nevinosa. They came under fire from said force and withdrew to a safe distance. It was quickly apparent to me that this army must be making for the Wonwich Gap, so as to descend unchallenged into the Penton basin. I deployed my army so as to block such a route and deployed more scouts.

“The next morning -- that was the 29th of Nevinosa, Mr Cunningham -- my scouts found the enemy army assembled for battle. They were much more numerous than me, so I decided to move up to the very edge of the Eldenwood, anchoring my left flank at Startodan Hill. There was some danger of a breakthrough on my right flank, because it was open with only a single regiment defending it. However, the enemy -- much as I suspected they would -- concentrated primarily on a frontal attack, with only minor skirmishes taking place on the right flank.

“Of course a frontal charge against a prepared modern army was suicidal, and most men failed to even reach our lines. We broke their morale and they began to flee northwards, back towards Ducksbury. I did not want to allow them the opportunity to regroup, so I sent forward the line and ordered the Eleventh Shadoran Hussars to give chase. They were doing so admirably when the enemy cavalry, which had apparently been spared the initial charge, engaged them. The Northmen are ferocious horsemen, of course, but the Eleventh acquitted themselves well and managed to not only defeat the enemy cavalry but then ride down what remained of their infantry.”

Every Assemblyman was on his feet again, applauding the victorious Ranalte. Cunningham almost had to shout to make himself heard over the din.

“And who, General Ranalte, did you find leading the enemy army after the battle?”

“That man there,” replied Ranalte, raising his own voice over the boos and hisses flung at James. “We found him pinned under his own horse, the standard-bearer at his side and attempting to get him free. After being taken in for questioning, he repeatedly declared to my men that he was, and I quote, ‘the one true King of the Shield’ and that they owed him their allegiance.”

“Outrage! Outrage!” cried a hundred voices. Bradsworth rapped his gavel still more strongly.

“If it be pleasing to the court,” said Cunningham, addressing Bradsworth, “I would like General Ranalte, as the man on the scene, to analyze those events which he just described to us.”

Bradsworth could hardly protest against the storm of shouts which cheered on the suggestion.

“Well,” said Ranalte, “you’ll have to forgive my blunt manner. I hardly know words for times such as these and places such as this, but it was easy enough for me to see what had happened. Citizen Callahan, who styles himself King of a free people, fled north from the aftereffects of his own misrule. He then rose an army among the barbaric Foothillsmen, with the intention of using it to take hostage this very body -- given the fight against the Effitians, a betrayal of those whom he claims to rule.”

Again, the Assembly broke into catcalls and flung insults down upon James from the balcony. Bradsworth, after several minutes, managed to regain order.

“Is the state ready to present its next witness?”

“We are, citizen,” replied Cunningham with a fox-like grin. But none of the following testimonies could compete with Ranalte’s, either in factual exposition or in the reaction from the Assembly. At last, it turned to James’ chance to call witness.

“Who calls the defense?”

“There is no one who could speak on my defense,” said James, still refusing to stand in the presence of the court. “This entire ‘trail’ is a sham of the highest magnitude -- I am God’s appointed on Earth; no jury of mere men can try me.”

The catcalls, which had died out after nearly three hours of testimony, were back and stronger than ever.

“Then we are ready to take a vote,” said Bradsworth. “Worthy Assemblymen, please bear in mind both your own responsibilities to those who elected you and the evidence herein presented in making your final decision. Is James Callahan guilty or innocent of treason, tyranny, kidnapping, murder, and conspiracy? Cast your votes now.”

Such was spoken, and all one hundred and sixty-seven members of the National Assembly, including Bradsworth, Madders, and Rinehart, bent and scribbled over their ballots. These were collected by the pages and counted and the final result:

“One hundred and sixty-four members of the National Assembly have found James Callahan guilty as charged on all counts. Two members has abstained from voting; one ballot is missing,” read Charles Bradsworth. “The vote is concluded: the verdict is guilty. Citizen Callahan, have you anything to say before this tribunal decides your sentence?”

“I am innocent; God will punish all those who cast their lots against their anointed King.”

“Then the tribunal will adjourn to conference,” said Bradsworth, banging his gavel. “One hour recess.”

"I do not see why we had to adjorn," said Madders sourly. "Just because he used to be the king does not entitle him to special privlidges in the new society."

"Or is it simply because you cannot wait to send another neck to the gallows, Lawrence?" asked Bradsworth, rubbing his temples. "Like it or not, we have to move carefully in this trial."

"Why?"

"Well," said Rinehart, "for one thing, Knootoss has all but threatened to cut diplomatic ties based on their narrow-minded view of our justice system."

"Knootoss," scoffed Madders. "We can deal without their sort - greedy, exploitative capitalists."

"Who also happen to be one of the few countries willing to receive an embassy from this republic," said Bradsworth. "And who have expressed an interest in furthering our relationship."

"James Callahan rode against this very government!" exclaimed Madders. "Surely you cannot be thinking of granting him leave to live out his years in Knootoss, plotting to regain his throne every minute of the time? There has never been, there never will be a greater threat against the republic!"

"Of course I'm not considering that," snapped Bradsworth. "All I'm saying is that sending such a public figure to the gallows on our conviction alone would not be ..prudent."

"And what do you propose?" demanded Madders. "That we lock him up, until such time as Jeff Williams shows up to set him free? I don't need to remind you of that Larkinian crackpot is capable of!"

"Well, I have no desire to have this regime be labeled as regicides on the world stage!" retorted Bradsworth. His face was burning hot; normally, his debates with Madders did not have this effect on him.

"Gentlemen, please!" insisted Rinehart, afraid that the two men would soon come to blows. "There may be a third way: a referendum. We turn the issue over to the people whom he would call his subjects."

"A referendum," said Bradsworth quietly, mulling the idea over in his head. "Democratic, to be sure. But what if they vote against hanging him? Do we just let Callahan go?"

"Given the mood of the mob right now?" asked Madders. "I won't worry too long on that chance."

Bradsworth sighed. He didn't like this idea much, but it seemed to be the only reasonable course of action. "Let's go announce our decision to the Assembly," he said. "I'll have the referendum prepared at once."

*snip*I don't need to remind you of that Larkinian crackpot is capable of!"

((I believe I hear my cue ;) But before I start, is this televised?))

((I believe I hear my cue ;) But before I start, is this televised?))

((heh, I doubt it's televised (as much as the three people in Iansisle who own televisions would want to see it), but it's probably on the radio. =) And, like I said in the other thread, it's great to see you again, man!))

((Oooooooh, so Jeff can find out about this and react? Excellent! :)

And thanks man, all I can say is, I've been here in spirit at least))

Quickly after the guilty verdict, a phone call is placed to the Iansislian Embassy in Golden Agate.

Is the Ambassador available for an audience with the President?

Is the Ambassador available for an audience with the President?

((busted and called into the principal's office!

...shoot. now I have to remember the name of my ambassador to you.))

There was never any doubt as to the reason for the meaning. Trusting to Jeff Williams' ability to control his temper, Luther Cerdan wrote a quick acknowledgment and sent for the embassy's car.

((haha, sorry that took so long. Took forever to find Cerdan's stupid name.))

((busted and called into the principal's office!

...shoot. now I have to remember the name of my ambassador to you.))

There was never any doubt as to the reason for the meaning. Trusting to Jeff Williams' ability to control his temper, Luther Cerdan wrote a quick acknowledgment and sent for the embassy's car.

((haha, sorry that took so long. Took forever to find Cerdan's stupid name.))


((No worries man, and no need to send for the embassy car. Jeff will come to him for this. Trusting Jeff's ability to hold his temper? He's new in the post isn't he...))

Outside the Iansislian Embassy

A phalanx of black SUV's come roaring down the street, a group of police in front ushering people out of the way. The vehicles didn't slow to a stop in front of the embassy as much as screech to a halt.

The doors to the vehicles opened and the secret service agents jumped out scant moments before the door of the middle SUV flew open, hinges groaning under the force, and President Jeff Williams surged out and made for the gate. His sunglasses hid his eyes and the rest of him giving no emotional indications as he walked up to the gate and locked onto the guard's eyes.

"Permission to come aboard?"

((No worries man, and no need to send for the embassy car. Jeff will come to him for this. Trusting Jeff's ability to hold his temper? He's new in the post isn't he...))

Outside the Iansislian Embassy

A phalanx of black SUV's come roaring down the street, a group of police in front ushering people out of the way. The vehicles didn't slow to a stop in front of the embassy as much as screech to a halt.

The doors to the vehicles opened and the secret service agents jumped out scant moments before the door of the middle SUV flew open, hinges groaning under the force, and President Jeff Williams surged out and made for the gate. His sunglasses hid his eyes and the rest of him giving no emotional indications as he walked up to the gate and locked onto the guard's eyes.

"Permission to come aboard?"

Shit.

Luther Cerdan unknowingly echoed the thoughts of another Iansislean a thousand miles away when he watched the presidential procession approach. There was no way Williams could have gotten here so fast -- he must have left before that note was even sent. What the hell had he planned to do if the answer had been no? Storm the gate?

Probably...

And, given the state of the two grenadiers guarding the front gate, he probably would have been successful. They were quaking in their boots: posting to guard duty meant the chance to avoid a trip to the Effitian front; they hadn't anticipated being thrust as the primary obstical between the Six Million Dollar President and the government that was putting his best friend on trial. Even the Gull Flag had not the courage to wave in the face of his charge.

"Um, the ambassador is expecting you, Mr President," one of the grenadiers managed.

And indeed Cerdas was, in the foyer of the embassy.

Shit.

Luther Cerdan unknowingly echoed the thoughts of another Iansislean a thousand miles away when he watched the presidential procession approach. There was no way Williams could have gotten here so fast -- he must have left before that note was even sent. What the hell had he planned to do if the answer had been no? Storm the gate?

Probably...

And, given the state of the two grenadiers guarding the front gate, he probably would have been successful. They were quaking in their boots: posting to guard duty meant the chance to avoid a trip to the Effitian front; they hadn't anticipated being thrust as the primary obstical between the Six Million Dollar President and the government that was putting his best friend on trial. Even the Gull Flag had not the courage to wave in the face of his charge.

"Um, the ambassador is expecting you, Mr President," one of the grenadiers managed.

And indeed Cerdas was, in the foyer of the embassy.


((Well, if the answer had been no, he wouldn't have stormed the gate, he'd have ripped it off of it's hinges, carried it inside and beaten Cerdas with it ;) ))

Jeff nodded to the grenadier, "As you were, son."

The entourage walked past and tried to keep up with the Six Million Dollar President (I love that!) as he stalked across the length of the courtyard and stormed up the stairs into the foyer.

An election on the line and... f--- it, nuke the site from orbit... be nice, be cool, don't kill him yet.

"Mr. Ambassador," Jeff said as the guards caught up. "I hear we have a slight situation update in the matter of your ongoing war."

((Well, if the answer had been no, he wouldn't have stormed the gate, he'd have ripped it off of it's hinges, carried it inside and beaten Cerdas with it ;) ))

((hahaha. Aw, that image's enough to make me change my answer =P))

"Mr President!" replied Cerdas, a large (and fake) smile spreading from jowl to jowl. "What an unexpec --"

"Mr. Ambassador," Jeff said as the guards caught up. "I hear we have a slight situation update in the matter of your ongoing war."

"The war?" said Cerdas, arching a white eyebrow. "Yes, of course: you've heard that Marshal Chapman's been forced to retreat in Ninth Whitman. An awful setback, of course, but I remain confident that he will soon carry Lakeriverwood."

Maybe that really is what he came about? ...oh God, I'm dead.

"The war?" said Cerdas, arching a white eyebrow. "Yes, of course: you've heard that Marshal Chapman's been forced to retreat in Ninth Whitman. An awful setback, of course, but I remain confident that he will soon carry Lakeriverwood."

Situational Analysis: Rip Head off - 100% chance of success; sh*t down throat - 100% chance of success; Doing so and getting out in one piece and not starting war - 0% chance of success.

Two outta three ain't bad

"Yes, spot on Ambassador. Good for Marshal Chapman for having the insight to know when to retreat to a safer position," Jeff nodded.

"Now, I think we both know why I'm here. You seem to have a little bit of a problem back home."

"Yes, spot on Ambassador. Good for Marshal Chapman for having the insight to know when to retreat to a safer position," Jeff nodded.

(( snap! ))

"Now, I think we both know why I'm here. You seem to have a little bit of a problem back home."

"Ah, you mean the trial of Citizen Callahan," said Cerdas. "Yes, I have been listening to that on the radio. I understand that they just delivered the verdict?"

(( snap! ))

((No, that happens after Jeff wraps his hands around Cerdas' neck :P ))


"Ah, you mean the trial of Citizen Callahan," said Cerdas. "Yes, I have been listening to that on the radio. I understand that they just delivered the verdict?"

"Yes they did. And I understand that the verdict could have been delivered before the trial even started," Jeff said. "Now what can we do to... ease tensions that have been cranked up and make sure that Ja..Citizen Callahan doesn't die?"

I should have killed Bradsworth when I had the chance, Jeff thought as he moved him near the top of his shit list.

((heh))

"Well," said Cerdas carefully, "from what I understand, the matter of sentencing is being put before the good voters of Iansisle -- perhaps a letter-writing campaign might have some effect?"

"Hmmmm, a letter-writing campaign might not be a bad idea. Maybe I should make an appearance in Iansisle to promote it. Of course, that might not be the best of ideas, because God knows what might happen if I'm there.

"Although then there are the questions of legality of the trial, you know, because to think that a former leader would be found guilty by a kangaroo court might not reflect on the republic very well.

"Or we could talk about some kind of banishment, possibly to Larkinia, instead of death. Think about it, showing mercy and allowing your opponent to live, yet never return. It might, relax, some of the... what's the word I'm looking for... animosity that has been building."

"Hmmmm, a letter-writing campaign might not be a bad idea. Maybe I should make an appearance in Iansisle to promote it. Of course, that might not be the best of ideas, because God knows what might happen if I'm there.

Was that a threat?

"Although then there are the questions of legality of the trial, you know, because to think that a former leader would be found guilty by a kangaroo court might not reflect on the republic very well.

"Or we could talk about some kind of banishment, possibly to Larkinia, instead of death. Think about it, showing mercy and allowing your opponent to live, yet never return. It might, relax, some of the... what's the word I'm looking for... animosity that has been building."

"Animosity," said Cerdas, his voice hollow. "Hrmm. I think that it might do indeed. Of course, I'll have to forward this up to Ianapalis -- maybe they could even add it to the ballot!"

"Animosity," said Cerdas, his voice hollow. "Hrmm. I think that it might do indeed. Of course, I'll have to forward this up to Ianapalis -- maybe they could even add it to the ballot!"

Jeff cocked an eyebrow at the sudden tone in Cerdas' voice.

Guy's got balls, gotta give him that

"That's a great idea," Jeff nodded, "in fact, if it were the only option on the ballot, that would be even better! Of course I know you can't do that, I understand that.

"Maybe we can work out an arraignment for a swap? James in exchange for.. "

"That's a great idea," Jeff nodded, "in fact, if it were the only option on the ballot, that would be even better! Of course I know you can't do that, I understand that.

"Maybe we can work out an arraignment for a swap? James in exchange for.. "

"I'm afraid that Iansisle does pride itself on being a democratic nation," said Cerdas.

Unlike Larkinia, he added in his head. There was nothing that would make him say that to Jeff Williams right now.

"The final decision really is up to the voters, and it's our duty to provide them with choices."

"An arraignment?" he asked, somewhat curious. "I'm not sure that our justice system functions ...in that manner."

As the discussion was going on, one of the agents, a protocol agent, did everything he could do to keep from shaking his head. What in the hell is President Williams doing? That's why he shouldn't have been here, he's too personally attached to this.

Christ this is going to take forever to patch up. A lot longer than my lifetime if he keeps this up. When did he turn into an Imitoran.

"I'm not suggesting that your justice system would accept a bribe, but I am saying that committing regicide might hurt Iansisle's trade status. You're already in the middle of a war, which hurts international investement in any nation," Jeff said.

"Excuse me, Mr. President," the protocol man said nervously smiling to the two men, "Might we retire back to the Palace while the Ambassador take your.. suggestion for the ballot, under consideration?"

When did he turn into an Imitoran.

((heh))

"I'm not suggesting that your justice system would accept a bribe, but I am saying that committing regicide might hurt Iansisle's trade status. You're already in the middle of a war, which hurts international investement in any nation," Jeff said.

"Of course," said Cerdas.

"Excuse me, Mr. President," the protocol man said nervously smiling to the two men, "Might we retire back to the Palace while the Ambassador take your.. suggestion for the ballot, under consideration?"

Ambassador Cerdas had never seen a man's throat ripped out by someone else's bare hands and briefly wondered if he was about to see just that.

"I'll be sure to forward it to my superiors in Ianapalis at once," he said. "It really is a good idea, Mr President."

((blah, I'm off my game. It's just after 5 o'clock here; I need to go to bed =P))

((me too, I'm so tired....zzzzzzzzz.... catch you later, maybe classes will relax now and I can get back to what matters! G'Night dude!))

Ambassador Cerdas had never seen a man's throat ripped out by someone else's bare hands and briefly wondered if he was about to see just that.

"I'll be sure to forward it to my superiors in Ianapalis at once," he said. "It really is a good idea, Mr President."

Jeff looked at the protocol officer, who continued speaking.

"Mr. President, I think we can understand that you're very emotionally invested in this case, but in this case sir we should leave before anything else is said that might worsen the situation."

Cerdas could see a bead of sweat drop from the man's temple.

Jeff nodded, "Of course, and you are right. I do apologize Ambassador. He's right, I am very connected to this case and am willing to do what I can to make sure that James isn't killed, and not alienate the citizens of Iansisle at the same time."

Until I can get a strike team in there...

Jeff shook Ambassador Cerdas' hand and walked back toward the gate while the protocol officer stayed behind.

"If you have a moment Mr. Ambassador, I'd like to try and undo this disaster if I could."

Jeff nodded, "Of course, and you are right. I do apologize Ambassador. He's right, I am very connected to this case and am willing to do what I can to make sure that James isn't killed, and not alienate the citizens of Iansisle at the same time."

Until I can get a strike team in there...

Jeff shook Ambassador Cerdas' hand and walked back toward the gate while the protocol officer stayed behind.

"If you have a moment Mr. Ambassador, I'd like to try and undo this disaster if I could."

"Apology quite accepted, Mr President," said Cerdas, shaking Jeff's hand.

"Oh?" he asked warily, hesitating to walk beyond the gate. "What did you have in mind?"

The man shrugged, "I'm not sure. It's not a good idea to have the president rolling into an embassy all fired up though, and I'd like to start off with an apology for the.." he looked around to make sure Jeff was gone, "childish way he acted."

The man shrugged, "I'm not sure. It's not a good idea to have the president rolling into an embassy all fired up though, and I'd like to start off with an apology for the.." he looked around to make sure Jeff was gone, "childish way he acted."

(blah, that's a big 'oops!' on my part. I thought it was Jeff that wanted a word. My bad, I'll try to recover the best I can ;) )

"I understand," said Cerdas. "From what I understand, Mr Williams can have a hard time mastering his temper; quite understandable in a case which involves him in such a personal manner.

"Of course," he added, "I'm not quite sure how this incident will look in Ianapalis. We, of course, desire nothing but friendly relations with Larkinia and all the rest of the New Highlands...but certain events here might be taken in a light which I doubt either party intended."

"Exactly," the man said. "So regularly to make amends I'd offer you an invitation to attend a dinner at the Palace, but that's probably a bad idea. What about, some kind of bilateral trade talks, or a diplomatic meeting to shore up relations?"

"Exactly," the man said. "So regularly to make amends I'd offer you an invitation to attend a dinner at the Palace, but that's probably a bad idea. What about, some kind of bilateral trade talks, or a diplomatic meeting to shore up relations?"

"I think that is exactly the sort of thing which could patch up relations between our two great states," said Cerdas with a smile. "I would be happy to attend a meeting along those lines, mister...?"

From the evening edition of the Ianapalis Star-Tribune:

A Christmas Miracle!
Chapman delivers long-promised breakthrough on Eastern Front!

WITH THE TROOPS IN BURDENSHREW, GADSAN -- With temperatures dropping below ten degrees below zero and half a foot of snow on the ground, many seasoned campaigners questioned Field Marshal Chapman's decision to launch a major offensive just days before Christmas. They questioned even more his determination to attack without the heavy artillery and aerobomb barrage thought necessary to destroy Effitian defensive lines.

However, Chapman proved that the element of surprise can often be more important than any amount of brute force. To say that the Effitians were surprised when an army of a million Shieldian lads started advancing across a forty-mile front east of Lakeriverwood, especially as they knew that votes were being counted in the most important trial in the Republic’s young life, would be a gross understatement.

The breakthrough came near the small town of Greater Wimmers, on the extreme left flank of the charge. Although there is not yet a definitive report, it would appear that the Effitians in that sector panicked when an accident, apparently due to shoddy safety procedures, caused a magazine behind the lines to explode. The Effitians, who had heard the explosion, figured it for a Shieldian bombardment and took cover, allowing the Seventh Vesshampton Regiment of Foot, part of General Bannon’s VI Corps, who was leading the charge, to cover no-man's-land virtually unopposed.

All reserves in the Greater Wimmers sector, spearheaded by Major General Ranalte’s brand-new IX Corps, were promptly rushed into the hardly mile long gap. In a great flanking action, VI and IX Corps and the rest of the left flank turned west and started rolling up the Effitian line. With reports of the breakthrough and pursuit to the east, Effiitan units in the west apparently lost heart and ordered a withdrawal to prepared backup lines five miles behind the front.

They were met there by the advance elements of IX Corps. General Ranalte, apparently in defiance of direct orders to turn and assist VI Corps in rolling up the Effitian lines, had audaciously marched his troops to the north-east, where they met with and routed the retreating Effitian right wing. An orderly withdrawal turned into a complete retreat as Ranalte continued to drive easterly into the Effitian flank.

As of the submitting of this report, the Effitians still have not stopped running. In the seven hours since Greater Wimmers, they have yielded more than thirty miles of Gadsani soil and tens of thousands of bedraggled prisoners -- and still they flee northwards, the Gull Flag nipping at their heels every inch of the way.

MORE TO COME IN TOMORROW’S EDITION!

((An unabashed bump while I think of where to take this =/. Lark, come back!))

(I am sure that I've said it before, and there's every chance that I'll say it again (maybe to-night, after a drink or few), but having quite vanished and allowed WoS to sink like HWMS Iansisle in the southern approach of the Denmark Strait, taking with it the Prinz Eugen of my Iansislian knowledge (I've taken this too far already, haven't I?), I am afraid that I have no idea what is going on over there. At least I've not lost my ability to get right to the point.

I wonder if, while you are thinking, it might be acceptable for me to trouble you for some sort of summary of a fairly basic sort? Probably part (it would be a nonsense to take all blame from my lack of creativity and bounty in apathy) of what keeps WoS from making a lasting comeback is that Great Walmington just doesn't know where to look for friends and enemies.

For our part, the ill-attended war in America is considered over with the collapse of the Tory government. First, Mainwaring's blundering was punished with a vote of no confidence and the imposition as head of government of his Maj. the King (Godfrey III), who, along with a conservative hard-line arranged in nepotistic ranks, attempted to break the Americans entirely, and failed miserably. Next, the Tories lost all support, the King got a big popular raspberry for sticking his nose into politics, and Mainwaring came back at the head of a new dangerously near left-leaning coalition calling itself the Whig Party, swept to power on a wind of Walmingtonian whistling (of the 'if we just turn our backs and whistle a merry tune we can all forget about the terrible thing we did in America and pretend that it never happened' sort).

A New York territory remains held, with an open Walmingtonian history on how it is a city for change, from New Amsterdam through New York to New Yank and half way back again! One famous fat knight has sunk into a pit of stink and self-pity that Great Walmington calls the post of Governor of New York, and desperately needs a new crusade, and the invention of the power shower. The rest of formerly-occupied America in the east has presumably started to recover.

So WoS now sits under the administration of a Mainwaring humbled but quietly looking for a cause to restore national and personal pride, while a sort of imperial guilt washes through the nation, causing a loosening of the thumbscrews in Africa and Ceyloba, a reduction of the term of national service, the introduction of new state welfare, an abandonment of recent technological innovation and progress, and something of an economic slump. That is not to mention a reduction in the de facto influence of the monarchy, the official power of which has never been entirely clear, though, in the proper Walmingtonian way, nobody but a Newrian would suggest doing away with it or even taking actual steps against the King himself.

Nobody really understands what's gone on in the North Pacific. Some manner of revolution, some breaking-up perhaps, and now a war? The Standard daren't report on anything so volatile after tarnishing itself in misrepresentation of suffering in the American conflict.

I didn't really intend this post to end up being mostly about WoS. I suppose it was an effort to offer context against which we... I might like the North Pacific changes/situation to be explained. Erm. A lot of it was probably re-hashed for the umpteenth time, anyway, but this time I hope to remember what I have already said. I'll just put the kettle on, then.)

a quick tag

((Well...the basic summary. Heh.

I guess it all started with the Grand Street Massacre of 1951, when RM&M instigators hiding among striking steel workers fired into government troops, provoking the slaughter of the employees. Rather than quell the rising unionist movement, the massacre instead led to much larger strikes across Ianapalis, which the government refused to help repress. Combined with the Tarriff government’s stated intention to sign a complete free-trade agreement, undermining the protections set up for corporate monopolies in Iansisle, this crisis was followed by a quick and largely bloodless coup. The coup set up the corporates as the complete puppet masters behind the Tarriff government by holding the parliament hostage and using the army to try and break the strikes. A labor protest soon erupted into a full-scale revolt, which was countered by increasingly harsh repression measures.

However, all this could not be kept secret long. The Earl of Inswick, by sacrificing both himself and his only son, managed to sneak a message to the Iansislean embassy in Larkinia. Charles Bradsworth, then serving as representative to the New Highlands, returned forthwith to the Shield and managed to unite several of the largest revolting bands under a single Gull Flag. The revolt had become a revolution and, by late July 1952, Bradsworth’s forces were closing in on Jameston Place.

Meanwhile, RM&M had ordered the battleship Gurney to shell the industrial city of Fort Jackson in Weshield in order to punish the Westerton Motor-Car Company, which had condemned its actions in Ianapalis. Although the Gurney was subsequently run down and sunk by the loyal Princess Royal under James Redford, Weshield was devastated by its loss. With the revolution sweeping through the Empire’s center of control, revolutionary forces under the command of Todd Andrews stormed Dûn Editraequán and declared an independent ‘Republic of Weshield,’ with Andrews as president.

Back in Ianapalis, a last-minute effort to evacuate the High King from the city was thwarted by a royalist party under Grand Admiral Tri, although Tri was subsequently killed in a duel with corporate organizer William Ashtonbury. The duel did delay Ashtonbury in Ianapalis, with the result that he was not able to rejoin his masters in Thortraia. Weathers, always on the scene, then tried to smuggle the High King to safety aboard the Princess Royal, which had just arrived in Ianapalis harbor. However, they were intercepted short of Redford’s marines by Bradsworth’s forces and taken deeper into the city.

(hell, you said a short summary, yes? well, I’m afraid I’ve just gotten started >.<))

A truce was negotiated between James the King, Redford, and Bradsworth, with the result that: 1) the Grand Empire was destroyed. 2) James would be the monarch of a new ‘United Kingdom’, consisting of whatever parts of the old Empire wished to join it. 3) a new constitution, clearly defining the roles of the King and his Government, would be drawn up. By an overwhelming majority, Bradsworth was elected to head the Constituent Assembly which would draft the new constitution and legislate until such time as it was ready to come into effect.

And what of the other parts of the former Iansislean Commonwealth? Noropia, Gadsan, and Troobodia formed a league with a goal of restoring “the old way of things;” Tharia turned up its nose at the rest and went its own way; and Gallaga and Dianatran, being both colonies in fact if not in name, went to the United Kingdom. On the rest of the Shield, Mansford, Thortraia, and the Javian Kingdom formed independent mini-states. Wyclyfe, despite a desperate fight by Gull Flaggers, fell to a Beth Gellert-backed Igovian faction. Weshield, who had already written her own constitution, politely declined to join the United Kingdom, but did sign an alliance.

But there was trouble at once between Thortraia and the United Kingdom. Bradsworth demanded the extradition of corporate criminals. Thortraia refused and war was declared. However, Weshield decided to take the opportunity to annex nearby Mansford rather than help its ally, the United Kingdom, in its war on Thortraia. The Weshieldian sack of Shield’s End, Mansford, is still considered among the most brutal acts of recent memory. In Thortraia, the UK’s Field Marshal Gregory Pennyman fought a memorable campaign and quickly dispatched the corporate forces, sending the Queen fleeing to the Javian Kingdom.

The war led to an immediate cooling of relations between the UK and Weshield. Bradsworth declared Andrews to be an international pariah and Andrews responded by sending his army into Thortraia and attacking Pennyman. The Marshal, however, managed to hold on to his position with the help of Nicodemo Ranalte, a brilliant young Shieldo-Sentrian officer. Andrews was soon assassinated by his lover as he slept and the republic which he had built up came crashing down. Pennyman’s forces swept through Weshield and Mansford with the reception of a liberating, not conquering, army.

((we’re getting there!))

Then there were a couple of quiet years. Bradsworth finished the constitutions and won the first elections in 1953. Buuuut...

By late 1955, James was no longer content with his constitutional role. Moreover, he was concerned by the continual rise in popularity of one Lawrence Madders, the leader of the previously-mentioned Grand Street Steelworks strike. Madders’ faction was more militant and more left-wing than Bradsworth’s, which frightened James. He decided, in early November 1955 (yeah, I’m messing with time here. shut up =P), to flee to the Javian Kingdom and declare a restored Grand Empire.

However, Madders took the King’s flight to frighten Bradsworth with the image of royalist resurgent. Bradsworth was persuaded to write the King out of the Constitution of 1953 and declare Iansisle a republic. Meanwhile, James did succeed in raising an army of Northmen and marched south; however, his army was met and defeated by a republican force under Ranalte. James was captured and brought back to Ianapalis, where he was put on trial as a traitor against the Shield and accused of plotting with the Effitians. He was found guilty by the National Assembly and is now being sentenced by national referendum.

That brings us up to speed on domestic happenings. HOWEVER, on the international front...

The Pater of Effit was assassinated in late 1953 by political rivals within the Patria. The senator who replaced him placed the blame on an ambassador from the Javian Kingdom. Since there was no recognized distinction in Effit between the different states of the Shield, war was declared on “Iansisle” in early 1954 and an Effitian army of 400,000 moved into Gadsan. The Gadsanis, who were simply overmatched in every way, sent a desperate plea to Ianapalis, who replied by annexing Gadsan and raising an army to fight Effit.

The force, which was under the command of Pennyman again, proved inadequate to the challenge of stopping the Effitian advance and Lakeriverwood, the capital of Gadsan, was lost in a strategic retreat. In the furor which followed, stirred up mostly by indignant Gadsanis, Pennyman was recalled and tried by court-martial for cowardice in the face of the enemy. Found guilty, he was executed in May 1954. Thereupon followed a purge of the incompetents who had officered the army under the Grand Empire. In their place rose new minds with new ideas, foremost among them Ranalte and Christopher Chapman, who replaced Pennyman.

The defeat was met in a more practical way by the introduction of a draft in that same month. By late 1954, the Iansisleans and Gadsanis could count almost half a million men under their command; by December 1955 (the time period of this thread), the number was well over a million. However, two factors combined to produce a stalemate in Gadsan.

The first was the large amount of men squeezed into inhospitable terrain. The Jaizar River Valley is not a pleasant place under the best conditions; ripped up by artillery fire, it resembles nothing so much as a muddy hell. It is hot and muggy during the summer and bitter cold during the winter. It is also very narrow: the large armies on both sides formed a continual front from one side of the River Valley to the other, with skirmishing units in the high alpine passes on both flanks. Both sides have a low amount of mechanization; the ability to mass even a hundred tanks for a single battle would be greatly stretching either side. Therefore, the swamps of the River Jaizar are a defender’s paradise.

Also, the Iansisleans suffered a huge logistical disaster in the early months of the war. Financed and supplied by the Effitians, Dianatranian nomads began striking both at the Oasis oil fields and at the great pipeline which carried crude to Port Empire (and thence to the refineries of the Shield). One group, operating out of the nigh-invulnerable Sieventach series of caves north-west of Oasis, were particularly effective: because of their raids, administrators refused to pump oil except between the hours of 10:00am and 3:00 pm. Iansisle’s industry and her military ground to an unlubricated halt. However, mustard gas (stockpiled by the Grand Empire) was later employed to decimate the nomads of the Sieventach, with horrendous but very effective results. The crude flowed once more, and Field Marshal Chapman had his lifeline.

See above post to see what he did with it.

PSHEW! I think that about brings us up to date. Any questions?


Also, I hope you all took notes -- I do plan to test on this =P,))

Eh...did I any of those Robotic troops in the shield see any action? I'd be happy (desperate) to RP a Robotic involvement in combat. They've got Bren Carriers and recoilless rifles!

*Tries to make a few hundred underequipped paratroops seem useful*

Kingston is still blissfully ignorant of the Gull Flaggers' rather underhanded measures against the Dianatranian nomads, since their man Marley-Fernandes has disappeared without a trace...of course, did the story break in the papers since then?

((Well, 'tis my motto: if an RP doesn't exist where we want it, make one up! (my actual motto is 'never eat anything larger than your head', but it's the same basic concept.) I think Robotic troops would probably fit in best with the Gadsani irregulars fighting the good fight on the very flanks of the front, high in the mountains which enclose the River Jaizar. I'm sure they'd be kindred spirits =P

As for Marley-Fernandes, it was rather open what happened to him. Peter wasn't quite sure he wanted to shoot him when we left that; if having Marley-Fernandes alive and riding with Max and Peter appeals to you more than having him dead, that's perfectly reasonable =D.))

OOC: An Iansisle thread I missed...I cannot stand for this! Oh, and check your TGrams, Ian. Madders and Bradsworth better be thankful Valinon is locked into a war in its home space, otherwise they'd be feeling the pinch of Callahan's ideological cousins.

OCC: I think I'd rather have Marley-Fernandes alive, since I've been trying (well, sort of) to cultivate him as sort of a T.E. Lawrence-type character, minus the homosexuality, depression, whiteness, and dying.

IC:

Unsurprisingly, given Parliament's somewhat more cautious approach concerning the Gull Flag Republic, the Parliament's Armed Forces commitment in that nation had not visibly increased in numbers or capability. The Valinor had largely got their way with Parliament following their audience with another one of the innumerable Marleys in Robotstan.

If there were to be no further deployments (a fact carefully hidden from any visiting Gull Flaggers), the PRA commanders had certainly worked hard to get the several hundred Black Watch troopers and several of the PRAF squadrons in the country into combat, an effort which proved surprisingly successful.

Jaizar River Valley

A finger-four of Hunters rockets up through a mountain pass quite close to the Effitian-Gadsani lines, each one loaded with twelve 76mm HE rockets. Navigation in a mountain environment is quite alien to Robotic flyers, the entirety of Robotstan being relatively flat, and it cost two of the expensive Hunters before they quite got the feeling for it.

The four strike planes make for their target, a promontory on the Effitian side, and line up on the bunkers and gun emplacements carved out of the rock.

"Targets in sight...I'm starting my attack. Follow me in."

The lead Hunter dives at the rock face, releasing its twelve rockets in a single salvo, and then peels off just in time. The rest of the fighters copy the move, delivering some 48 rockets against the strong point before they pull away and head for base. Of course, nobody can be sure that the rockets did much damage, since they were designed for use against infantry and light vehicles in relatively flat terrain and not for blowing down mountains. Mission effectiveness is relatively low on the Hunter pilots' list of concerns, now that they've spotted streams of Effit tracer fire reaching towards their airplanes.

On the ground, the Black Watch troopers sit around miserably in their own sandbagged fortifications, hung precariously on the mountainside. While their Bren Carriers and Daimler Scout Cars were entirely useless in the end, the recoilless rifles mounted on them were not, and the Black Watch carried no fewer than twenty of the handy pieces into the mountains...

OCC: Eh, a bit of an introduction there. What's the tactical situation in the area?

((well, the farther up into the mountains one gets, the more difficult resupply becomes for either side, especially without the use of helicopters or other VTOL aircraft. Food an ammunition has to be shipped from the rail head at Bernny Landing by motor-car up to Janicetown in the high foothills, where the paths become too rough for vehicles. There, they are taken by mule or human back to the front 'lines.' The tempature is abysmally cold in winter and snow drifts often approach waist or chest depth. Squad size is very small and the elements are often a greater danger than the enemy. Strategy mostly involves finding new paths to outflank the enemy and cut their supply lines. Both sides prefer to avoid pitched battle unless it can't be helped.

I'm going to go ahead and say that these are the mountains north of the River Jaizar (the Jaizar Range) and not those to the south (The Medias Range). All Iansislean operations are conducted by the C-in-C Northern Mountains, Colonel Hayman, who maintains his base at Janicetown. Duty is split between holding Janicetown, which commands the Janice Pass, and disrupting Effitian operations in the area so that an assualt against Lundtown, the next major village up the road, can be initiated. All this is pre-breakthrough, of course =).

Enough OOC chatter! on to the action!))

"Here, pal," said Jack Puller, one of the Gadsani freemen out on patrol, as he handed a smoke to a particuarly small Robotstani. He pulled his lip back in a small grin, revealing horridly maltreated teeth. "This'll help you keep warm in these bitter places. I saved a few from my last share."

Puller may have been in a generous mood, but it had dishonest roots. He had nicked all forty cigarettes when the resupply officer had visited their small camp, which was about halfway up the line from the foothills. Six Robotstanis and four Gadsanis had called this miserable little place, just uphill of the treeline, home for almost a month now with not a single Effitian sighted. All the action was up on the extreme northern flank -- the northern flank of an entire army as it were.

It was hard to believe, but even a loss here might have disasterous consequences for the army of a million people currently slogging it out with ol' Effie down in the muddy River Valley: if the Effitians could grab a toehold on the flank, they might force the entire left wing of the army to fall back a few miles. And there were thousands of his countrymen who lived in those miles for the Effitians to rape and murder.

"'s a cold one today," he said. "Hope you brought some ID, in case you forget yer gender." Puller laughed and took a puff on his own smoke. He nodded at the insulated tent where the rest of the 'patrol' was sleeping. "Rekon we ought to wake them up and get breakfast started? I'm famished!"

Jaizar Mountains

Corporal Ian Marley gives Jack a half-hearted grunt, not alien to anybody who hangs about with someone who's just rolled out of bed, and gets up. He takes a drag on the cigarette and hands it back to Puller before moving off towards the rest of the Robotstanis and Gadsanis, still no doubt sound asleep.

"Wake up, you slobs. Time for breakfast," he says as he nudges one of the nearby Gadsanis with his oversized winter boot. "Don't want to miss it this morning, let me tell you!"

Like most of the Black Watch, Marley has seen some combat, in his case against the Japanese in Svenland, and later against the Royalists that the Japanese were there to support. Anyone who's served any time in Svenland is personally acquainted with a painful degree of cold, so the Jaizar mountains aren't as bad for Marley as they are for many other Black Watch troopers who spent time in Equatorial Robotstan.

After making the rounds amongst the troops, Marley starts into the woods to look for some kindling.

"Need any help with the fire there, Puller?"

Janicetown

(OCC: No VTOL aircraft, you say? Well, we can't have that! ;))

Up from Bernny Landing lumbers one of the PRAF's favorite new gadgets, the helicopter. Its Leonides piston engine propells the Sycamore light helicopter at a stately 75 miles per hour, well below its proper cruising speed but still much faster than a lorry on the same route. The pilot makes for the cluster of buildings constituting Janicetown and begins to loiter while the copilot attempts to contact the ground by radio...

"I think that is exactly the sort of thing which could patch up relations between our two great states," said Cerdas with a smile. "I would be happy to attend a meeting along those lines, mister...?"

"Millins," the man said extending his hand, "Christopher Millins.

"Now I'm sure I can work out a deal where you can meet with one of our trade ministers. I think we should start there and not involve higher-ups in our governments. Because they would probably, for lack of a better word, kill each other."

-----

In the SUV's heading back to the Presidential Palace

Jeff looked out of the window at the passing urban jungle of Golden Agate. He was trying to figure out the angles, how could he get James out of Iansisle in one piece without starting a war? Did he actually want to start a war?

The SUV's pulled into the private parking garage in the Ministry of Defense and Jeff walked into the building from the side entrance.

He pondered these questions as he strolled into the office of General Mark Davis, the Larkinian Defense Minister.

"Keep your seat," Jeff said as Davis started to stand. "General, how many ships can we pull away from current locations for new training maneuvers?"

Davis looked uneasily at the computer monitor and then back to Jeff. "Depends, sir. Where are they going?" He already knew the answer, he'd heard the rumors about Jeff's friendship with James Callahan and Special Intelligence Group operatives had kept the military up to date with the latest rumors coming from Iansisle.

"No where in particular," Jeff said, "Maybe in international waters... possibly off the coast of Iansisle."

Great

"and I'd like the group to be all subs running silently," Jeff added.

"Why sir?"

"Security for the boats, who knows what those Iansislians are willing to do.."

Because if James Callahan turns up dead, I'm gonna blow something straight to hell...

"Millins," the man said extending his hand, "Christopher Millins.

"Now I'm sure I can work out a deal where you can meet with one of our trade ministers. I think we should start there and not involve higher-ups in our governments. Because they would probably, for lack of a better word, kill each other."

Millins, Millins. Christopher Millins, thought Cerdas as he committed the name to memory. "A pleasure to meet you," he said, shaking the hand. At least there appeared to be one person in the Larkinian government with whom he could work.

"I think you nailed the problem on the head there. Let's hope that there are clearer heads on both sides in the lower ranks. I can put your people in touch with my economic attaché, Jim Fullman. They should be able to start sketching out something that I can submit wholesale to Ianapalis."

Cerdas smiled. "It's been a pleasure, Mr. Millins. I'll keep your name in mind in case I need to contact anyone in your government."

After making the rounds amongst the troops, Marley starts into the woods to look for some kindling.

"Need any help with the fire there, Puller?"

"I've got it going if you can get a bit more fuel," said Puller as he poked at the glowing embers, which emitted an infrequent pop. "Good mornin', sarge." he added to Sargeant Collins, who had just lumbered out of his heavy sleeping bag.

The Gadsani commander of the small unit narrowed his eyes at Puller. "Hasn't been a good morning since we left Janicetown, Puller." Collins watched for a second as Puller removed some eggs -- their most treasured gift from the recent resupply -- from where he had been preserving them under the snow and cracked them into a frying pan to scramble.

"Where'd you get that cigarette, then?" he asked accusingly.

"This, sarge?" asked Puller. "Saved it out of my last ration -- 's my next to last one. Want a drag?"

"Funny thing, all them cigarettes vanishin' out of thin air."

"Yeah, funny thing indeed, sarge...Hey! Took me hours to get that goin'!"

Puller's last indignant shout was because Collins had dumped a handful of snow on the fire just as Marley arrived with the kindling.

"Damn the fire, you idiot!" Collins pointed south-east. "That way, everyone! Take cover behind the ridge!"

By that time everyone could hear it: the sound of propellers and combustion engines whining in from the north-west. Effitian strike-planes, and they would have seen the smoke from the fire by now.

Janicetown

(OCC: No VTOL aircraft, you say? Well, we can't have that! ;))

Up from Bernny Landing lumbers one of the PRAF's favorite new gadgets, the helicopter. Its Leonides piston engine propells the Sycamore light helicopter at a stately 75 miles per hour, well below its proper cruising speed but still much faster than a lorry on the same route. The pilot makes for the cluster of buildings constituting Janicetown and begins to loiter while the copilot attempts to contact the ground by radio...

Janicetown, which had a population of less than sixty people before the war, was by that time a completely militarized town. The women and children had been evacuated because of its proximity to the front and all the men were under arms. Still, most of them turned out to point and stare at the strange craft which was hovering over their base. They knew it was coming, of course, so the anti-aircraft battery wasn't manned.

The radio was, however, and after a few tries the correct channel was found. The helicopter was instructed to land in a flat field outside town which had been cleared for this purpose, where Colonel Hayman himself would meet them.

(Ahh, I think that I actually knew more of that than I realised, and just needed it stuck together. Some of the people and places will probably lead me to confusion, yet, but that's just part of why we all love Iansisle, eh?

Right, now, I don't want to barge in as such, and I certainly don't want to treat this as too much just-another-war thread or to tip the scales impossible against Effit or anything like that, so don't be afraid to give the Walmingtonians the diplomatic run around or what have you.

This post brought to you with the heavy distraction of the Flash Gordon film on telly (Flash, ah-ah, it's almost enough to wake Sir Henry)! And oh my word, the Dad's Army film is on BBC2 at six! Hail Walmington!)


As was typical of the evasive Walmingtonian spirit, the subject of this impromptu public meeting gathered around a soap-box in Peabody Park under the shadow of St.Aldhelm's belltower, though considered high-brow in dealing with international relations, was not concerned with the American mess of Walmington's making, nor with the recent independence movements in parts of the empire. This was a quite heated debate on the North Pacific sitution (a promptly chastised Socialist Labour voter having called collectively all those deemed in some degree of opposition to Madders or Wyclyfe a lot of jolly rotters during an earlier portion of the discussion dedicated to the fate of James, which of course got to be rather off track), and was now turning to whether Walmington oughtn't be trying to fix it (much as they'd fixed America's wagon!).

While public interest was almost desperately high with millions staring blinkered at the idea that problems were for foreigners, the state's attention waxed and waned with the flow of oil and commerce. The Whigs were in power because both the James-supporting Tories and Madders-loving Socialist Labour parties had destroyed themselves in recent years as viable alternatives, but their own strength -apparently behind Bradsworth as far as Iansisle was concerned- was insufficient to manage the Empire without significant input from those factions and their backers.

While it was hard to do any one thing, it was no longer considered possible for Walmington to do nothing. The trial of the High King met with poorly disguised glee by the third largest party (Socialist Labour), and equally ill-tempered upset in the hardly larger Tory opposition, and much as Mainwaring personally disliked his own King Godfrey and James by mere association, the Whigs were forced to agree that killing him would be quite the wrong thing to do. Which all was rather problematic for Great Walmington, which was keen on doing business with the Republic and especially hopeful that the war may drag on and allow the Birminghampton Cape Colony factories to resurge as they had by supplying the combatants in the Great War.

Quite how the tiny shape of Foreign Minister Baron Alan Thunder-ten-tronckh was supposed to convince the Gulls that regicide or similar harsh treatment of James would be bad, and that patronage of Walmingtonian arms factories and the continuation of war with Effit is good, well, that was a question.

Mainwaring's answer was, as he said to the grinning-and-bearing-it sidekick Deputy PM Wilson, "...offer a cavalry army [tank corps], don't be afraid to open-up a new front and bear the weight of it, break through, get things moving, then put Sir Henry in charge..." "Ah, finish them of, what?" "...that should bog things back down (old codger), we can use imperial conscripts so they can't cause trouble in our empire..." "Their homes, sir?" "and make a killing... -well, re-open the Cape mines, anyway- supplying the, the, ah, Republic's war effort ."

In any event, it seemed that both Imperial troops and the North Pacific were remote enough that another disaster wouldn't hit so hard at home. Thunder-ten-tronckh was packed off in less than speedy time aboard a civil liner to Ceyloba, from where he'd fly on to the Shield, and the MoD ordered forty million rounds of .303" ammunition, promising to pay for it pretty soon...

(Nothing to worry about, yet, but Thunder-ten-tronckh's on his way to make it known that WoS really hopes for a sentence respectful of James' dignity and importance, though the Whigs are supportive of Bradsworth [and not so much that Madders fellow, though he'd be flattered to death by the 3rd Party], and to give the impression that our [cough] legendary tanks are prepared to make the difference in the war if the Republic turns out to be the sort of state we can work with. Of course, since Walmington's in a long and inglorious recession, ruled with obviously reduced vigour, thousands of miles away, and populated similarly to England alone, the Baron might conceivably appear less interesting than a pot of jam.)

OOC: Well, Jeff was called an Imitoran, and thats just a compliment that isn't handed out every day...might as well jump in with my voice here, if no one minds.
IC:



A fist to the face, gloved or not, never felt good. In some cases it might, but in most of those casses, it happened behind a closed door, and a safe word was involved. No, this fist, covered by a blue boxing glove, met its face in a gym that, if any gym could be called so, was lavish in suroundings. A number of treadmills and stationary bikes lined a glass wall that over looked Northampton, the city glistening in the mid afternoon light. A few benches, and walls full of free weights sat to left of the boxing ring, while machine weights sat on its right.

The gym was empty on this mid winter afternoon, save for the two men that did battle in the ring. Another fist shot out, this one clad in a red glove, and the intended target slid back, pulling his head and neck back, the glove missing by a mear breath. A devestating one two combo returned, knocking red gloves back. Blue gloves didn't stop, and instead continued throwing punches, a hell storm of jabs, hooks, and uppercuts slammed into the face and chest of red gloves. In his attempt to end the onslaught, red gloves back peddled, but his right ankle caught his left foot, and he plumeted down to the mat, landing with a loud, hollow thud.

Blue gloves stopped, and removed the boxing gloves, tossing them down onto the mat. Red gloves pushed himself to a sitting position, and removed his own gloves. He stood, walked over to a gym bag, and pulled out a wad of cash. He tossed it to blue gloves, who caught and pocketed the money. Red gloves smiled, and walked towards the edge of the ring. "You only got two hits on me. Your getting rusty."

"Its the body gaurds," blue gloves replied. "They don't let me fight for myself, and that whole, I dunno, running the nation thing. Kinda gets in the way of daily boxing and shooting and what not."

"Don't you tell me that. I'll have nothing of the sort. The day that some reg rec out shoots you is the day that I myself take away the presidency!"

The other man laughed. He slid under the ropes, and exited the ring with the other man. They were heading towards the locker room door when another opened, the quiet hiss of the pnumatic pump filling the room as it prevented the heavy metal door, explosive and bullet proof, from slamming loudly. The man who stepped through wore a suit, not a nice one, but the standard uniform of a government lackey.

He moved briskley, holding a yellow file folder, with the bright red caution tape around the edges and the ever familar Classified stamp that many a yellow folder carried. "Your report, sir," the man said, handing it to blue gloves, who flipped it open, and began looking over the info. He nodded quietly, waving the man away, and looked at red gloves.

"Time we have a meeting," he said, pulling a cell phone out of his gym bag.

In four hours, seven men sat in the president's main office. The four generals of the Imitoran military, the Minister of Foreign Affairs David Sinclair, ICIA Director of Operations and Intell Robert Fortier, and the President, Thomas "Hoot" Gibbson. Once all men had settled in, gathered any drinks, and found a comfortable seat, Hoot began the meeting.

"Mr. Fortier," he began, using his friend's formal name for the record, "has informed me that as of three o'clock this morning, local time, James Callahan on Iansisle was found guilty of treason and actions against the nation," using the Imitoran terminology for the same crime. "As of yet, no sentence has been handed down, but our Iansisle desk has offered up that it wont be good for the former King."

"And?" one of the generals asked, seeming unefected.

"And the crown has been historically, sometimes in name only, but still, an ally of Imitora, and one that it would be less than prudent to turn our backs on," Sinclair spoke up. He had always hated the thinking of the military men, it had always seemed mercenary to him, as if a lack of short term benifits would hurt Imitora, regardless of the long term.

One of the other generals was about to speak up, but he was quickly cut off. Fortier had been in here many a time, as operative for the ICIA, First Speaker, and INSA operations cheif, and knew how the generals wanted things run. He never obliged them, of course, but in this room, despite his young age of thirty nine, he was the most expiereinced.

"Admiral Claffey, it would be in our best interests in the long term to support the Crown in this case. The current government in power has been decidely anti-Imitoran from the start, and is about as stable as a college line backer on a steroid induced rage. We can't let this situation pass by us and do nothing, else wise, we risk allowing an anti-Imitoran government into full power. As long as the King is alive and kicking, they will never have full control."

"Mr. Fortier," Gen. James Averton of the Imitoran Marine Corp interjected, "are you suggesting a military action? I for one have no fear of loosing any battle against the Iansislanians, I mean, I would venture that our Air Force alone would be more than enough to glass the nation, however, the area surrounding it is very volitile, and might draw us in to further conflict. With the upmost due respect, I don't believe that, with our current internal situation, it would be prudent to get involved in another war."

"General, are you suggestion Imitora would loose a war?" Hoot pined, looking up from the intell file on Iansisle.

"Hell no!" the General started, the quickly corrected. "I mean, no, Mr. President."

"Well, Robert, what do you have in mind?" Hoot asked, his eyes quickly flicking to the video and audio recorders in the room. It was more of a signal and reminder than a question. Of all the men in the room, only Fortier and Hoot had been involved in any form of Special Operations work, and both spoke to each other clearly without speaking.

"Well, Mr. President, I believe that ICIA actions in this situation would be a little unwarrented. We have two operatives already in Iansapolis, as human int, mind you not operations, and they are supplying us with all the notice we need. Our sources show that an ambasador for the current Shield government is in meeting with President Williams of Larkinia, however we weren't able to get anyone inside to know what is going on. To short of notice. I would recomend we get an intercept ship in the area, not military of course, but something that can pick up radio transmisons and what not of the Iansisle coast. The rest, I say, we leave to the diplomats. We should meet with the Larkinians, try to get on the same page, of course."

Leave it to the diplomats was the code phrase for I'll tell you what I really think after the meeting. Sinclair, of course, had no knowledge of this, and was pleased. The same went for the generals, who were a bit less than satisfied. However, Hoot nodded, and in this office, what he said went. The men were dismissed, and Hoot walked out with Fortier.

"You can lie pretty well," Hoot said, handing back the intell folder to an aide.

"Comes with the territory," Fortier responded. He wasted no time getting into his real thoughts. "If James gets taken out, then we loose whatever chance we have at fixing Iansisle. I wouldn't be suprised if Jeff is arguing for a stay of execution, the local hume int has basically put forth he has no chance. Even self imposed exile would put us in a bad way. We need to keep him their, alive, out of jail, and in power. The problem is that last one, until Bradsworth and the ilk go down, James is stuck."

"Are you advising what I think you are?" Hoot cut in.

"No. Not yet. There are a lot of people who want his scalp, that would be a joint op if carried out."

"What are you saying then?"

Fortier thought for a moment. They were walking down a long, empty corridor, towards the cafeteria. "Five man operation unit sitting in Iansisle ready to run on a go code. Sniper and four shooters. Plus a bird ready to exfill, and some little one on one time with Sinclair to have a statement ready incase the exfil doesn't go as planned. They can use my old house out there, its only about two hours from Ianapolis by car, but it was pretty secluded. Big back yard to, big enough for an MH."

"Fine. But your not going."

"But," Fortier started, but was soon cut off.

"Sorry, but no. Your not ops any more, your the Director of Intell and Operations. Meaning your boss, who is me, gets to say if you do this stuff. And I say no. You get to go to Larkinia and talk with Williams. Cordinate operations with him. He needs to know what we plan on doing if the death certificate comes through. That, and we both know that James isn't going to want to come here if we pull him out."

"True. I'll go ahead and get packed up, and talk to Sinclair about getting things set up for the meet. What are you gonna do?"

"I'll contact our embassy in Larkinia, and let them know your comming, and talk to the onstation duty cheif to let him know the plan. How do you want to run the op?"

"I pick five, I already got the ones thought up I want. Them, a bird, bit of cash to fund the operation. I'll need codes and authorization numbers too. But thats your end. I assume you'll want to give the go code, so I wont be needing any get out of jail free cards."

Hoot nodded. "And if they vote to send James to some far off land in exile?"

"Well, in that case, we let my hume int and satalites do what they do best and watch the situation, possibly put a few of our men into a service staff of such."

"What about the other option?"

"Well, if James does get the ax, then we talk to the Air Force, and put a few recon flights over Iansisle, look for landing options, possible invasion spots, and find a way to support those who oppose the current government. That, and we deal with Bradsworth."

"How do we do that?"

"You let me and Jeff work that one out. I'm sure the two of us can take care of that situation, should it arise."

"Fine. You got everything you need to run this op, but remeber, this is not official. Its quiet. I don't want any one springing any questions at a press confrence, or letting anyone outside of this building know that we are sending a rescue team into Iansisle. It needs to be us only. Got it?"

"Your the boss."

"Thats what the fine voters of Imitora said. Now go get packing. I need to talk with Sinclair, we need to find a way to make James look like a martyr if he gets killed. Call me when you are leaving for Larkinia, I wanna be up to date on the situation. So, hows Mary doing?"

And with that, any talk of any operation which may or may not have taken place and may or may not have been carried out by the Imitoran Central Inteliegence Agency, and may or may not have been authorized by the President ceased.

"I've got it going if you can get a bit more fuel," said Puller as he poked at the glowing embers, which emitted an infrequent pop. "Good mornin', sarge." he added to Sargeant Collins, who had just lumbered out of his heavy sleeping bag.

The Gadsani commander of the small unit narrowed his eyes at Puller. "Hasn't been a good morning since we left Janicetown, Puller." Collins watched for a second as Puller removed some eggs -- their most treasured gift from the recent resupply -- from where he had been preserving them under the snow and cracked them into a frying pan to scramble.

"Where'd you get that cigarette, then?" he asked accusingly.

"This, sarge?" asked Puller. "Saved it out of my last ration -- 's my next to last one. Want a drag?"

"Funny thing, all them cigarettes vanishin' out of thin air."

"Yeah, funny thing indeed, sarge...Hey! Took me hours to get that goin'!"

Puller's last indignant shout was because Collins had dumped a handful of snow on the fire just as Marley arrived with the kindling.

"Damn the fire, you idiot!" Collins pointed south-east. "That way, everyone! Take cover behind the ridge!"

By that time everyone could hear it: the sound of propellers and combustion engines whining in from the north-west. Effitian strike-planes, and they would have seen the smoke from the fire by now.

Jaizar Mountains

Marley listens for a moment, until he picks up the sound of aircraft in the distance.

"Oh bloody hell!" he says instinctively and drops the bundle of kindling. "Everybody up!"

The Black Watch troopers scurry out of their sleeping bags and make for the safety of the ridgeline along with the Gadsani seargent. If they were used to a thousand things, only a handful of Robotstani soldiers had ever faced combat under conditions besides those of air superiority. Even in the Svenland campaigns, Hurricanes had made mincemeat of the A6M2-N seaplane fighters sent by the Japanese and later operated by their Royalist allies. On the Jaizar front, things were obviously much more evenly balanced.

Before at all long, the entirety of the small post collects at the base of a rock formation and awaits the arrival of the Effitian planes. Marley watches the relatively small patch of sky visible through the evergreens for the airplanes and hopes, like all of them, that they don't decide that an infantry section is worthy of being attacked.

The corporal also begins to think it a good idea to radio in the presence of Effitian aircraft and looks around for the radioman. If a flight of Norrikers or Hunters could be called in, the Effies would be toast, but then again the Gull Flaggers' Air Force seems scarce enough and there's only one PRAF Hunter squadron in the Shield.

Janicetown, which had a population of less than sixty people before the war, was by that time a completely militarized town. The women and children had been evacuated because of its proximity to the front and all the men were under arms. Still, most of them turned out to point and stare at the strange craft which was hovering over their base. They knew it was coming, of course, so the anti-aircraft battery wasn't manned.

The radio was, however, and after a few tries the correct channel was found. The helicopter was instructed to land in a flat field outside town which had been cleared for this purpose, where Colonel Hayman himself would meet them.

Janicetown

The Sycamore ambles towards the field, where it sets down with all the grace of a beached whale. Any small, loose object is blown away by the rotorwash as the pilot sets his craft down, and much to the relief of bystanders, shuts down its engine.

Two men dressed in the navy blue and leather flying jacket of the PRAF hop out of the cockpit and peel off their flying helmets. Another three file out of the back compartment, these ones in leather jerkins and lacking officers' stripes or pilots' wings.

(Ahh, I think that I actually knew more of that than I realised, and just needed it stuck together. Some of the people and places will probably lead me to confusion, yet, but that's just part of why we all love Iansisle, eh?

((My motto is that you can never have enough place names. =D Just be glad I didn't throw in specific battle information (such as Ducksbury, Wonwhich, Haldsborough, Greater Wimmers, and the Sundral <.< >.>...bonus points if anyone knows the special significance of each of those!).))

In any event, it seemed that both Imperial troops and the North Pacific were remote enough that another disaster wouldn't hit so hard at home. Thunder-ten-tronckh was packed off in less than speedy time aboard a civil liner to Ceyloba, from where he'd fly on to the Shield, and the MoD ordered forty million rounds of .303" ammunition, promising to pay for it pretty soon...

(Nothing to worry about, yet, but Thunder-ten-tronckh's on his way to make it known that WoS really hopes for a sentence respectful of James' dignity and importance, though the Whigs are supportive of Bradsworth [and not so much that Madders fellow, though he'd be flattered to death by the 3rd Party], and to give the impression that our [cough] legendary tanks are prepared to make the difference in the war if the Republic turns out to be the sort of state we can work with. Of course, since Walmington's in a long and inglorious recession, ruled with obviously reduced vigour, thousands of miles away, and populated similarly to England alone, the Baron might conceivably appear less interesting than a pot of jam.)

Ever since the capital ships Walmington Station, long Iansisle's primary commitment to guarding the British and Walmingtonian islands against renewed Hunnish mischief, had been withdrawn to bolster Home Fleet’s line of battle, there hadn’t been much Shieldian interest in the area beyond the North Pacific, excepting (of course) Gallaga. That the Walmies should suddenly want to send an embassy was met with surprise and cautious optimism. Before then, the Republic’s diplomatic contacts had been largely negative: Imperial Japan, long an ally of the ancien régime, had rebuffed advances by the Foreign Directory; an embassy to Knootoss had met with a lukewarm reception; Larkinia, although friendly on official levels, was also a state run by a personal friend of the King’s; and Effit had declared war.

Ceyloba gave away to Iansislean Batam, then to Manila -- which still showed the scars of the siege of the American garrison by Iansislean troops from what seemed like an eternity ago -- before the endless tracts of the Pacific very suddenly gave way to the verdant fields of the Shield. Thunder-ten-tronckh’s plane touched down at NFC St. Martin, a lonely aerofield which maintained a small squadron of fighters in eastern Pentonshire. A low smudge of brown and black soot in the south-western corner of the rural blue sky marked the location of Ianapalis.

“Effie’s raided Shadoran International a few times,” the man in the uniform of a Flying Corps officer who had been sent to greet the Walmingtonian said, “so we try to route all our important flights out here.” Another symbol of the degree to which the government was honoring Thunder-ten-tronckh was the fact that he was met in a Westerton Jackrabbit -- quite the luxury in a time of gasoline rationing -- rather than the horse-drawn buggy which had greeted the ambassador from the Troobodian Republic just two weeks ago.

They crossed to the west bank of the River Penton at Bucksford and continued towards the streak of grime on the horizon that was the capital city. Soon, it was possible to see the monolithic skyscrapers; then they were cruising down Revolution Street (formerly Empire Street) in Westergate, surrounded by posh townhouses. The street names flashed past: some were a homage to Iansisle’s imperial past (Sarawak, Batam, Tharia, Unsterbank, Gallaga) and some to its republican future (Third August, Grand, Utopia, even Ducksbury). They drove past Gull Flag Square, with its gallows and defaced statue of Queen Jessica: the last thing a traitor ever saw. Finally, Thunder-ten-tronckh saw one last street sign: Jameston Place. This cul-de-sac, with its complex of five marble halls, which overlooked Feinwick Point across Adie Bay, was the nerve-center of a Republic which stretched from the rocky shores of Weshield to the Jaizar.

Leaning on his cane in front of #3 Jameston Place, with the appearance of having been there all day waiting, was one Benjamin Rinehart, Director of Foreign Affairs for the Gull Flag Republic.

((To Imitora and LRR: I'm really, really sorry, but I'm just about ready to crash. I sat down with noble intentions -- I was going to respond to all three posts! -- but the late hour and my early work day tomorrow have combined to pack me off to bed. Ten thousand apologies, and I swear I will get to them tomorrow!

Valinon -- I know I said I would put something up re: the royal family soon, but ...well, one thing led to another and I'm dog tired without a word written except in my head =/. Tomorrow! heh

WoS: I replied to your post. =) most major leaguers consider hitting .333 doing well! (um, .250 if you count Valinon. <.< >.>))

OCC: No problem, Ian. I'm sure we all know the feeling, eh?

OOC: Its cool I-Man, I'm lucky if I get more than one post on NS a day...

And with that, any talk of any operation which may or may not have taken place and may or may not have been carried out by the Imitoran Central Inteliegence Agency, and may or may not have been authorized by the President ceased.

Whether the Imitorans realized it or not, Iansisle was no more the porous state whose borders were easily breached and within which all manners of foreigners could move without suspicion. While Iansislean counter-intelligence still had a long way to go, it had also improved itself immensely. There wasn’t a secret police as such -- but certain departments within the Republic had in their employ a number of agents tasked with domestic security, whose job it was to seek out both domestic traitors and foreign spies.

((um, I know that was probably something of an anti-climax, but considering that IC I know nothing about Hoot and Robert’s conversation, it’s the best I can do. Just sort of a heads-up that Iansisle has been developing an internal security net =).))

With a woosh, the first Effitian aeroflyer passes overhead, just skimming the tops of the trees. Then passes a second, a third, a fourth, and a fifth. They thunder off in the direction Janicetown, leaving an eerie silence in their wake.

Corporal Hood, the group’s wireless operator, started broadcasting from his mobile set almost as soon as he had reached the safety of the ridge.

“Janicetown Control, this is Group 4-C-A. There are Effitian ‘flyers inbound to your location, repeat...”

----------

Colonel Hayman, who just barely managed to hold his beret on against the beating helicopter roters and was forced to beat an undignified retreat back into town, came back as soon as the engine was turned off. His scattered aides-de-camp also returned, saluting the LRR airmen as they descended from their bizarre flying-machine.

“Welcome to Jainicetown; I’m Colonel Hayman,” the commanding officer just managed to say before the village’s air-raid siren went off. “Oh hell. We’ll have to do introductions later -- after me please!”

He ran through town towards the bomb shelter, while various other people busied themselves with manning the town’s five anti-air two-pounders or throwing camouflage nets over vital equipment. There wasn’t one large enough for the helicopter, though.

Another soldier ran alongside them, explaining that he had contacted the Flying Corps and they were diverting two Steeds which had been on patrol nearby and scrambling a squadron of Colts from nearby Second Whitman.

((So I had these two posts all typed up last night, but I think the server crashed or something about half-way through LRR's. I got a database error no matter what I tried to do; after about half an hour of that, I gave up and went to bed. =/ Ah, well, I have the day off today, so I'll try to get all caught up.))

Millins, Millins. Christopher Millins, thought Cerdas as he committed the name to memory. "A pleasure to meet you," he said, shaking the hand. At least there appeared to be one person in the Larkinian government with whom he could work.

"I think you nailed the problem on the head there. Let's hope that there are clearer heads on both sides in the lower ranks. I can put your people in touch with my economic attaché, Jim Fullman. They should be able to start sketching out something that I can submit wholesale to Ianapalis."

Cerdas smiled. "It's been a pleasure, Mr. Millins. I'll keep your name in mind in case I need to contact anyone in your government."

Millins shook the ambassador's hand. "It's been my pleasure. I'd love to work with you towards reestablishing our friendly relations."

(i.e. if you want to start talks, we can start a new thread ;) )

Millins walked out of the embassy and caught a cab back to the Presidential Palace. Given Jeff's stop at the Military command center, Millins had just arrived minutes after the SUV group.

Millins was taken to the Presidential offices below ground and escorted into the president office, where Jeff was waiting for him.

"Well Millins?" Jeff asked.

"Sir?"

Jeff had been around politicians to guess what had been discussed. "You told the ambassador something along the lines of `We want to work things out'."

"Yes," Millins said.

Jeff continued, "and `it's better that the President and Iansislian higher ups were not involved', as a result of my... unpredictable actions? "

"Yes."

"And?"

"He bought it. "

Jeff grinned as Millins continued. "We'll start negotiations soon, which should buy you some time and goodwill in Iansisle. Meantime we can talk to some of our other allies about joint espionage operations in the country..."

(cue phone call from Imitora ;) )

With a woosh, the first Effitian aeroflyer passes overhead, just skimming the tops of the trees. Then passes a second, a third, a fourth, and a fifth. They thunder off in the direction Janicetown, leaving an eerie silence in their wake.

Corporal Hood, the group’s wireless operator, started broadcasting from his mobile set almost as soon as he had reached the safety of the ridge.

“Janicetown Control, this is Group 4-C-A. There are Effitian ‘flyers inbound to your location, repeat...”

----------

Colonel Hayman, who just barely managed to hold his beret on against the beating helicopter roters and was forced to beat an undignified retreat back into town, came back as soon as the engine was turned off. His scattered aides-de-camp also returned, saluting the LRR airmen as they descended from their bizarre flying-machine.

“Welcome to Jainicetown; I’m Colonel Hayman,” the commanding officer just managed to say before the village’s air-raid siren went off. “Oh hell. We’ll have to do introductions later -- after me please!”

He ran through town towards the bomb shelter, while various other people busied themselves with manning the town’s five anti-air two-pounders or throwing camouflage nets over vital equipment. There wasn’t one large enough for the helicopter, though.

Another soldier ran alongside them, explaining that he had contacted the Flying Corps and they were diverting two Steeds which had been on patrol nearby and scrambling a squadron of Colts from nearby Second Whitman.

((So I had these two posts all typed up last night, but I think the server crashed or something about half-way through LRR's. I got a database error no matter what I tried to do; after about half an hour of that, I gave up and went to bed. =/ Ah, well, I have the day off today, so I'll try to get all caught up.))

Janicetown

The Effitian air raid was, to say the least, unexpected. The PRAF had bothered to send the Sycamore almost entirely because they believed that Effit didn't have many airplanes in the area, and that the Gull Flaggers had air superiority. Apparently, they were wrong.

Flight Leftenant Davlat Heddon, the Sycamore's pilot, follows Colonel Hayman to the bomb shelter, as does the rest of the helicopter's flight and maintainance crew. Once they descend into the relative safety of the bomb shelter, Heddon remembers to make his introduction.

"Leftenant Davlat Heddon of the Parliamentary Robotic Air Force at your service, sah. Terribly sorry about the rotorwash there."

Heddon has more or less already resigned himself to the destruction of his poor Sycamore, since for the Effit flyers to ignore such an interesting target, left out in the open and largely unprotected, would be silly. The prospect of staying any length of time in Janicetown, however, is not appealing.

Meanwhile, not greatly far away, a pair of Hunters pick up some activity on their radios. While low on fuel and cannon rounds, some air combat is always welcome and the pilots soon give in to temptation.

"Attention Janicetown, this Kestrel One and Two. We are inbound to your position, over."

They speed towards the site of the air raid at 450 knots, a stately cruise for a jet aircraft like the Hunter, where they hope to make contact with the Effitian aeroflyers.

The Baron was quite Walmingtonian. In stature he fitted as a native of perhaps Europe's shortest nation, and other aspects of his presentation were no less typical, being tidy but not flamboyant and reserved though sometimes shaded with a faint tone of something like over-confidence. Thunder-ten-tronckh was known to many as a long-time associate of the infamous knight Henry Chaspot Wayne, and for a relationship with the same that was at times lampooned as an immitation of the even higher profile partnership of Wilson and Mainwaring. Alan, as he did not like to be called, was politically remote from the old-fashioned empire-building conservative Chaspot and not entirely sad about their drifting apart in social and now geographic terms.

Thunder-ten-tronckh's arrival at NFC St.Martin had been aboard the uncommon form of a JLMkII Wychwood Cushat. A prestige airliner, in this case owned by the Ceyloban national carrier, was a conversion of the Partridge bomber used by the RWAF during its ultimately futile attempts to subdue recovering enemy industry at great range during the American conflict. It was driven by four Wychwood Automation 2-WX turbojets, which probably were the most refined and reliable jet engines ever produced by Walmingtonian science being each six times more powerful than the Graye-Hudson Model 3Gs that were Walmington's first jets when imported from Iansisle all those years ago, and had cruised across the Pacific at more than four hundred knots. It was clean, and bore both the elaborate imperial and native fused crest of Walmingtonian Ceyloba and the maroon and brass badge of the Royal Walmingtonian Air Force.

That Shadoran International had suffered multiple raids, that he had to be greeted out here, that horse-buggies were in evidence, and later that Queen Jessica's likeness appeared to have been deliberately defaced and kept so in the middle of the Ianapalis all surprised Walmingtonian Minister for Foreign Affairs. It was all sort of upsetting in a funny way, to a man who'd come as a titled blueblood and top cabinet minister and aboard the absolute best method of transport available, knowing the size of Iansisle -as most Walmingtonians still thought of it (though perhaps not quite with Effit's stubborness)- and knowing Ianapalis through the imposing physical presence of its markedly un-Walmingtonian skyline. Walmington on Sea was in a painful slump that could only be handled through the practiced denial of an Anglo-Saxon Protestant society, and even knowing second-hand of Iansisle's revolution, division, and war, most -like the Baron- assumed, without openly saying so, that the Ians were doing better than Walmington.

Trying to lie about the Empire by arriving with a title and a jet plane suddenly felt wrong when it wasn't because the Walmingtonians were playing at keeping-up with the Joneses, and Thunder-ten-tronckh now felt somehow more likely to be exposed for his nation's weakness, where before he was confident that the better-off Ians would keep it under their political hat even if they weren't fooled.

Still, as the Republic's Director of Foreign Affairs became known to the Minister there remained in hand important matters. The failure of the arguably insane American adventure along with following readjustment of internal trade balances across the empire to treat the colonies less as cash registers meant that Walmington was no longer able to do without substantial relations with Fascist Europe, the Bolshevist Russias, and the rabble-rousing Iansislians. Obviously one of these chests had to be re-opened, and since the decline of the Socialist Labour Party to third place there wasn't any more chance of WoS joining the Soviet Bloc than of swallowing its pride and making-up with the Fascists, so Ianapalis was it.

Given his running reassessment of the situation it wasn't immediately clear whether the Minister would try to explain his country's sudden approaches in this blunt context or stick to unqualified friendliness regardless of how suspicious it may seem.


(Don't rush yourself to deal with my posts, it's not as if haste is the Walmingtonian way :) )

((if you don't mind then, WoS, I'm going to work on that post I owe Valinon tonight =). I'll get something for you (hopefully) tomorrow!))

"A pleasure," replied Hayman. "I'm just sorry that ol' Effie had to pick today for a raid -- he likes to do this a few times every month. Keeps us on our toes, I suspect.

Back above ground, the Effitian flyers had shown up on radranger. They were gaining altitude as they approached from the north-east. Once they came into sight, a single glance at the silhouettes told why.

"Stogies,” said one of the men on an anti-air battery. ‘Stogie’ was, of course, an Iansislean designation (the Effitian one was unknown) for the single most effective flyer deployed by Effit to that point; the name came from its distinctive cigar shape. Like most Effitian aeroflyers, they were extremely rugged, able to take multiple hits and still fly home. Armed as dive bombers, their primary role, they were brutally effective with their two 250lb bombs; in their secondary role as supremacy fighters, they were a good match for the MPAF-5 Steed, Iansisle’s primary prop-driven flyer. Although the Steed could fly circles around a Stogie, it could not take even a fourth as much punishment, nor, with its .50 caliber machine guns, deal out the damage of a Stogie’s four 20mm cannons.

As the two-pounders opened fire on the five Effitian flyers, they went into their dives. The Iansislean guns, aided by their radio-rangefinder, quickly tore into one of the Stogies. Its pilot attempted the pull out of his dive early, but a two pound shell exploded against his fuselage and tore off his starboard wing. The Effitian craft went off into a flat spin over Janicetown and vanished behind the trees.

However, it was to be the only victory for the anti-air defenses. The four remaining Stogies released their bombs and, in a single instant, destroyed Janicetown’s ability to defend itself. The Effitians had done their scouting well: two bombs shattered the radranger hut; another four savaged both the primary and backup generators, cutting power to the entire town; the last two blew the church/townhall-cum-headquarters into bits. Freed from five hundred pounds of bombs, the Stogies then turned to start strafing the anti-air gunners as they attempted to aim their weapons without direction or power. At least one Stogie took notice of the Sycamore sitting out in the open and turned his cannons against it for one run.

And then the patrol showed up. Two Steeds, flying out of the morning sun, tore into double their number with a reckless abandon that would have done the original aero-knights proud. Sensing that the jig was up, the Effitians turned back to the north and made all speed for home, the two Steeds hot but ineffectively on their tail. Although one Stogie was trailing smoke from its engine, it appeared that they would make it back to Effitian airspace before any more effective damage could be realized.

But the Hunters and Colts had not yet made their appearance.

-------

Out in the wilderness, Puller crawled out from the ravine and strained his eyes southward to see where the Effitians had gone.

"Good show they weren't after us," he said.

"I'm a bit surprised that we weren't told about Effit air activity. Its a good thing we weren't caught while airborne, that's for certain."

Still sitting where it landed, Heddon's Sycamore is in remarkably good shape for having been strafed. Most of the Effitian Stogies' cannon shells had fallen above where the pilot was no doubt making for, and in front of the helicopter to boot. While the cockpit glass was shattered and the nose landing gear assembly ravaged, the all-important Leonides engine and fuel tank had not been badly hit.

It will take time, but under the hands of a skilled maintainance crew the Sycamore will likely be in a condition to fly again.

Those emerging from the Janicetown bomb shelters probably hear the sound of another aircraft engine soon after the Stogies and Steeds departed. It soon becomes apparent that the sound is not of any piston engine but rather of the powerful Avon turbojets on the PRAF's Hunter FGA.9s.

"Bogeys, three o'clock."
"Roger that, two. You are clear to engage."

Kestrel One and Two streak over the town and head toward the fleeing Stogies. At first, they begin to line up on the Steeds, but they soon recognize the profile as friendly and line up on the four escaping fighter-bombers. Coming in at well over five hundred knots, each Hunter picks a Stogie and bores into it with four 30mm cannon. Coming in at a moderate angle and high speed leaves little room for error in gun-laying but the weight of fire from the four ADENs is bound to have some effect on the targets.

Kestrel One's cannon stop firing after the first pass, his ammunition exhausted, and Kestrel Two opts to stick with his leader in case any other Effit flyers show up, his own cannon shells almost gone and running low on fuel. Hopefully, they put some holes in their targets but neither pilot is keen on sticking around.

"I'm a bit surprised that we weren't told about Effit air activity. Its a good thing we weren't caught while airborne, that's for certain."

“Ah, yes,” says Colonel Hayman, somewhat uncomfortable. “Well, Effie knows that these mountain passes play hell with our radranger -- they like to come in low and fast. Loses them no small number of craft in accidents, of course, but drastically reduces our early warning.”

Then the ground shook and an explosion roared outside. Very suddenly, the lights in the bomb shelter went out.

“They must have hit the generators,” said Hayman calmly as he lit a hurricane lantern. “We’ll have to get more shipped up. I wish they could just lay wires, but Effie’s proven too good at cutting them.”

At last, the strong hatch opened and an enlisted man, his uniform smeared with someone else’s blood, came down the stairs. “’s all clear, Colonel.”

They emerge just as the Hunters roar overhead. However, no sight can distract from the burning wreck that is Janicetown. Both generators and the radranger shack are fiercely burning wrecks, and the church only has one standing wall. Bodies, perhaps twelve of them, lay on the ground in a row as the one able-bodied corpsman scurries around applying bandages -- and that doesn’t include the six who were blown into small bits while operating the radranger.

----

The Hunters come as something of a surprise to the Effitians, but they had been half-expecting Iansislean jets. In the first run, the trailing Stogie receives a number of 30mm hits which would have torn apart a similar Iansislean aircraft. However, the pilot is able to level out his craft and eject. The other three, thinking that escape is impracticable in the face of a much faster enemy, turn to accept a dogfight. Down on the ground, Puller and his squad are treated to a front-row seat. Considering the amount of lead flying about and the low altitude, a very dangerous front row seat.

Although the Hunters are forced to quickly retire, they have aided the Steeds in their primary objective: slowing the Effitians down. Five prop-driven flyers twist and turn through the air above Puller, trying to snap shots off at each other without becoming vulnerable. The Stogie which was trailing smoke already has its cockpit punctured by .50cal fire and, pilotless, careens off into the woods and crashes.

Perhaps five minutes pass without any other significant effect before the squadron of Colts, running flat out all the way from Second Whitman, arrives. There are now five Colts and two Steeds against the two Stogies. The Iansisleans get overeager, however, and a Steed pilot makes a mistake. A Stogie settles in on his tail and, with a burst of 20mm fire, rips the port wing off of it. A fire set by the shots quickly reaches the fuel tank and the Steed explodes, showering the campsite with jagged metal fragments.

At last, the other two Stogies are disposed of. However, fate has one last card to play: as the Colts and the remaining Steed turn away from their victory to return to base, the starboard engine of one of the Colts flames out. A problem that plagued that aircraft from the beginning, the jet goes into a flat spin while the others watch helplessly. The pilot punches out, and everyone watching is relieved to see the parachute as the flyer goes spinning off and crashes into the trees.

Given his running reassessment of the situation it wasn't immediately clear whether the Minister would try to explain his country's sudden approaches in this blunt context or stick to unqualified friendliness regardless of how suspicious it may seem.

((I was in such a rush not to rush on your posts that I quite forgot I hadn't replied to this one yet <.< >.> ))

"Welcome to Ianapalis, Minister," was the first thing that Rinehart said upon meeting Thunder-ten-tronckh. Switching his cane to his left hand and leaning on it heavily, the Director of Foreign Affairs extended his hand to shake. “It isn’t often that we have such distinguished company.”

Just as Walmington had tried to impress its strength with Thunder-ten-tronckh’s chariot of choice, so was Iansisle trying to hide its weakness. A combination of isolation and war was playing hell with the Shieldian economy; industrial and agricultural production were way down, inflation was way up, and the government was only making ends meet by a combination of reckless borrowing and even more reckless money-printing. Already, a paper general was worth some 1/25th of what a coin general would have been worth just five years ago. Even the great fleet in Mansmouth was starting to feel the pinch -- not only had no new ships been commissioned in a year, many older Aegean-class cruisers and support vessels were being mothballed.

Finding labor for the fields and the plants was the second largest concern. Out of a population of 65,600,000 Shieldians, 5,500,000 Sentrians, and some 12,000,000 free Gadsanis, nearly 4,500,000 were under arms or involved in logistical duties. In some areas, fields lay fallow for want of men to work them; in others, women (unthinkable!) and children (not preferred, perhaps, but certainly thinkable) took up their husbands’ and fathers’ places on the assembly line.

With their only ally Lunatic Retard Robots (which was severely limited by its relation to Valinon), the Shieldians needed Walmington every bit as much as Walmington needed them.

Rinehart steered Thunder-ten-tronckh into a small sitting room in #1 Jameston Place. They had no more sat down over a cup of tea when there was a knock on the door and in walked Charles Bradsworth.

“Just the man I was looking for!” he exclaimed. But his voice, which always sounded like honey over the radio, was far more raspy than Thunder-ten-tronckh had ever heard it. “You’ll have to bear with me, I’m afraid,” Bradsworth continued, “I have a bit of a throat cold.”

((EDIT: I was so inspired by WoS's description of the RWAF's logo that I created one for the National Flying Corps.

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v294/DrIquan/nfc.jpg

Well, I know it's not much, but I'm not much of an artist =P. The face and hands are amorphous blobs and the legs/feet are missing because I can't draw them at all (as opposed to my great talent at the rest of the body *cough*)...buuut! Here's my initial sketch of Iansislean Navy officer uniforms.

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v294/DrIquan/IN.jpg

(Blue with green epaulettes? Why, he could have been a servant of the Principality!)

OCC: Hmm...come to think of it, the PRAF insignia probably looks something like the RAF South-East Asia Command roundel, but with, eh, mabye blue and orange?

IC:

After watching the Colt pilot eject from his airplane and fall nearby, Corporal Marley and several other members of the Gadsani/Robotstani squad find themselves searching the woods for the unfortunate flyer. Just in case of contact with Effitian troops, Marley has an Ivanograd Mk.4 .38 revolver, a Robotstani copy of the Enfield No.2, an event that is unlikely but possible.

"Keep a look-out, lads. We don't want to keep this poor fellow to stay in his tree any longer than he has to, eh?"

They come upon a few pieces of wreckage while combing the woods but so far no flyer...

Further to the south, the Hunter flight finally lands, just in time because much more time on station would have forced them to divert, and perhaps land at an airstrip without such essentials as jet fuel.

The pilots climb out in a happy mood, and Kestrel One claims a victory on one of the downed Stogies. While he had truly shot it down, the fighter's gun camera was pointed far afield by the time the stalwart fighter-bomber threw in the towel. The downing of a Stogie is encouraging for the PRAF, which could, if it wanted, probably destroy the entirety of the Royalist Air Wing at once and for good, and whose commanders are beginning to fear that they are no longer experienced pilots in the modern sense.

A round of handshakes and back-patting constitutes the celebration, and before the hour is up mnechanics start re-arming and refueling the machines for another sortie.

"If it isn't one damned thing, it's another," grumbles Puller, thinking of his eggs, as they pull themselves out from behind the ridge. He lights up another smoke, which does not go unnoticed by the Sarge. The wreckage of the exploded Steed litters the ground, but nowhere is there a piece much larger than a square foot. Puller kicks at something that looks suspiciously like a human thumb, but doesn't bend for closer inspection.

It's slow going in almost waist-deep snow, even with skies on, mostly because the Republic hadn't been able to afford much more than two weeks of training in deep snow before shipping them off. At last, one of the younger (and sharper eyed) Gadsanis shouts and points. There is a figure dangling from the upper branches of a pine, kicking his feet ineffectively. But as they get closer...

"It's a damn Effie," said Puller in disgust. The Effitian airman shouted something in his native language. "I don't speak your lingo, asine!" Puller bellowed back.

"We can't just leave him there, now can we?" said Sargeant Collins. "Hood, take Marley and Puller and go get him down."

"I ain't climbing no damn fool tree for no damn fool Effitian," replied Puller, puffing on his cigarette. "That's that."

------

Back at NFC Second Whitman, there is a hearty round of congratulations for both the pilots of the Hunters and of the four Colts, which land shortly afterwards. A few seconds of silence were allowed for Flight Lieutenant d'Urreley, whose Colt had spun out after the fight, but that didn't get in the way of the celebrations too much.

"There is one problem, though," says the Group Commander, calming his aeroknights down. "We were expecting another shipment of jet fuel on the last train from Delton -- and it didn't come." A hushed silence fell over the assembled squadron leaders, each one of whom was itching for their crack at Effie. "We've got enough in storage to fill maybe twenty more tanks, maybe twenty-five if we stretch -- and no more."

The simple fact was that, compared to the great battle being fought over the center, the northern flank simply wasn't a great concern for the Air Marshal in command of the theater. Iansislean logistics were already stretched almost to the breaking point, and every gallon diverted to the side meant one less bombing sortie against Effitian-held railroads in the center and less fighter protection for the 900,000 men fighting there.

"And, to speak in favor of Citizen Callahan, here's Admiral Philip Clayburgh!"

The prestige of Admiral Clayburgh, who was the commander of Iansisle's Home Fleet, drew some applause despite the unpopularity of his position."And, to speak in favor of Citizen Callahan, here's Admiral Philip Clayburgh!"

The prestige of Admiral Clayburgh (the former Marquess of Westergate), who was the commander of Iansisle's Home Fleet, drew some applause despite the unpopularity of his position. The crowd had just heard Thomas de Fenne, one of the most radical members of the Assembly, speaking in favor of condemning Iansisle’s former King to death.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for hearing me out. The honorable Mr de Fenne spoke to great lengths today about justice and punishment. I can agree with him that any civilized society must have laws and must enforce them, but society must also be based on mercy and clemency.

“Citizen Callahan is at present the victim of a wrath directed not at himself, but rather at the injustice of the corporate system, which has already been overthrown. He was manipulated at all times into taking the stands which we now see as so offensive.

”Naturally, this does not clear Citizen Callahan from guilt, but we would do well to remember his misfortunes when passing sentence. So, citizens, when you go to vote to-morrow, remember well that you should be directing your wrath against Citizen Whitman, Citizen Ashtonbury, and the other perpetrators of that abominable crime against the people of Iansisle. Thank you.”

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

The fact that there were cells below Jameston Place was not as well known as the presence of dungeons underneath Dûn Ádien. However, deep beneath #4 Jameston Place, James Callahan sat and awaited the vote that would determine his fate. Yet he was strangely serene, as a man who knew his fate and had accepted it. Even Weathers, who had been the royal standard-bearer at the Battle of Ducksbury, noticed the change.

Like the rest of the country, the population in the Republic’s holding cell for traitors went to bed to await the election of the next day.

((in response to Lark’s telegram =)))

(A little forewarning, here, I am seriously hammered, thought I not that, so far, I've not made any obvious typographical errors. Still, my thought-process is likely to be a little bit skewiff.)

Thunder-ten-tronckh was quite prepared to accept Iansislian pretentions to wealth and security, regardless of what diplomatic advantage that might throw-away, either because it fitted with his Walmingtonian preconceptions or because it was what the new and struggling Walmington wanted to find in the Pacific.

The Minister was happy enough to be met by Rinehart, which he took at least as indicative of better than a snub by the revolutionaries, that being a dreadful idea that the Walmingtonians could not stomach, but when Bradsworth appeared, Alan was so much impressed that the reduced impact of his voice, well, it wasn't much reduced at all.

The little fellow, who at least was in good health, reasonably well rested (those new jet aircraft were so darn smooth!), and tidily dressed in a black suit cut on Saville Row, stood to greet the icon, though he managed to hold back and wait before choosing whether to offer an inferior bow or a presumptuous handshake.

"Oh, happens to the best of them, happens to the best of them!" He said, in reference to Bradsworth's human susceptibility to the cold virus. "Ah, it is an honour to meet you, at last! His Walmingtonian Maj... ah, the duly elected... all greetings from Walmington on Sea!"

The Baron shortly explained that the broad purpose of his visit was in pursuit of the establishment of cordial ties between the new governments of Iansisle and Walmington. The Whigs, though their rise was through pre-existing official channels, had chosen to make every attempt to push to the Republic the basic fact of change... that the current administration in Great Walmington wasn't precisely the same one as sat as one of King James' strongest allies, even though George Mainwaring was back in power. We're both new, it's a clean sheet... but we do have a silent history of friendship, we two peoples, don't we? That was the tone of it.

Walmingtonians were become expert at brushing elephants under the carpet, be they nuclear elephants, unprovoked elephants, corinated elephants, whatever.

(Haha! I just realised that I didn't note a lack of errors, as I intended to. How terribly amusing.)

(A little forewarning, here, I am seriously hammered, thought I not that, so far, I've not made any obvious typographical errors. Still, my thought-process is likely to be a little bit skewiff.)

((heh. You're wasted? Well, what else is new? =P ))

The little fellow, who at least was in good health, reasonably well rested (those new jet aircraft were so darn smooth!), and tidily dressed in a black suit cut on Saville Row, stood to greet the icon, though he managed to hold back and wait before choosing whether to offer an inferior bow or a presumptuous handshake.

"Oh, happens to the best of them, happens to the best of them!" He said, in reference to Bradsworth's human susceptibility to the cold virus. "Ah, it is an honour to meet you, at last! His Walmingtonian Maj... ah, the duly elected... all greetings from Walmington on Sea!"

Bradsworth met the Baron with hand extended; after all, in the brave new world of the Republic, all men were equal, were they not? He even managed to keep from smiling at the Walmingtonian's embarassment as to who exactly had sent him to the Shield. Instead, Bradsworth accepted the compliments heartily and returned them.

The Baron shortly explained that the broad purpose of his visit was in pursuit of the establishment of cordial ties between the new governments of Iansisle and Walmington. The Whigs, though their rise was through pre-existing official channels, had chosen to make every attempt to push to the Republic the basic fact of change... that the current administration in Great Walmington wasn't precisely the same one as sat as one of King James' strongest allies, even though George Mainwaring was back in power. We're both new, it's a clean sheet... but we do have a silent history of friendship, we two peoples, don't we? That was the tone of it.

Walmingtonians were become expert at brushing elephants under the carpet, be they nuclear elephants, unprovoked elephants, corinated elephants, whatever.

As the conversation progressed, Bradsworth and Rinehart graduallly became aware of how much Great Walmington wanted Ianapalis's friendship. However, by their own words and actions, they doubtlessly conveyed that the friendly relations were equally welcome by the Assembly. Little was made of Mainwaring's ties to the former royal family of Iansisle and even less of of the fact that, pending the election which was taking place all across the Shield just then, the King of Iansisle would likely die a traitor's death at his subject's hands. Nearly every other country with which the Republic had managed to open friendly relations -- Larkinia and Knootoss top among them -- stipulated explicitly that the safe exile of James was a condition for those relations. So far, Thunder-ten-tronckh had made no such demand.

True, the radicals -- Madders and de Fenne doubtlessly at their head -- would denounce working with non-republicans as a scheme of moderates to undermine the will of the people and restore a monarchy to Iansisle, but Bradsworth also knew that those same people wanted a bit of stability in a life which, for the past five years, had none.

"Eh, you're right Seargent. We can't very well leave the poor bastard up there. Ahoy there!"

Marley begins to climb the tree, not an easy feat for someone of his build, and finds it impossible to reach the first 'good limb.'

"Eh, would someone give me a boost?"

One of the Robotstani bombardiers runs over and kneels down, giving Marley just enough starting altitude to make the branch. "Bloody hell, Marley, lay off the foodstuffs!" says the man as he rubs his shoulders, sore from the corporal's weight.

"I suppose you'd like a boost too," he asks Puller, passing his Kingston Mk.4 bolt-action rifle off to one of the Gadsanis. "Better sooner than later, eh?"

Unlike their feelings towards the Royalists, the Robotstanis had not developed a burning sense of hatred towards Effit, if the Gadsanis had. If it were one of King Miquel's pilots in the tree, nobody would have questioned whether to leave him up there. But they are inclined to show some 'natural Robotstani leniency' to the Effitian flyer.

**********

Back at Second Whitman, the Hunter pilots are as disappointed as anyone. Their airplanes, they think, outclass anything fielded by the enemy and are eager to get into more dogfights. After weeks of ground attack sorties, they get their first taste of air combat and are unable keep it up.

Oddly enough, for the PRAF Meteor F.8 squadron deployed in the very thick of the fighting, those rather out-dated and greatly less capable airplanes fly more sorties than they can stand.

*********

"...Does Callahan deserve to be alienated from his head? It is my belief that he does. But does this Parliament support the execution of political prisoners?"
"By no means!" is the collective response.
"In that case I propose that this Parliament compose a letter asking for the Gull Flag republic to commute any possible death sentance for Callahan to life imprisonment. It is our experience that martyrs create nothing but trouble, am I correct?"

The response is mixed on that point, some heartily supporting that point and others grumbling about the pardoning of Miquel.

"It is in the interests of civilization itself to see Citizen Callahan alive, for both the purposes of reconciliation and for the fulfillment of human morality."

"Not to mention," say many Parliamentarians and regular citizens present, "it would win us points with the Valinor...and possibly clear the way for more support to the Gull Flaggers..."

A vote is quickly held and it comes out in favor of supporting the non-death of Callahan, and while the constituancies themselves still have to approve the measure they are indeed expected to. So by the end of the day, a committee of Parliamentarians is able to sign and seal the Parliamentary letter pleading for Callahan's life. It includes, of course, the Robotic rationale for such, saying that it could pave the way for more friendly relations with Valinon and 'other regional powers,' referring to Larkinia and other nations of which the formerly isolated Robotstan knowns precious little. It also discusses "morality and compassion, themselves understandable reasons for commuting Callahan's death sentance," and proposes that, "Citizen Callahan's actions were undertaken not entirely of his own volition, but rather due to unbearable external pressures and malicious internal influences." As vaguely and intricately worded as ever, nobody knows if it will have much effect on the outcome of the Callahan issue...