The Federal Solidarity
31-10-2005, 18:02
The ground detonated spectacularly in a flurry of belching dirt and upturned grass; the equal reaction to the action in question being the bizarre fall not of rain from the clouds, but brown and near-vaporised particles of varying sizes that completed their freefall downwards, into the great depression-like crater now occupying what had once been a flat stretch. When the smoke that had twisted into blinding pillars from the impact cleared, a voice rose above the restored silence.
“That was pathetic! I’ve seen better shooting from your Mother; a far better soldier than you’ll ever be, maggot!”
Hardly even allowing the insult to sink in, Captain Vladimir Tschovski leapt from the spot previously occupied by his immaculacy-buffed boots, and almost as a multi-limbed monkey and not veteran instructor scaled the dented hull of the offending tank. Riding crop held snugly in armpit he continued to scream inane insults even as he tore open the poorly shackled turret hatch, thrusting his free arm downwards as though raking for a lost treasure in sewage than fulfilling some meaningful improvement to tutoring.
A victorious and unpleasant sneer spread across lips, separated from hooked nose only by near-perfectly trimmed and now-greying moustache, as Tschovski found that which had displeased him so seriously. Oblivious to the snivelling resonating around the empty vehicle below and the half-choked pleadings for mercy he hauled first a head and then flailing arms from the depths of the machine.
“How can you expect to be entrusted with the safety and security of our esteemed Republic with targeting skills like that, squire? This isn’t cadets and you aren’t operating for shiny badges on your fucking sash.”
Free from the iron-grip of the disapproving elder, the baby-faced gunner lowered his head, replying with a squeak that could be scarcely heard even if one had placed his ear to lips, let alone separated by normal conversational distance.
“Speak up boy; I’m not in this for your psychological nurturing.”
“I don’t want to be in the Expeditionary Forces,” he said, confidence only slightly shot to pieces. “I always wanted to be a painter, Sir.”
Retrieving his riding crop, the Captain brought it harshly down a few scant inches from the rim of the turret hatch, and smiled malevolently as the recruit succeeded in evading a whipping for his fingers, only to ram them painfully into the steel hatch cover itself in his haste to escape the punishment. Stuffing the implement once more under armpit, he patted the poorly painted and dented steel of the turret with a leather-gloved palm.
“Look no further lad, you’ve got yourself everything needed to paint a pretty scene for your people.”
Continuing whilst ignoring the perplexed look opposite, Tschovski pointed first to the barrel; “A fine paintbrush upon this turret,” he said whilst moving focus to inside the tank; “Your explosive shells, paint for which to colour your canvas which is of course the battlefield of your enemy!”
The recruit groaned, and began to shake his head, though he got no further than a rotation before a vice-like grip of steel enclosed around his neck and a light spray of saliva coated his flesh. “I expect that you’ll continue this drill without further complaint madam, or you’re likely to be shown my unique slant on live-fire exercises, and a personal introduction to the breech of this machine!”
Hopping downwards to the ground, the loud thud of slamming metal brought limited satisfaction to Vladimir. Seizing his belt-mounted radio, and giving the static virtually no time to abate, the furious senior officer made the target of his hatred known to not only the most recently abused recruit but the dozen tanks forming a line on either side.
“Take your aim and load!” He bellowed.
Slowly, though with one barrel considerably faster in acquiring a lock than others, the point of attack was found, but ten metres from the original and considerable detonation hole. Standing itself some three feet high were the pitted and chipped, though not necessarily ugly circular wall of a now defunct fountain. Dominating the centre of this display a statue of vaguely discernable female form rose; perhaps once a fine work of art, but now missing not only limbs but any finer detail, and replacing these lost treasures a blanket of bullet holes and ricochet impacts from small-arms fire.
The water within was barely classable as such; a thick and stagnant green from which twisting and creeping tendrils of moss climbed the central podium to further desecrate. The occasional soft plop saw crumbling fragments of the structure fall into the dark pool beneath, quickly superseded by the tremendous boom of a not-too-distant explosion. As a low-pitched whistling began to not merely fill the air, but vibrate all around it, the fate of the once eye-catching work was assured.
The white marble scattered as the shell struck home, followed seconds later by a second, third and fourth until such time as only the limited chunks blown clear by the first impact remained to survive the rapidly smoking crater, separated by the original impact zone by the thinnest wall of blackened soil even now dissolving.
“Cease fire!” Bellowed Tschovski, surveying the carnage almost nonchalantly. Kicking from his polished toecap a speck of debris --failing to match the black of the shoe and thusly immediately unworthy of even identification -- and turning to face the line of war machines.
“Dismissed until nineteen hundred hours,” he began, “And welcome to Liberty Memorial Park Firing Range Gentleman.”
Vladimir looked at his wristwatch and could barely contain his venomous glee, even as his weary recruits climbed from their vehicles clutching ration packs and thermoses full of caffeine-boosted coffee -- It was eighteen hundred hours and forty five minutes.
The room was a non-descript concrete box, adorning the four walls only the thinnest and most crudely applied layer of once-brilliant white—tarnished by an age of neglect and worse still, apathy towards their condition. Adorning one wall the only object within the room lavished with misplaced enthusiasm, the flag of The Federal Solidarity.
Junior-Lieutenant Foster brushed the dust from the surface of the desk hesitantly, as he guarded his perfectly creased uniform sleeve against the rampaging unseemliness pouring forth. Setting his regimental cap down, he took a seat in front of the proudly maintained national standard suspended on the wall behind, and took a moment to flick through the considerable stack of papers for his attention.
The dust layered upon the uppermost sheets betrayed the length of time they had sat awaiting attention, on as various affairs as any governmental department might cover. However the scope of what they would discuss now was truly beyond the realms of any one office or department.
“Victory this night,” a figure greeted as he entered, depositing his cap upon a table opposite. “Has six months passed already? I’d promised my children they’d be allowed to help repair some tank tracks this evening—it’ll cost me dear rations to cheer them up over the cancellation.”
“Not to worry, Simms. Our tour of government’s almost through. One more session of parliament and we’ll be back on the field where it matters. Every newbie’s got to take their turn in the wheels of endless paperwork.”
Other junior officers drifted in, each occupying a desk and substituting his cap for black tie, signifying the almost title-only alteration in their duties. When Foster was satisfied that his various Ministers had arrived and the government was ready to discharge its ceremonial duties, he convened.
“For the record let it be known,” he began. “That on the Thirtieth of October, in the year of our Victory two thousand thirty, is The People’s Federal Parliament of the Esteemed Republic reconvened by order of the Office of the War Marshall, and ratified by myself in my capacity as Prime Minister of The Federal Solidarity.”
Murmured agreement and bored affirmative greeted Foster’s opening. “Items on the agenda for this session include Parliament’s authorisation for the continued use of arms against our enemies for the security of the Union; The extension of the draft ; The verification of the War Marshall’s continuing use of emergency powers; vetoing the armistice terms offered by our great enemy; allocating funding to the Patriotic Expeditionary Forces to the sum of ninety five percent gross national product.”
“Prime Minister,” interrupted Simms. “I’d like to raise a point as Secretary of State for Health, specifically a suggestion for the construction of a new municipal hospital to replace the current building which I believe is now a hundred and thirty years old.”
Foster scribbled down the request on a standard recording form, meticulous filing an established military training technique to enable younger officers such as those assembled the worth of collecting exhaustive data. “What percentage of medical care to those serving?”
“Eighty percent, though I believe I can personally intervene to increase the facilities available to the Patriotic Expeditionary Forces by at least ten percent.”
“Validated,” Foster answered. “Have the my authorisation for the project sent to the Office of the War Marshall for validation or veto; we’ve quite a lot to get through tonight.”
“That was pathetic! I’ve seen better shooting from your Mother; a far better soldier than you’ll ever be, maggot!”
Hardly even allowing the insult to sink in, Captain Vladimir Tschovski leapt from the spot previously occupied by his immaculacy-buffed boots, and almost as a multi-limbed monkey and not veteran instructor scaled the dented hull of the offending tank. Riding crop held snugly in armpit he continued to scream inane insults even as he tore open the poorly shackled turret hatch, thrusting his free arm downwards as though raking for a lost treasure in sewage than fulfilling some meaningful improvement to tutoring.
A victorious and unpleasant sneer spread across lips, separated from hooked nose only by near-perfectly trimmed and now-greying moustache, as Tschovski found that which had displeased him so seriously. Oblivious to the snivelling resonating around the empty vehicle below and the half-choked pleadings for mercy he hauled first a head and then flailing arms from the depths of the machine.
“How can you expect to be entrusted with the safety and security of our esteemed Republic with targeting skills like that, squire? This isn’t cadets and you aren’t operating for shiny badges on your fucking sash.”
Free from the iron-grip of the disapproving elder, the baby-faced gunner lowered his head, replying with a squeak that could be scarcely heard even if one had placed his ear to lips, let alone separated by normal conversational distance.
“Speak up boy; I’m not in this for your psychological nurturing.”
“I don’t want to be in the Expeditionary Forces,” he said, confidence only slightly shot to pieces. “I always wanted to be a painter, Sir.”
Retrieving his riding crop, the Captain brought it harshly down a few scant inches from the rim of the turret hatch, and smiled malevolently as the recruit succeeded in evading a whipping for his fingers, only to ram them painfully into the steel hatch cover itself in his haste to escape the punishment. Stuffing the implement once more under armpit, he patted the poorly painted and dented steel of the turret with a leather-gloved palm.
“Look no further lad, you’ve got yourself everything needed to paint a pretty scene for your people.”
Continuing whilst ignoring the perplexed look opposite, Tschovski pointed first to the barrel; “A fine paintbrush upon this turret,” he said whilst moving focus to inside the tank; “Your explosive shells, paint for which to colour your canvas which is of course the battlefield of your enemy!”
The recruit groaned, and began to shake his head, though he got no further than a rotation before a vice-like grip of steel enclosed around his neck and a light spray of saliva coated his flesh. “I expect that you’ll continue this drill without further complaint madam, or you’re likely to be shown my unique slant on live-fire exercises, and a personal introduction to the breech of this machine!”
Hopping downwards to the ground, the loud thud of slamming metal brought limited satisfaction to Vladimir. Seizing his belt-mounted radio, and giving the static virtually no time to abate, the furious senior officer made the target of his hatred known to not only the most recently abused recruit but the dozen tanks forming a line on either side.
“Take your aim and load!” He bellowed.
Slowly, though with one barrel considerably faster in acquiring a lock than others, the point of attack was found, but ten metres from the original and considerable detonation hole. Standing itself some three feet high were the pitted and chipped, though not necessarily ugly circular wall of a now defunct fountain. Dominating the centre of this display a statue of vaguely discernable female form rose; perhaps once a fine work of art, but now missing not only limbs but any finer detail, and replacing these lost treasures a blanket of bullet holes and ricochet impacts from small-arms fire.
The water within was barely classable as such; a thick and stagnant green from which twisting and creeping tendrils of moss climbed the central podium to further desecrate. The occasional soft plop saw crumbling fragments of the structure fall into the dark pool beneath, quickly superseded by the tremendous boom of a not-too-distant explosion. As a low-pitched whistling began to not merely fill the air, but vibrate all around it, the fate of the once eye-catching work was assured.
The white marble scattered as the shell struck home, followed seconds later by a second, third and fourth until such time as only the limited chunks blown clear by the first impact remained to survive the rapidly smoking crater, separated by the original impact zone by the thinnest wall of blackened soil even now dissolving.
“Cease fire!” Bellowed Tschovski, surveying the carnage almost nonchalantly. Kicking from his polished toecap a speck of debris --failing to match the black of the shoe and thusly immediately unworthy of even identification -- and turning to face the line of war machines.
“Dismissed until nineteen hundred hours,” he began, “And welcome to Liberty Memorial Park Firing Range Gentleman.”
Vladimir looked at his wristwatch and could barely contain his venomous glee, even as his weary recruits climbed from their vehicles clutching ration packs and thermoses full of caffeine-boosted coffee -- It was eighteen hundred hours and forty five minutes.
The room was a non-descript concrete box, adorning the four walls only the thinnest and most crudely applied layer of once-brilliant white—tarnished by an age of neglect and worse still, apathy towards their condition. Adorning one wall the only object within the room lavished with misplaced enthusiasm, the flag of The Federal Solidarity.
Junior-Lieutenant Foster brushed the dust from the surface of the desk hesitantly, as he guarded his perfectly creased uniform sleeve against the rampaging unseemliness pouring forth. Setting his regimental cap down, he took a seat in front of the proudly maintained national standard suspended on the wall behind, and took a moment to flick through the considerable stack of papers for his attention.
The dust layered upon the uppermost sheets betrayed the length of time they had sat awaiting attention, on as various affairs as any governmental department might cover. However the scope of what they would discuss now was truly beyond the realms of any one office or department.
“Victory this night,” a figure greeted as he entered, depositing his cap upon a table opposite. “Has six months passed already? I’d promised my children they’d be allowed to help repair some tank tracks this evening—it’ll cost me dear rations to cheer them up over the cancellation.”
“Not to worry, Simms. Our tour of government’s almost through. One more session of parliament and we’ll be back on the field where it matters. Every newbie’s got to take their turn in the wheels of endless paperwork.”
Other junior officers drifted in, each occupying a desk and substituting his cap for black tie, signifying the almost title-only alteration in their duties. When Foster was satisfied that his various Ministers had arrived and the government was ready to discharge its ceremonial duties, he convened.
“For the record let it be known,” he began. “That on the Thirtieth of October, in the year of our Victory two thousand thirty, is The People’s Federal Parliament of the Esteemed Republic reconvened by order of the Office of the War Marshall, and ratified by myself in my capacity as Prime Minister of The Federal Solidarity.”
Murmured agreement and bored affirmative greeted Foster’s opening. “Items on the agenda for this session include Parliament’s authorisation for the continued use of arms against our enemies for the security of the Union; The extension of the draft ; The verification of the War Marshall’s continuing use of emergency powers; vetoing the armistice terms offered by our great enemy; allocating funding to the Patriotic Expeditionary Forces to the sum of ninety five percent gross national product.”
“Prime Minister,” interrupted Simms. “I’d like to raise a point as Secretary of State for Health, specifically a suggestion for the construction of a new municipal hospital to replace the current building which I believe is now a hundred and thirty years old.”
Foster scribbled down the request on a standard recording form, meticulous filing an established military training technique to enable younger officers such as those assembled the worth of collecting exhaustive data. “What percentage of medical care to those serving?”
“Eighty percent, though I believe I can personally intervene to increase the facilities available to the Patriotic Expeditionary Forces by at least ten percent.”
“Validated,” Foster answered. “Have the my authorisation for the project sent to the Office of the War Marshall for validation or veto; we’ve quite a lot to get through tonight.”