NationStates Jolt Archive

Biernes, Finara

There were slums and there were slums. Portside, usually just referred to as the Warrens, was the worst neighborhood in Biernes, even before the hurricane left most of the city a desolate wreck. It wasn’t Protestant paramilitaries or the forces of the Crown that made the area so dangerous that most relief workers wouldn’t go near it. It was ordinary gun runners, drug dealers, thieves, and other common criminals, most of them working for a shadowy figure known only as Gaithan.

The garda rarely came into the Warrens anymore, they hadn’t for years. The local shelter for the homeless had shut down due to problems with violence. So had the soup kitchen. Neither Presbyterian nor Catholic clergyman was willing to risk a full time ministry down in this part of town, although a few came down every month or so on some short term mission of mercy or another. That didn’t mean the people didn’t have their own sort of religion. They just showed it in odd ways. The old ones would pray desperate prayers late at night for their fallen children and grandchildren, for the old neighborhood that they just couldn’t leave, for a return to the good days that existed only in memories idealized by long years of dreaming. Little children would look out the windows of their crowded, illegal tenements at the streets below where a loved one had recently been gunned down and ask their mothers what kind of car Jesus drove so they would know when He was coming. Hardened killers would keep a tab of their murders and say that it was a record of what they would owe God when they died. Life was hard but in that hardness lived a sort of desperate, confused, and yet powerful hope. A blind hope that lived without reason or evidence but only on the unshakeable sense in bone and muscle and especially spirit that man was not meant to live like this, that the future must be brighter because it couldn’t be darker.

Maria Feurer walked into the Warrens alone. She was only twenty and she’d been warned not to do this. She was told that relief was moving as quickly as possible where possible and that aid was available to the people of the Warrens if they would seek it out. There were aid stations no less than a block away. But they wouldn’t and Feurer had decided to go to them. She went on foot, in casual clothing, just jeans and a tee. She hadn’t been sure what to wear. Dressing nicely might have made her seem like more of an outsider, like somewhere here on a mission of condescension. Dressing down too much, though, would have been much worse. It would have been a false statement of identity, bereft of any real meaning, an insult which no one in the Warrens would have forgiven.

As Feurer passed through the cluttered streets, she felt the eyes of the local men and a few local women all over her body. They were leaning in doorways or gathered in alleys or making deals on the street or looking down from windows. They were looking at her, at every detail of her flesh, as though sizing up a piece of meat at market. But they were watching her silently, in a sort of threatening calm.

Eventually, Feurer came to a crowded shack that had to violate every municipal building code in Biernes and was packed well beyond a safe capacity. The sounds of bawdy laughter and loud conversation came from inside the ramshackle wooden structure. A sign painted over the door identified it as Luke’s Pub, as good a place as any to get to work.

Biernes, Finara

Even though a lack of any meaningful or responsible support internationally had kept the so-called Republic of Deasrargle from developing any serious chance of fulfilling its nationalist ambitions, the organization had nonetheless kept up a steady series of bombings, kidnappings, and assassinations targeting officers of the law, royalist politicians, and Catholic leaders. They hadn’t, however, attacked a single Red Cross volunteer despite Pantocratorian worries that they might.

The garda, for their part, had continued their efforts to capture as many of the terrorists as possible. They had made serious attempts to infiltrate insurgent networks without much success. More productive had been their attempts to track insurgent communications, a tactic which had led to the capture and arrest of more than one insurgent leader and the rescue of more than one hostage.

In all of this, the role played by Alastar Gaff was a small one. Gaff had killed a number of garda, detonated a bomb in a trash bin in a Catholic neighborhood, and vandalized a statue of the Queen. But it was Gaff who had the bad luck to be chased by the garda into an ally by garda with sirens blaring just when the people of Biernes got fed up. A man and a woman of the garda had him on the ground and were cuffing his hands when a crowd started to mill about the entrance to the alley.

“Please stand back! Everything is under control!” Garda Colmán Sallery yelled to the crowd as he moved towards them. “Return to your homes!” Sallery raised his hands in the air, gesturing the crowd back thoroughly. The crowd took a few steps back but it was growing. More and more people, curious, angry, or upset, were starting to pile into the alleyway.

Sallery took a step back towards the prisoner. He and his partner slowly drew their guns, hesitant to fire into an unarmed mob. This retreat only incited the mob, which was now screaming at the gardaí. They accused Her Majesty of seeking peace with terrorists and murderers, of allowing them and their friends and neighbors to be the victims of violence out of a desire to maintain national unity. They accused the Government of first causing the tragedy by failing in its duty towards its people and then failing again to do its duty to enforce the law. They cursed the judges for letting criminals out as soon as they came in and the garda for failing to do what needed to be done. They cursed Pantocratoria and the Resurgent Dream and Midlonia and Amestria and Menelmacar for playing chess with their country. And then they moved in, throwing whatever came to hand. Their target was Alastar Gaff, a man who had preyed upon them and murdered dozens of innocent people in the name of his political ideology. But standing between him and them were two dedicated officers of the law who had no intention of allowing even a criminal to be simply torn apart by an unruly mob without trial, without rights, without dignity.

The numbers were with the mob but the gardaí were armed and the mob wasn’t. The fight was a bloody one and when it was over both gardaí, Gaff, and nine other men were dead. It was one more bloody tragedy in a land torn by religious and political hate, not the bloodiest but perhaps one of the saddest and the first time in over a month that the mass of ordinary people had been incited to violence. In recent weeks, that had been the exclusive province of the police and paramilitaries.

Biernes, Finara

Things were looking up in Biernes. For the first time in a long time, aid workers were reaching out to the Warrens after one brave girl had led the way. The paramilitaries were less popular now than ever. Foreign aid from dozens of different nations, most of them enemies, had flooded the city. The largest problem now was managing the oversized Red Cross and Red Crescent presence with its large Pantocratorian, Danaan, Iesian, Swiss, Menelmacari, and local contingents. The crisis seemed over and the city ready to move on. Until 1:59 PM, 15 September.

There were four balloons in all, released in such a manner that the winds carried them over a large portion of the city spewing their gas before they were shot down by Finaran Air Defense and the crashes themselves, while necessary, caused localized destruction and death much more severe than in the areas merely passed over by the balloons. The basic compound in the gas was C6H12Cl2S2, sesquimustard, one of the more deadly sorts of mustard gas. It was combined with nerve agents and other toxic substances in smaller amounts to increase the effect and the fatality rate. Mustard gas, on its own, kills only one in a hundred victims and can be treated fairly effectively.

In the Warrens, Luke’s Pub was flooded with yellowish gas. One crippled girl died on the spot as her lungs were severely blistered. Dozens of other people were wounded, their skin blistered, their eyes blinded. The efforts of Maria Feurer and a handful of other volunteers weren’t enough and the volunteers themselves were largely incapacitated.

In another part of the city, Grand Duchess Gwendolyn and her cousins the Princesses Theophania and Rebecca were leaving the neighborhood Red Cross facility when they saw the balloon coming, spewing gas. The three young ladies rushed back across the street and sealed the door behind but, as they were heading inside, Theophania spotted a young boy caught outside. She rushed out to the boy and lifted him in her arms, running back towards the door. Gwendolyn and Rebecca were starting to go after her when Theophania dived back through the door, not quite ahead of the gas. Gwendolyn, Rebecca, and the boy all cried out, their skin burned and blistered. It was bad enough that it wasn’t until the medics had tended all four that they realized that Theophania was much more badly burned and blinded.

Similar scenes were played out across the city as were many less laudable, scenes of people shutting the door on those who weren’t fast enough, too fearful of encountering the gas themselves. There were also scenes of violence as paramilitaries and their victims took advantage of the situation to settle old scores. And there was the scene which, although played out at every disaster, never ceased to be amazing. The scene of police, paramedics and firefighters running towards, not away from, death, danger, and pain.

It took several hours for the Red Cross to convert its aid mission into a series of refugee camps for those forced to flee the now contaminated core of the city or the flaming wreckage where the balloons had fallen. The evacuation of the affected area took much longer. However, it only took a few minutes for the news crews to arrive, broadcasting word of the disaster to the world.

"Chancellor, I have the Taoiseach of Finara on the line now." Drapeur's official secretary told him over the intercom. Several cabinet ministers, including the Deputy Chancellor Spiro Bolkus, the Defence Minister Gregory Nikomedes, the Foreign Minister Demetrios Raoul and the Treasurer Isabelle Folquet were standing about the Imperial Chancellor's office, their eyes moving between a television news programme covering the gas attacks in Biernes, the horrific images on the screen silent on account of the television being muted, and the Imperial Chancellor himself, as he picked up the phone and held it to his ear.

"Monsieur Baggett?" Drapeur asked soberly.

"Dr. Drapeur." Gaithan Baggett answered. The Taoiseach, who was sitting in the secure bunker under 1 Dacey Ave. with the other members of Her Majesty's Council on National Security (including Government Ministers, the highest officers of the various branches of the armed forces, and the heads of certain other relevent departments and agencies), just sounded tired, like he hadn't slept in a very long time.

"Let me begin by offering the condolences of the Pantocratorian people and my government in particular after the terrible events in Biernes today..." Drapeur began.

"Her Majesty and the Finaran people appreciate that, Chancellor." Baggett said.

"I want to offer the assistance of the Pantocratorian military, sir." Drapeur began. "We've some experienced people who we think can really help, they dealt with the chemical weapon attack on New Rome three years ago. We could have our Biological and Chemical Attack Response Group on the ground in Biernes in three or four hours, with the support fast on their heels needed to quarantine and secure the city, and treat the survivors."

"We accept. I'll make sure all the little formalities are taken care of." Baggett responded.

"I'll announce it to the press shortly then, but I'll give the order to go now then, sir." Drapeur said, looking to Nikomedes. The Defence Minister nodded and left the room.

"We're still trying to figure out where the... where they got this gas." Baggett added.

"We're going to try find out ourselves, sir, I've already asked the IFIS to get me and answer and I promise you that the second we find out, you will as well." Drapeur said.

"That means a lot." Baggett said. "I certainly hope to God it wasn't one of those countries that were agitating for the rebels a few weeks ago."

"That's a bridge I hope we don't have to cross, but we'll cross it if we come to it." Drapeur said, his use of the English catchphrase somewhat clumsy. "Mustard gas... it's an inhuman weapon."

"It also just plain doesn't make sense." Baggett said.

"It's a senseless act... I can't see how they think it will help their cause." Drapeur agreed.

"Yeah." Baggett agreed. "But even more than that, the choice of mustard gas doesn't make sense. It's an incapicitant. It was used to keep troops from being in condition to move if you wanted to take action that day. It has a relatively low fatality rate, even in this modified form. There are deadlier substances much more easily available due to their use in destroying domestic animals or exterminating pests."

"You think something else is afoot? That they're planning another attack?" Drapeur asked.

"That has crossed my mind as a possibility." Baggett said, although it had actually crossed the mind of Marshall Naoise Sallery. "But the whole thing is also inconsistent with the past activities of the Republic."

"You mean, you don't think this attack is the work of the rebels at all?" Drapeur asked. The cabinet members still in the room raised their eyebrows and leant in, wondering what was being said on the other end of the call.

"I don't think this was the work of the rebels alone." Baggett clarified.

"Do you have any suspects?" Drapeur asked.

"Not yet." Baggett said.

"Well, sir, if we find anything out, as I said, I promise you, you'll hear from us straight away." Drapeur replied.

"Thank you." Baggett said. "I'll keep you apprised of the situation as well."

"Goodbye, sir." Drapeur said, before hanging up the phone.

To: Whomsoever it may concern
From: Grand Duchess Alexandra of Toremal & San Maritia.
We, the nation of Toremal, and by definition San Maritia, are renowned for our charitable acts and as such, would request to commit our Humanitarian and Neutral Aid Corps (HaNAC) to providing assistance for your poor people, so that your resurgent dream may just be that, a resurgent dream.
In the abscence of our sister, Grand Duchess Alexandra, I'm afraid this is the best we can offer. However, if your people are Tor Christains we, one of the msot devout nations on this planet, may offer spiritual salvation for your people.
My aforementioned sister may also be able to wrangle aid out of the Ctan, whom she is state visiting.
Our hope,
His Royal highness, His Serene Highness,
Alexander,
Prince of Toremal,
Prince of San Maritia.

For Grand Duchess Alexandra

The situation in the aid station the Iesus personal had been attached to had suddenly changed…from being somewhat idle the Iesus medical staff became inundated with work.
Awash in a sea of misery the tiny Iesus contingent worked at the grisly task that was assigned to them without complaint, throwing themselves into the work. Even as they laboured under the massive workload, the Iesus medical staff couldn’t help but note that other medical personnel worked equally as diligently…the work to help the sick and provide for the refuges was tirelessly tackled by all those who had come to Finara to help.

Video footage soon was being aired on Iesus television, the images of the innocent dead and suffering causing ripples of disgust through the nation. People desperately wanting to help, but not knowing how.
Cardinal McCullum spoke solemnly to a packed Church about the horror of terrorism in all its forms, extending his personal sorrow for the sufferings of “All the people of God in brave Finara”.


Matthew Iesus quickly sent a live video reponse to the government and people of Finara.

“The horrors of terrorism continue to stain Finara red with the blood of the innocent.
Oh 15 September will forever be remembered as a day of martyrdom! A day where the blood of the faithful…the blood of the innocent…the blood of children of God flowed due to the evils sedition and terrorism.
The entire nation of Iesus Christi grieves with you! We hear the blood of the innocent crying out for justice! We long to be with you brave Finara!
O brothers and sisters of Brave Finara, we are united with you in our common Celtic heritage and faith. We are united with you in outrage over this act. We are united with you in denouncing any negotiations with these butchers!
I extend again my offer to the sovereign nation of Finara ….whatever assistance you need…anything at all…we are willing to provide it. In our Common cultural and religious unity, let the enemies of God tremble!
Already, millions upon millions of dollars have been raised for the victims of this tragedy and it is the desire of the Iesus people that this money be given directly to the victims of this horror…allowing the disposed to rebuild their shattered lives…
We are willing to stand at your shoulder Finara. We long for us to walk together towards victory and peace. We are prepared to fight our common enemies and punish without remorse those who seek to terrorize the Finaran people.
May God defend Finara!
Tiocfaidh ár lá"

It wasn’t long before the three injured Danaan royals were being airlifted to a New Rome hospital along with Princess Maital, who was accompanying her injured daughter Rebecca, even as their uninjured sisters and cousins continued to work side by side with other Danaan, Pantocratorian, Iesian, Amestrian, Menelmacari, and Finaran workers. Princess Plautilla, along with a group of nuns from her home principality of Nerise, was helping rinse off people who had been on the periphery of the gas attack and had not been much affected, making sure they were clean of any mustard residue. Princess Candace was working in a large tent full of young boys in hospital beds, holding their hands and kissing them on the forehead. Princess Jessica was sitting in the corner of a hospital with a four year old girl on her lap and a number of other young children gathered around her reading nursery stories to calm their fears. Princess Yuko, a young woman raised in a society of class distinctions much more rigid than the Danaan or even the Pantocratorian, raised to consider herself the daughter of a god, was nonetheless washing the wounds of injured men and women from the Warrens with help from a Lutheran minister and his wife and a handful of other volunteers.

The Grand Duchess of Shieldcrest had sent word for her husband to meet her in New Rome. Princess Diana, the older sister of Princess Theophania and the Danaan Ambassador to Pantocratoria was already at the hospital, awaiting her sister’s arrival. The ordinarily confident woman was pale and distressed, pacing back and forth in a private waiting room. It wasn’t long before she was joined by Princess Morgan, the younger sister of Grand Duchess Gwendolyn and the wife of Pantocratoria’s Prince Constantine. Letters of concern for the three wounded ladies had already come from the King and Queen of Marlund, the High King of the Resurgent Dream, the Emperor of Adoki, and the Prince of Bilbtoria who also expressed his intention to come to New Rome as quickly as possible.

After consultations with Prime Minister Sarah Sacker and other Cabinet Ministers, the High King of the Resurgent Dream appeared before Parliament in full dress uniform, flanked on either side by the Princes of Bilbtoria and Selinia. He spoke for nearly an hour on the criminal and cowardly nature of the attack and vowed Danaan military support to the Pantocratorians and Finarans in securing themselves against such terrorist threats. Similar declarations were made by the Emperor of Adoki and the King of Marlund even as Marlund’s embassy to Pantocratoria let the Imperial Government know they had information which might be vital in tracking the attackers.

The offer of aid on the part of the Iesian Government drew a mixed response from the Finarans. Based upon what they knew, who they respected, and their own past experiences, they had mixed and complicated feelings about the Iesians. Finally, the Government replied to Matthew Iesus that they wished him to allow the Church and civil society to help fully by reducing restrictions which might prevent them from coming to help in Finara with their own hands. The Archbishop of Arra also sent a warm letter to Cardinal McCullum, thinking him for his remarks. As for the letter from Toremal, it had greatly confused the Finarans. Or, rather, it had made the Finarans think the Toremali were rather confused about a number of things. Still, they tentatively accepted the offer.

Matthew Iesus replied quickly on behalf of the Iesian Government, happily consenting to allow a reduction in certain restrictions so that Church and civil groups could more freely assist Finara. Soon Church and state networks in Iesus Christi were bulging with volunteers and the money continued to roll in....
Cardinal McCullum replied equally quickly to the Archbishop of Arra, offering the resources of the Iesus Church to lessen the suffering of the 'People of God in Finara'....something about the Finara situation seemed to hit a genuine nerve in the hearts of the people of Iesus Christi.

Kuldiga, Excalbia

Prince Peter stood on a small wooden platform in the midst of green field. A nearby stand of trees blazed in hues of red, orange and yellow. Above the skies were clear and blue and there was just the slightest hint of a chill in the air.

Before him, the mayor and town council of Kuldiga approached carrying several wooden chests and bushel barrels. If that were not odd enough, the town fathers – and mothers – who were dressed in typical business attire sported heavy chain necklaces bearing anachronistic medieval medallions.

Usually, being the Prince of Kuldiga meant, as Peter often put it, being the “spare prince.” His cousin, Joseph had been he clear heir apparent even before the Emperor had made it official on the eve of his wedding to Princess Anna. And, if anything happened to Joseph, Joseph’s sister, Rebecca, and brother, James, both figured to come before him in the line of succession.

As a teen and young adult, Peter had spent years trying to convince himself that being the “spare prince” did not bother him. He had done a lot of reckless things in that vain effort. Then, he had met Gwendolyn. And, suddenly, it had stopped bothering him. Now, he was content to be the consort to the Grand Duchess of Shieldcrest.

However, he remained the Prince of Kuldiga and that carried with it certain ceremonial responsibilities. And chief among those was receiving the annual tribute of the Kuldiga town council and its leading citizens as part of the town’s harvest festival. Of course, except for a small stipend to maintain the grounds of Kuldiga Palace and the attached public park, the “tribute” would be returned to the council to support the operations of the town government.

Peter smiled, wishing Gwendolyn were with him. However, she had here own responsibilities, which had led her to Finara.

Just before the prince could extend his greetings, an aide rushed to his side and whispered something in his ear. Peter’s face turned white and his mouth turned into a grimace. He stifled a howl, then turned to the worried town council. “Pardon me,” he murmured, “it’s an emergency…” He jumped from the platform and rushed towards the palace. He jammed his hand into the pocket of his medieval cloak and began fishing about for his mobile phone.

Sweyn Castle, Citadel Excalbia

The Prince Regent sat at the table in the Map Room listening to Rev. Jacob Donnelly, the Director of Imperial Intelligence, report on the terrorist attack that had just taken place in Biernes, Finara. The distinctive chirp of a mobile phone sounded, drawing a scowl from Prince Joseph, until he realized it was his own phone. Only a handful of people had his number – most of them, his national security cabinet, were in the room with him. That left only his immediate family.

“Excuse me, Reverend,” the prince said as he took out his phone. It showed Peter’s number. He opened the phone.

“Peter,” Joseph began before his cousin’s frantic voice washed over him like a tidal wave. “Pe…Peter… Yes… we just heard… I was waiting for confirmation… Well, uh… Peter… yes. I understand. I do care… yes, I feel the same way. Of course. Yes, we’ll send a helicopter for you. We’ll have a supersonic transport standing by…”

The prince regent closed his phone and looked at the faces around the table. He sighed. “His Highness, Prince Peter, just learned about the attack. According to his information, Her Highness, Grand Duchess Gwendolyn, was injured in the attack and is being evacuated to New Rome…”

“A terrible, terrible tragedy,” Lord Yornis Halton, the Imperial Chancellor, said shaking his head gravely.

“Indeed,” Rev. Donnelly agreed.

“We have to respond,” Prince Joseph said slowly. “Her Highness is a member of the Imperial Family. We cannot fail to respond to an attack on a member of the Imperial Family.”

Sterling Wentworth, the Minister of Defence, furrowed his brow. “Your Highness?”

Joseph turned to his Minister. “What do we have in the area?”

Wentworth turned to the Lord Admiral Derek Kunle. Kunle nodded and turned to the prince regent.

“Your Highness,” Kunle said in his deep voice, “Courageous and her battlegroup are in the vicinity.”

Joseph nodded. “Dispatch them to Finara. Also, mobilise our chem-bio response units and mass casualty response teams. We should also send Mercy. And, we need to send a helicopter immediately to Kuldiga to pick up His Highness and bring him to the capital. Then, we will need a supersonic transport to take him to New Rome…”

“Yes, your Highness,” Kunle said.

Joseph turned to Sir Albert Cummings, the Minister of State. “Sir Albert, please contact the government of Finara to express our condolences. Offer them our chem-bio response teams and medical personnel. Tell them we have one of our hospital ships on its way to assist them.” Joseph drew in a breath. “And tell them that we have military forces en route and that we are prepared to assist them in dealing with those responsible…”

Sir Albert nodded, wondering how the Finarans would react to their offer of support.

Biernes, Finara

With the acceptance of Excalbian military aid, Biernes essentially became an Entente garrison against terrorism. This certainly accorded well with Finara's ongoing talks about entry into the Commonwealth of Peoples although it was unlikely it sat well with the Iesians, who had wished to offer more than just humanitarian aid. Still, the humanitarian effort was more noteworthy than the military. Men and women from at least fourteen different nations, of nearly every race and faith, with political ideologies ranging from National Socialism to democratic liberalism to absolutism to border-line anarchism, some of them who would be mortal enemies in any other circumstances, were working together to rebuild this one city victimized by as yet unidentified terrorists, this city which seemed to have struck a chord in the heart of several nations.

New Rome, Pantocratoria

As soon as Prince Peter landed, he was taken to St. Finbarr's Hospital. When he arrived, he was ushered through a waiting room where the anxious Princesses Diana and Morgan were waiting with Morgan's husband Constantine and into the hospital room where the three princesses lay. Gwendolyn's bed was on the right and, as he moved closer, Peter could see that her left cheek was badly blistered, as was her right hand. She sat up in bed as he entered. "Peter?"

New Rome, Pantocratoria

Everything – the trip from Kuldiga to the capital, from Excalbia to Pantocratoria and from the airport to St. Finbarr’s Hospital – had been a blur. As Prince Peter stood in the doorway of the waiting room, still wearing the suit he had been worn beneath his cloak at the harvest festival in Kuldiga, he was barely aware of anxious faces around him. Some of them, he thought, might be family of some sort. Had one of them been Morgan? Constantine? He thought he nodded, but he was not sure. He might have a mumbled a greeting, but he did not know. He could not even remember whether he had eaten on the plane. Although he thought he had drunk something; he kept smelling the faint scent of alcohol.

The prince let himself be led into the hospital room. He barely glanced at the other two beds as he walked straight to Gwendolyn’s bed. He instinctively reached for her damaged left cheek, but thought better of it and pulled his hand away.

Peter gave a small sigh of relief as Gwendolyn sat up and said his name.

“Yes, darling,” he said hoarsely, “it’s me. I’m here.” He pulled up a chair and sat beside her bed. He took her left hand gently and stroked her hair. “I’m here.”

Off the Coast of Finara

INV Courageous cut swiftly and silently through the rough seas. The low-lying trimaran carrier, nearly invisible to radar, moved confidently among a cluster of trimaran command cruisers and low-riding monohull cruisers carrying missiles and magnetic railguns.

On the carrier’s flag bridge VADM Harriet Erskine stood hunched over the digital map table, anxiously awaiting the news that they had entered Finaran waters.

High Queen Marissa frowned as she followed the reports of the crisis that was happening in Finara on the television. As soon as she had heard the news, she had sent letters of support to Gwendolyn and Morgan, and wished that there was more that she could do to help not only those she knew, who were involved, but those who would remain a nameless victims of the trouble.

She turned away from the screen, having watched as much as she could of the story and sat down in her chair. She had just made herself comfortable when a knock on the door drew her attention.

“Come in,” she called, and was rewarded moments later with the concerned face of one of her lady-in-waiting. This instantly made her wonder if there was bad news coming. She got up from her chair. “Has something happened?”

“No, ma’am,” Lady Rosamund, shook her head as she made her way into the room. “I didn’t mean to concern you. I merely wondered if there was anything I could do for you?”

Marissa smiled slightly. “No, there is nothing. I am just feeling a little…like a spare part. Wanting to do so much and yet being unable to do anything.” She indicated a chair nearby and retook her own. “And of course, I’m worried about His Majesty. I know how close he is to his sisters, and this is going to…make him uneasy.”

Lady Rosamund nodded her head slowly. “His Majesty has a very wise head on his shoulders. I watched his speech, it was very passionate.”

Letting out little sigh, Marissa looked at her companion. “Yes, it was. I do hope that the problem is brought to a conclusion swiftly.” She once more got to her feet, unable to sit still with so much happening. “Would you be so kind as to find out if there is any further word concerning Their Highnesses? It would make me feel so much better knowing that they were well.”

Lady Rosamund had risen from her chair when the High Queen had risen from hers. “I will, Your Majesty.”

Marissa watched the other woman move over to the door and pull it open. Once she had disappeared, the High Queen turned her attention to the television.

St Vincent de Paul Hospital, New Rome

Prince Constantine sat next to Morgan in the hospital, his arm around her shoulders. For the most part he stayed quiet, just reassuring Morgan when she got particularly upset, trying to be supportive.

New Rome, Pantocratoria

Morgan looked up as Prince Peter was shown through the room. She murmured a greeting although she could tell that the Excalbian was barely aware of anything going on around him. She wasn’t surprised when she didn’t get a response. After Peter had passed into the room where the patients lay, she put her hand gently on her husband’s. The entire affair had been rather rough on Morgan.

Diana didn’t even seem to notice Peter passing through the room. Like Peter himself, she was quite distracted with worry over her younger sister. However, after he had passed, she shook her head slightly and glanced after him, moving her lips slightly as though she had intended to say something but then decided otherwise. She had been pacing most of the time that she had been in the hospital and her face was quite pale with worry. Morgan had asked her to sit down several times with no result. However, now she sat down unprompted next to Morgan, gently taking Morgan’s free hand in her own.

“Thank you for coming.” Gwendolyn said with a relieved smile. “I know I must look hideous. I’m rather blistered. The doctors say there’s no real damage though, or at least there doesn’t seem to be. They’re only keeping me here for observation.”

The grand duchess sighed and looked down, lowering her voice. “It’s Theophania we should be worried about. She proved herself a true heroine and might have been seriously hurt in the process.”

New Rome, Pantocratoria

Peter’s chest tightened as he looked at the blisters on Gwendolyn’s face. It looked horrible and painful. Yet, her voice sounded… it sounded like Gwendolyn. He felt the smile come to his lips as if it were some unexpected muscle spasm. For a moment, it felt as if he had not smiled for so very, very long.

The prince gently stroked the grand duchess’ hair as he let the relief he felt wash over him. “All the forces of Hell itself couldn’t keep me from your side,” he whispered in response to his wife’s greeting. He sighed. “I am so relieved to see you, my love…”

After a moment, Gwendolyn’s concern about Theophania finally penetrated his swirl of emotions. In that instant, it was as if he had stepped out of a narrow tunnel and was seeing the room and those in it – apart from Gwendolyn – for the first time. He looked to the other two beds in the hospital ward. He could recognize Rebecca in one bed, but could the other victim possibly be Theophania? He would not have recognized had Gwendolyn not said her name.

“Is… is that Theophania?” Peter lowered and his voice and sat close beside his wife. “Dear Lord… how…” Peter’s voice caught in his throat – he had limited knowledge of mustard gas at best, beyond the historical fact of its use in the early 20th century. “How is she?”

New Rome, Pantocratoria

“I don’t know.” Gwendolyn said as she held her husband’s hand tightly. Gwendolyn looked almost confused for a moment. Then she shook her head a little as though clearing it. Her expression became a little tense as though she was unsure of something. She brought her husband’s hand to her lips and kissed it lightly.

Gwendolyn straightened a little and looked over at her cousin. Theophania was sleeping. Her hands were hidden under her sheets but her entire face was blistered and scarred. Her breathing was erratic and some sort of soft press was lying over her throat to help her. The skin around her eyes was especially scarred. “Diana’s been with her most of the time. She just went into the waiting room before you got here. Theophania hasn’t been able to see since it happened. The doctors think it might be permanent.”

“She saved that little boy though.” Gwendolyn said. “He’s alive today because of her. She ran towards that poison, she bore this, for a little boy she didn’t even know. There aren’t many like that.” She closed her eyes, sinking back down into her bed, “Whoever saves one life, it is as if he saved all of mankind.”

New Rome, Pantocratoria

As Gwendolyn kissed his hand, Peter gently reached behind her and placed his other hand on her shoulder, resting it lightly to make sure he was not touching any hidden injuries.

The prince followed the grand duchess’ gaze to her sleeping cousin. Theophania’s condition was obviously serious. Blinded. At such a young age. Tragic. He looked at the scaring around her mouth and listened to her breathing and could not help but wonder if the poison had gotten into her lungs. From what little he remembered about these kinds of burning agents, that was the greatest risk.

Peter nodded at Gwendolyn’s words. “This is my commandment,” he began, looking as if he were remembering something from long ago, “Love each other in the same way I have loved you - there is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends and you are my friends if you do what I command.” He turned slightly towards Gwendolyn. “Gospel of John, I think. I memorized it once.”

Peter turned back towards Theophania. “She’s a hero,” he murmured. Turning back to Gwendolyn he said, “Is there anything we can go? Bring in doctors from Excalbia? Ask for a consultation with DAIN? Anything?” After a moment, he added, “And the little boy she saved? Where is he? Maybe we can do something for him?”

New Rome, Pantocratoria

Gwendolyn smiled a little at Peter although her eyes stayed closed. She murmured something but he couldn’t quite make it out. Then she seemed to be asleep. She nuzzled a little into her husband’s arms and made a small murring noise, perhaps the first contented noise she’d made since she was injured in the attack.

Theophania stirred a little, rolling over onto her side with a small groan. Her sightless eyes looked over to Gwendolyn’s bed automatically, even though they were no longer of any use to her. “Prince Peter? Is that you?” she asked.

Diana looked towards the door of the room where Peter and the injured princesses were. Then she looked back to Morgan and Constantine. She was about to say something when one of her aides walked into the room. Diana frowned a little. “I asked not to be disturbed.”

“You asked not to be disturbed unless there was new information in the attack on Biernes.” the man reminded her. “We just got a call from the people over at the Lanerian Embassy. They have something. They’re calling the Pantocratorians now to inform them.”

“What is it?” Diana asked, rising anxiously from her seat.

“A Messianic cult in Sonora.” he answered. “There’s no paper trail on the illegal chemicals but the balloons … the balloons have been traced to one of their members. Lanerian law enforcement is heading for their compound now. It is likely the cultists are armed and dangerous and that children are present.”

Palais du Parlement, New Rome

"Mademoiselle l'Ambassadrice, the Chancellor will see you now." Drapeur's secretary advised the Lanerian Ambassador to Pantocratoria, Anne Madison, after conferring with the Chancellor over the intercom. She motioned to the door into Drapeur's office with her hand.

Madison, an athletic woman in her early thirties, rose from her chair. She had light brown eyes and matching hair. Her face normally wore a diplomatic smile but today she was properly somber. She was dressed conservatively in a dark suit and skirt. She nodded her thanks to the secretary as she rose and entered the Chancellor's office.

Inside the office Thibault Drapeur was behind his desk conferring with a middle-aged man in the uniform of an Imperial Air Service Brigadier General, seated on the other side of his desk, and his chief of staff, a woman in her forties with greying brown hair, seated on a chair on the side edge of Drapeur's desk, between the two men. As Madison entered the room, the officer rose to his feet, followed by the chief of staff and Drapeur himself.

"Mademoiselle l'Ambassadrice," Drapeur began. "Please, join us. This is Brigadier General Henri Fontaine from the Imperial Air Service, one of my military advisors, and my chief of staff Rosaline Gastonbeurre."

"Pleased to meet you, Your Excellency." Fontaine nodded.

"Your Excellency." Gastonbeurre nodded too.

"Won't you sit down?" Drapeur asked, motioning to the empty chair next to Fontaine.

Madison took her seat. "It's nice to meet you both. I only wish the circumstances were more pleasant."

"You wanted to speak with me about finding those responsible for these mustard gas attacks?" Drapeur said, sitting down. The other two followed him to their seats.

"Yes. We have a source on the balloons." Madison said. "A Mr. Brian Bailey. He's a member of a Messianic cult based in Sonora, a cult also suspected of child abuse and firearms violations. At present, Lanerian law enforcement has their compound surrounded. However, the cult members are believed to be heavily armed and we know that young children are present in the compound."

"And what ties does this cult have to the groups active in Deasrargle?" asked Drapeur.

"No known ties to the Republic." Madison said.

"Any other groups? Loyalists?" Drapeur asked.

"The PFO?" asked Fontaine.

"No." Madison answered simply.

"So Lanerian intelligence has no explanation why this cult arbitrarily decided to get involved in Deasrargle?" Drapeur asked.

"Not a complete one. From what we can tell, they believe their leader, still unidentified, is the Second Coming of Jesus. They also believe that the Emperor of Pantocratoria is the Anti-Christ spoken of in the Revelation of St. John."

"Then why weren't these attacks perpetrated against Pantocratorians?" Drapeur asked.

"Did this group actually plan or participate in the attacks or did they just sell the balloons?" clarified Fontaine.

"We don't know that." Madison said. "We just know they were the source of the balloons for the attack."

"Nothing else?" Drapeur clarified.

"Not so far." Madison said.

"And how solid is this intelligence?" Gastonbeurre asked.

"It's certain." she said.

"I see." Drapeur nodded. "Well, thankyou, Mademoiselle l'Ambassadrice."

"Thank you, Chancellor." Madison said, rising.

When Madison had left the room, Drapeur turned back to Fontaine.

"Well, that's very odd..." Drapeur said.

"Lanerian balloons carrying Midlonian mustard gas..." Gastonbeurre nodded. "It does seem odd."

"Well, we don't know how reliable the Lanerian intelligence is..." Fontaine speculated. "But MATER estimates that our intelligence about the gas being obtained from the Midlonians is 80% reliable..."

Tarana, the Resurgent Dream

When Prime Minister Sarah Sacker entered the War Room, everyone stood up. Sacker took a moment to take in the large screens around the room, showing electronic maps of the world as well as more detailed maps of areas of interest. Then she took the time to look at the men and women around her. Hannah Weidenseld, the Minister for Defense, had been a friend of Sacker’s for years. So had Beatrice Wake, Minister for Justice. Giuseppi Pacelli, the Minister for Intelligence, had, on the other hand, been a more political appointment. General Blandford James and Fleet Admiral Raam Sayar were best known to Sacker. Both the Air Force General and the Admiral had given her important advice in the past, but her gaze also took in the other three uniformed officers who served on the Military Command Council before moving to the technicians at the computers a short distance from the table.

After a moment, Sacker nodded and took a seat at the table. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I hope we have a better idea of who’s responsible for Biernes after the Lanerians traced the balloons.”

“The mustard gas was mostly likely stolen, probably from the storage facility of a nation which used it in the early twentieth century, kept making it for a few years after that and never actually destroyed their stores, despite signing treaties not to use them.” Weidenseld suggested.

“Which nations meet that description?” Sacker asked.

“Laneria, Marlund, Adoki, Nabarro Abarca, Finara … just to name a few. It’s a fairly common thing.” Weidenseld said. “We’ve asked all those countries to do a full inventory of their stocks. We should know within the week what’s missing from where.”

“We’ve also asked them to check any other arms stores they have.” Pacelli interjected. “They’ll likely try to strike again. We should know what kind of weapons terrorists currently possess.”

Sacker nodded. “So who do we think might have done it?”

Pacelli frowned slightly. “We’re still having trouble figuring that out. Sebben ap Balor is a possibility. He’s always shown a desire to encourage hate. He feeds off of it. He has contacts in both Catholic and Protestant extremist organizations, some of whom believe him to be a messenger angel from God. The Sons of the Reformation might also be involved or the Republic. None of them have known links to the Lanerian cult the balloons came from, however.”

Wake said “Both are radically anti-modernist and anti-government though. That links the SoR, this cult, Kahane Chai Ambara…”

“And the Allanean fascists.” Pacelli finished for her. “But I don’t think this gas came from a state of any kind. Frankly, any industrial power could do better if it wanted to give terrorists access chemical weapons. Mustard gas is barbaric but it’s also obsolete. Whoever did this used mustard agents because all the chemical weaponry they had was what they could steal from a poorly guarded military depot somewhere. That’s the only explanation that makes any sense.”

“There are still enemy ships in the Pantocratorian Archipelago.” James pointed out. “Whether or not they had anything to do with the attack…”

“That’s why we’re already sending more troops, more planes and more ships.” Sacker pointed out. “As well as nationalizing the Militia and Coast Guard in Kagerlund. If any of those ships enter Pantocratorian, Finaran or Danaan waters it will be considered an act of war and they will be destroyed. Make sure they all know that.”

New Rome, Pantocratoria

Peter gently drew Gwendolyn closer as she drifted back to sleep. He felt tears of relief streaming slowly down his face. His world was back together again.

The prince turned slowly, so as not to wake Gwendolyn, at the sound of Theophania’s voice. “Yes, your Highness” he said in soft but audible voice, “I’m here with Gwendolyn. I’m so very sorry for what’s happened… Gwendolyn has told me how you saved that boy… You… you were very courageous.”

The silence hung for a moment, then Peter continued. “How are you doing? Can I get you anything?”

OOC: Better late than never to comment on a subject ;)

IC:
Many Weeks Ago

Illhuitl Quiyahuitl roared with laughter as ‘Tom’, who he believed to be the blue cat, was hit in the face in the face with a frying pan by the small brown mouse, whose name was ‘Jerry’. The American cartoons, until recently banned by the Government as ‘Imperialist cartoons for the enslavement of young minds’, had been released as part of the Serene Democratic Fiefdom’s increasingly wider participation in the international community. Illhuitl continued to laugh until the credits rolled, marvelling at how funny the American cartoons were compared to those of his childhood, which consisted mostly of being good socialist pioneers or working hard, neither of which was particularly appealing.
Sitting in his local cinema, the young office-worker was able to watch a selection of films, cartoons and news reels in a manner that most in the West had not seen since the War. With television still old-fashioned in values, technology and longevity of broadcasting, many still flocked to the cinemas to marvel at the new colour films on offer. Not everything, however, was equally of interest.
“Oh no,” exclaimed the young man (to no one in particular) as the cartoon finally faded out, “Not again!”
But, lo and behold, the juvenile pleasures of the audience were to be interrupted an entirely different affair. The appearance of the national flag, a spinning globe and serious music heralded the start of…
“The Workers' Topical News,” boomed the announcer, “This week’s programme…”
Collective groans could be heard throughout the cinema as those in attendance began to search for something to occupy themselves, including the fascinating acts of reading the paper and searching through their pockets. Not that the news was always dull, but recent news had been dominated by…
“Communist Party officials continue to praise the historic achievement of our Socialist Brothers in the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea in successfully testing a nuclear device.”
The newsreel, however, suddenly stopped as it became apparent that someone had hastily added a new item onto the reel.
“But first,” said a booming but different voice,
“Crisis
In
Finara”
Quiyahuitl sat up. He had never heard of Finara, let alone known that a crisis was developing, but was also horrified by the scenes that unfolded before his eyes.
“Long-running sectarian tensions have, in the past week, erupted into full-scale civil disobedience. The Duchy of Deasrargle, traditionally divided between Presbyterians and Roman Catholics, was recently hit by a powerful hurricane that was served to propel these tensions into nigh-civil war. A group of such Protestants have, in a statement to the world press, declared the creation of a Republic, arguing that, and I quote, “that the most vital of these rights are those entwined with his conscience, the freedom of speech, the freedom of worship, the freedom of association, the freedom of belief, and the freedom of the press. We have found these freedoms all denied under the Government of Her Majesty of Finara."
The statement continues
"For these and other reasons too numerous to mention, we do hereby proclaim before the entire world, the sovereign Republic of Deasrargle.”
The Communist Party, together with our beloved Helmsman, the Dear Leader Great Comrade Noel, have released the following statement..."
[The newsreel flicked to the flag of the ruling party]
“Though the Serene Democratic People’s Fiefdom, and its vanguard the Communist Party of Otiacociah, have always argued for the peaceful cooperation of differing peoples and cultures, it is apparent that the conventional modes of civil harmony and cohesion have uttered broken down within the Duchy of Deasrargle. It is the position of the Government of the Fiefdom that, though issues are abundantly apparent in the treatment of Protestants, such grievances can best be sorted within the confinement of the nation state. We call, therefore, for the end of hostilities and for the community of responsible nations to investigate the causes of the current outrage and propose mechanisms that will aid the people of Finara and secure a better future for them, regardless of creed.”
‘Crumbs!’ thought Illhuitl.
"But now back to our regular news," started the voice
"The Nuclear Triumph of our Socialist Brothers" finished the original voice, signalling the return, quite literally, to normal broadcasting.

Not quite so many weeks ago

Illhuitl stood in the communal kitchen of his modest flat, watching a pan of pasta on the stove with the shame intensity that a bomb expert would regard the unexploded shell. He had finally invited Shelley from Accounts for dinner and, being his first attempt at cookery, was hoping that his attempts at pasta carbonara would simultaneously not catastrophically fail and impress the object of his unspoken desires. Mrs. Oztotl, with whom he most often shared the kitchen, had very kindly agreed to have her dinner early in order to leave the two lovebirds alone. It was her suggestion at pasta, and Illhuitl made a mental note to buy her some flowers if the evening was a success. On the newly refurbished counter across the kitchen (the government now finally having some money to improve these drab, 1970s Eastern Bloc apartment buildings) sat the communal radio.

“Gadzooks!” exclaimed the battered old wireless, “If only I had not so despised my fellow man. Then wouldst I be saved. Woe, woe the dying of the light, for only at the encroaching darkness do I see the error of my ways….”
Illhuitl only half heard this, seeing as he was still willing the water to boil, but the radio continued regardless...
“That was the Early Evening Play, "The thresher" by Edgar Bloomsbury, on Fiefdom Radio and now for a special announcement…”
“Earlier today,” said an elderly male voice, “A new and shocking development took place in the on-going crisis in the Kingdom of Finara. Alexander Kirillovich Kazansky, the President of the United States of Allanea, announced in a ‘web blog’ [two words said with the same manner of confusion with which a baker might discuss the intricacies of astrophysics] that his government would recognise the Republic of Deasrargle and, in a move that brought outrage to the international community, withdrew recognition towards the Kingdom of Finara. Reports from allies in the region suggest that hundreds of Allanean militiamen have already started the journey to the troubled region in order to instigate what, in the opinion of the Government of the Fiefdom, can only be described as terrorism. The Great Comrade’s nephew, Comrade Amacui-Xolotl Hoogaboom, made the following statement on behalf of the Dear Leader…”
Illhuitl, now focusing on the radio, heard the voice change to the familiar, half-terrified shuttering voice of Comrade Amacui-Xolotl. With the Dear Leader currently on his way to Pantocratoria with other key family members, Amacui-Xolotl “David” Hoogaboom was the sole representative of the ‘ruling family’ in the Fiefdom.
“W-we,” began the voice, “T-that is to say, the Government of the Fiefdom, condemn in the strongest terms possible, the grossly unhelpful actions of the current Allanean Administration. The reckless actions serve only to transform an unfortunate, and deeply tragic, domestic situation into an international quagmire that will exasperate the situation and only cause more devastation and loss in the long-term. We urge, therefore, for a reserval in the current decision and for a process of diafrog, I mean logue, and for the rapid return to stability and peace. That is all at this time."
'Crumbs.' Illhuitl.
Soon words other than 'crumbs' were forming in the young man's mind as he realised that his pasta had over-boiled, turning his dinner into a gloopy mess. The evening, he thought, was ruined.

A few days ago

Illhuitl sat on the rickety old tram as it weaved its way through the suburbs of New Azcapotzalco. It had turned out that Shelley didn't really like pasta all that much, but she did like him. And Mrs. Oztotl had liked her flowers but insisted they were not necessary. As Illhuitl sat on the crowded tram to Shelley's house by the old glue factory, he unfolded the newspaper he had hastily purchased for the journey...

Fiefdom Pravda
GAS ATTACK IN BIERNES!
Thousands killed or injured, including three Danaan Royals
There was international outrage last night when a chemical attack, launched by an unknown terrorist organisation, killed and injured thousands in the Duchy of Deasrargle Capital. The compound, believed by experts to be a strain of Mustard Gas, caused burns to the skin and lungs and was noted for the potenancy.
Reporters from the Fiefdom Pravda were able to speak to one doctor, from the Iesus Christi medical team, that said that the results of the gas were "horrific, truly horrific. We had hoped that the decrease in violence and the improving situation on the ground had seen the end of most of the serious cases, we didn't expect this at all.'
The Fiefdom Leadership denounced the attack as 'a cowardly attack by brutal and savage men. Words cannot begin to describe the level of outrage felt by the citizens of the Fiefdom and we offer any and all help that we can.'
The gas attack comes just days after tensions in the region reached an all-time high due to the presence of Midlonian Naval Vessels in the area. The response of the Danaan Commonwealth, which sees a number of high-profile royalty injured (including the wife of Prince Paul of Kuldiga, Grand Duchess Gwendolyn), is as of yet unknown yet it seems likely that a sizable Excalbian force will restore some manner of order in the region, a move welcomed by Party Elders at home.
Some Party members, however, have been less cautious in their appraisal of the situation. New Huexotzingo Communist Party Chief, Oswald Spode, told this paper that "It is the duty of those international governments involved in the current Finaran crisis to preserve peace over political expedient. This should always be achieved through current mechanisms, but the Government and the Dear Leader should not shy from taking the controversal decisions, even if this does mean the recognition of the Protestant Republic."
The Fiefdom Leadership has yet to comment on Spode's remarks, but others have spoken out against
continued on page 94

'Crumbs' thought Illhuitl.