Iansisle
02-08-2007, 12:03
Dun Adien
Ian’s Island, the Shield
“Damn this weather!” exclaimed Thomas de Fenne, struggling to keep his umbrella from reversing in the strong winds. “It’s almost summer -- how in hell does it manage to stay freezing on this blasted rock?”
“Quiet,” said Ben Rinehart over the undulating howl of the wind. Despite his five years at Charles Bradsworth’s right hand, Rinehart had never been out to the island before. Dun Adien had become forbidden territory as the monarchy’s popularity capsized, and visiting it a death sentence in general elections for any politician foolhardy enough to associate themselves with the King. The two of them kept pace behind President Ranalte as he toured what had been the home of Iansisle’s kings.
Dun Adien survived the revolution in relatively good state, compared with the other more accessible symbols of the ancien régime. The grass was overgrown and moss was starting to reclaim the stonework, but the statues of the High Kings and Queens still stood their watch over the courtyard, which was more than could be said of their likenesses in Gull Flag Square.
The three men -- the president of the Republic, his director of foreign affairs, and the speaker of the Assembly -- followed a basic sight-seeing tour around the castle. They saw the grand throne room, where Ian the Great had assembled his nobles and declared the Grand Empire; they saw King Alexander’s Library, also known as the Honeycomb, where James had found solace in the days leading up to his attempted escape; they saw the elaborate dining hall which had played host to so many important diplomatic conferences back when Iansisle, Larkinia, and Tanah Burung had been the movers and shakers on the international stage; they even saw the elaborate steps beneath the fortress where James had been crowned.
“You can just feel the history in this place,” said Ranalte, running a hand across the rock and gazing out to sea. “Like it hasn’t changed in years.” The wind wasn’t so bad in the lee of the island and he could almost whisper.
“I dare say it hasn’t,” replied de Fenne irritably. “The duffers didn’t allow anyone down here except for a coronation, did they? And we haven’t had one of those in a score of years.”
Ranalte didn’t seem to hear; he bent down and picked something off the floor. It was crusted with long exposure to the sea air and coated with a thick layer of dirt.
“A cigar case,” he said. “Do you suppose it might have belonged to Mooo IV (http://ns.goobergunch.net/wiki/index.php/Mooo_IV)? Was he here for James’ coronation? I don’t recall.”
“Am I to track the movements of lunatic bovines and half-breeds?” said de Fenne. “You said this would be an important trip, Mr President. I would appreciate not being away from my work at the Foreign Office during a crisis because I went to look at corroded cigar cases and theorize about the location of cows twenty years ago.”
“See, Tom, and that’s what you don’t realize. Dun Adien isn’t just a place, it’s Iansisle herself. The power of the Shield is contained in these crumbling stone walls.”
“You are become dangerously reactionary, citizen.” De Fenne didn’t so much say the last syllable as spit it.
A brief cloud passed over Ranalte’s olive features. Rinehart held his breath, waiting for an explosion that would land the last radical director at the gallows, but it didn’t come. The storm vanished from Ranalte’s handsome face and a brilliant white smile appeared in its place. The dark eyes, just a moment ago narrowed in fury, now creased in merriment.
“Come, Tom, you’re impatience is premature! Why, we haven’t even seen the ramparts yet!” Ranalte clapped his left hand across de Fenne’s back and led him back up the stairs. His right hand slipped the encrusted cigar case into the breast pocket of his trenchcoat with some difficulty; it was hard, after so long in the military, to readjust to wearing civilian clothes every day. Rinehart followed the two, his bad leg protesting every hewn step of the stairs.
The wind on the north ramparts was much stronger. A solitary bunting Gull Flag, its edges in tatters, whipped violently in the gale just feet away from where the three men huddled together, as much for heat as to be able to hear each other.
“There is as much history here as in that cavern,” said Ranalte. “We’re standing near where Toto caught pneumonia while inspecting the guard. He was Citizen Callahan’s father, don’t you know, so we’ve his lack of common sense to thank for the revolution.” Ranalte laughed in the Sentrian fashion, which was far more full-bodied than the polite Shieldian guffaw.
“And just down there,” he added, pointing east, “is where King Alexander fell from the ramparts. Do you know, some people say that his brother pushed him. His own brother, can you imagine? -- a regicide far before that of my present company.”
Both de Fenne and Rinehart tensed beneath Ranalte’s arms, expecting themselves to follow Alexander’s fate and imagining their bodies crushed and broken against the surf.
“You worry too much, gentlemen,” cried Ranalte, perhaps sensing the clenched muscles. “If I wanted the two of you out of the way, there are much more legal and quiet methods than tossing you willy-nilly onto the rocks. You, Tom, were up neck-deep in the terror with Madders; it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to see you follow him to the gallows. And Ben, I know those diverted replanting generals were really your slush fund. It must have been hard, to watch Bradsworth go to his death for your crime.”
Ranalte’s words didn’t do much to reassure de Fenne, who wrenched himself free of the president's grip and backed away down the ramparts. Rinehart also tried to escape, but couldn’t free himself from the iron grip.
“Come, Tom. Although it seems silly to be forced to offer it, I give you my word that I shan’t throw you from the ramparts. I’ve no intention of killing you, sir; I need your help. Both of you. And Ben, kindly stop struggling before you hurt yourself.”
For a moment, Ranalte’s dark eyes locked with de Fenne’s blue ones. Then, reluctantly, the Shieldo-Noropian came closer.
“I wanted to come out here for two reasons,” said Ranalte. “One -- well, I’ve never been before. The other one, however, is that it’s the only place on the Shield where I may converse freely without having to worry about being taped. There are no bugs here, and even if there were they would pick up nothing but the wind.”
“You dance a great deal,” said de Fenne, “but kindly come to the matter.”
“I want to quit Gallaga,” said Ranalte simply. “And you’re the man to do it, Tom.”
Neither de Fenne, whose life ambition was to end the Raj, nor Rinehart, who had rallied to the pro-Gallagan lobby in the Assembly, could quite process the words.
Quit Gallaga? End four hundred years of Shieldian economic and political colonialism on the subcontinent? Quit Gallaga? Abandon what Tories called ‘the last gasp of Shieldian prestige in the world’? Quit Gallaga? It wasn’t thinkable.
“I want to appoint you Governor-General for the transition,” said Ranalte. “Congress knows you’ve been lobbying for this for five years. They’ll trust you. The last thing we want here is a Walmyesque mess. You mustn’t either tear off the bandage or allow it to fester on the wound. I want you to give them home rule, but not a vengeful government. What’s it you said back during the elections -- ‘Gallaga is a vast tropical sinkhole for lives, treasure, and reputations.’ I want you to fill in that sinkhole. I want you to close the Gallagan ulcer. Can you do that, Tom?”
De Fenne didn’t know what to say.
“And Ben, I’ll need you to head the Foreign Office here at home. I know you’ve experience there while Bradsworth was still with us. This will be huge news internationally, I’m sure, and I need you to make sure we come out of it with our best foot forward. What do you say, Ben?”
Rinehart couldn’t answer either.
“Very good!” cried Ranalte, clapping both on the back -- perhaps a bit too close the ledge for that sort of levity. “Tom, I think there’s a packet leaving for Nusheld in a few days. I want you on it.” He looked around at the stonework of Dun Adien. “You know, I think I shall nominate this place for the world heritage list. I can feel that regal power just standing here.”
Tiger Gate
Outside the Viceregal Palace, Nusheld, Gallaga
“Damn this weather!” exclaimed Arthur Dunbrook, the ci-devant Earl of Furthingham, as his motorcade turned a corner and passed under the Tiger Gate. “It’s not even summer yet -- how can it be so infernally hot?”
Unfortunately for Dunbrook, the hot season in Gallaga didn’t exactly follow the Shieldian progression of seasons. He had been called down from his luxurious summer resort high in the cool mountains for some urgent bit of business or another -- the work of the Governor-General was never done. He had been insane to accept Peter Appleton’s offer of this job five years ago and even more insane not to have resigned by now.
The familiar face of Peter Senden (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=7080381&postcount=272), his top advisor throughout the crises and president pro tempore of the Council of the New Shield, greeted him. Senden’s swarthy features -- he was one-eight Dianatranian, after all! -- made him almost appear like one of the natives, but Dunbrook relied on him before anyone. It was Senden’s instincts more than anything, even the 80,000 Shieldian troops, that held the fragile Raj together.
“What is it this time?” asked Dunbrook, shouldering past Senden and into the welcoming chill of the air-conditioned foyer. Senden followed a respectful distance behind. “I’ve left Lady Furthingham at Dalapur and I’d rather not be gone too long.” He didn’t add that his wife still despised Senden because of his Dianatranian ancestry.
“Well, Peter, what is it? Mutiny I suppose?”
“There has been a mutiny, with the 27th Nusheld Native Infantry stationed just up the river only two days ago. Fortunately the Dunerbridge Lights arrived in time to disarm them without bloodshed. Colonel Gills has rounded up the ringleaders already.”
“Ah, I hate signing death warrants,” said Dunbrook. He mopped the sweat from his forehead and then reached for a pen. “Dreadful business, all that.”
“Well, Excellency, I’m afraid there shall be no more executions,” said Senden. Dunbrook noticed the slightly more formal tone; it was not one he was accustomed to Senden using with him.
“What’s this?” demanded Dunbrook. “Is this mutiny in my own government?”
“No, Excellency, but I cannot allow any more executions until --”
“You cannot allow? You cannot allow? My standing orders, confirmed by Appleton, are that all mutinous ringleaders are to be hanged. You saw what they did at Fort Ash, damn your eyes!”
The massacre at Fort Ash was the most recent rallying cry of the Raj in recent months. The 14th Southern N.I. had put its officers to the sword then gone on a ten-day rampage through the city before the Tramd Regulars had arrived to restore order. More than a hundred Shieldians and other westerners had been killed and the Iansislean quarter of the city been put to the torch. The brutality of the mutiny was almost unique; unlike other, organized mutinies in the east and north, there had been little driving principle behind it beyond hatred of the officers and the Sirkar.
Although the mutiny had been atrocious, the circulated pictures of the corpses of ravished Shieldian women and bayonetted children had been only half the story. After the Tramds had stormed Fort Ash itself and scattered the mutineers, they had discovered the scenes of horror in the Iansislean quarter. The resulting week-long ‘punitive expedition’ which tore a hole through the native quarter had been recorded in Nusheld as having ‘some isolated cases of ill-discipline.’ What the Governor-General considered ‘ill-discipline’ might be considered in the rest of the world as ‘deliberate war crimes.’ Even though Congress had immediately distanced itself from the bloody mutiny -- and continued to press for nonviolent home government -- anyone found in possession of their documents had been executed.
Impromptu courts-martial, in some cases presided over by a corporal and two privates, had arrested and shot entire families for ‘crimes’ ranging from ‘providing comfort to suspected mutineers’ to ‘harboring anti-Shieldian extremists’ to ‘possessing antigovernment documents’. These quasi-formal kangaroo courts were punctuated by drunken nights of raping, looting, and murdering. Nearly all the official documents from the Fort Ash punitive expedition were of course destroyed by the government, leaving only Congress’s estimate of ‘more than 10,000 killed’ and the Raj’s official line of ‘113 Shieldians massacred, 43 ringleaders hanged for part in mutiny.’
Senden didn’t seem to have a response to that other than “Sir, there will be no executions --”
"Damnation, man! Have you thrown in with the Rumbiak Brigade, then?” The heat worked up Dunbrook’s temper. “You dirty half-breed, you damned hollywack!” He would have continued to shout racial epitaphs at Senden if he hadn’t noticed a new car pulling up outside and been shocked by what he saw. Dunbrook shouldered past Senden again and burst onto the grand steps.
Looking almost like a ghost, an extremely pale man wearing dark glasses against the sun stepped out of a Westerton Jackrabbit. He was clearly at least part Noropian, with the fair features and light hair typical to the northern lands. The face was however enough of a give away.
“Thomas de Fenne,” said Dunbrook in disbelief. What made the situation more absurd was the figure next to de Fenne. It was a native, whose face conjured up the strongest sense of familiarity in Dunbrook but which he could not quite place -- and yet he was certain he had never met the man before. He was grey-haired, of an average build and wore spectacles and a pleasant, friendly smile. Dunbrook considered his mode of dress -- a revolutionary brown suit, apparently cut by Ianapalis tailors -- almost grotesque, to his mind like dressing a chimpanzee in a tuxedo. He must be fairly important to be riding with de Fenne, and yet -- Dunbrook ran through his usually-impressive memory, without success.
“Ah, your Excellency,” said de Fenne, reaching out a hand. Dunbrook refused to shake it.
“Was it you, then, who gave Senden orders not to punish mutineers?”
“I wouldn’t say that...” started de Fenne.
“I should think not!” snapped Dunbrook. “You’ve no power here in Gallaga, de Fenne. That you’re even here I shall have to report to Director Appleton --”
“Ah!” exclaimed de Fenne. “I have a letter from the Director of the Gallaga Office -- let me see.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out two envelopes. “Yes, here it is.” He handed it to Dunbrook.
“What is this?”
“Your resignation, Excellency, needing nothing more than your signature. I was in favor of giving you the other envelope first, but Mr Appleton insisted that I allow you to have the chance to resign first.”
“What’s in the other envelope?” asked Dunbrook. His voice only shook a little.
“Recall orders back to the Shield in disgrace, to be given if you refuse to resign.” De Fenne smiled. “I also have orders here in my other pocket appointing me Governor-General. Now, are you going to sign that, Excellency, or shall I give you this other envelope?”
Dunbrook couldn’t speak, so de Fenne turned one shoulder, looking at the person standing behind him.
“Oh, how rude I’ve been! I suppose you haven’t had the pleasure of meeting each other yet. Sir, this is Arthur Dunbrook, the former Governor-General of Gallaga. Citizen Dunbrook, I’d like you to meet a truly esteemed personage -- a former Prime Minister of the Combined Parliament, in fact. This is Hiresh Dhawan. He’s here to represent the views of the Gallagan National Congress while the Home Rule program is implemented.”
“The what?” asked Dunbrook, at last finding his voice. It had been a hard afternoon.
De Fenne glanced up at the standard which flew over their heads, the Gull Flag emblazoned with the Star of Gallaga. “I’m afraid that shall be coming down in a year or so, Mr Dunbrook. I say, have you finished signing those papers yet? I’m rather impatient to get to work.”
Ian’s Island, the Shield
“Damn this weather!” exclaimed Thomas de Fenne, struggling to keep his umbrella from reversing in the strong winds. “It’s almost summer -- how in hell does it manage to stay freezing on this blasted rock?”
“Quiet,” said Ben Rinehart over the undulating howl of the wind. Despite his five years at Charles Bradsworth’s right hand, Rinehart had never been out to the island before. Dun Adien had become forbidden territory as the monarchy’s popularity capsized, and visiting it a death sentence in general elections for any politician foolhardy enough to associate themselves with the King. The two of them kept pace behind President Ranalte as he toured what had been the home of Iansisle’s kings.
Dun Adien survived the revolution in relatively good state, compared with the other more accessible symbols of the ancien régime. The grass was overgrown and moss was starting to reclaim the stonework, but the statues of the High Kings and Queens still stood their watch over the courtyard, which was more than could be said of their likenesses in Gull Flag Square.
The three men -- the president of the Republic, his director of foreign affairs, and the speaker of the Assembly -- followed a basic sight-seeing tour around the castle. They saw the grand throne room, where Ian the Great had assembled his nobles and declared the Grand Empire; they saw King Alexander’s Library, also known as the Honeycomb, where James had found solace in the days leading up to his attempted escape; they saw the elaborate dining hall which had played host to so many important diplomatic conferences back when Iansisle, Larkinia, and Tanah Burung had been the movers and shakers on the international stage; they even saw the elaborate steps beneath the fortress where James had been crowned.
“You can just feel the history in this place,” said Ranalte, running a hand across the rock and gazing out to sea. “Like it hasn’t changed in years.” The wind wasn’t so bad in the lee of the island and he could almost whisper.
“I dare say it hasn’t,” replied de Fenne irritably. “The duffers didn’t allow anyone down here except for a coronation, did they? And we haven’t had one of those in a score of years.”
Ranalte didn’t seem to hear; he bent down and picked something off the floor. It was crusted with long exposure to the sea air and coated with a thick layer of dirt.
“A cigar case,” he said. “Do you suppose it might have belonged to Mooo IV (http://ns.goobergunch.net/wiki/index.php/Mooo_IV)? Was he here for James’ coronation? I don’t recall.”
“Am I to track the movements of lunatic bovines and half-breeds?” said de Fenne. “You said this would be an important trip, Mr President. I would appreciate not being away from my work at the Foreign Office during a crisis because I went to look at corroded cigar cases and theorize about the location of cows twenty years ago.”
“See, Tom, and that’s what you don’t realize. Dun Adien isn’t just a place, it’s Iansisle herself. The power of the Shield is contained in these crumbling stone walls.”
“You are become dangerously reactionary, citizen.” De Fenne didn’t so much say the last syllable as spit it.
A brief cloud passed over Ranalte’s olive features. Rinehart held his breath, waiting for an explosion that would land the last radical director at the gallows, but it didn’t come. The storm vanished from Ranalte’s handsome face and a brilliant white smile appeared in its place. The dark eyes, just a moment ago narrowed in fury, now creased in merriment.
“Come, Tom, you’re impatience is premature! Why, we haven’t even seen the ramparts yet!” Ranalte clapped his left hand across de Fenne’s back and led him back up the stairs. His right hand slipped the encrusted cigar case into the breast pocket of his trenchcoat with some difficulty; it was hard, after so long in the military, to readjust to wearing civilian clothes every day. Rinehart followed the two, his bad leg protesting every hewn step of the stairs.
The wind on the north ramparts was much stronger. A solitary bunting Gull Flag, its edges in tatters, whipped violently in the gale just feet away from where the three men huddled together, as much for heat as to be able to hear each other.
“There is as much history here as in that cavern,” said Ranalte. “We’re standing near where Toto caught pneumonia while inspecting the guard. He was Citizen Callahan’s father, don’t you know, so we’ve his lack of common sense to thank for the revolution.” Ranalte laughed in the Sentrian fashion, which was far more full-bodied than the polite Shieldian guffaw.
“And just down there,” he added, pointing east, “is where King Alexander fell from the ramparts. Do you know, some people say that his brother pushed him. His own brother, can you imagine? -- a regicide far before that of my present company.”
Both de Fenne and Rinehart tensed beneath Ranalte’s arms, expecting themselves to follow Alexander’s fate and imagining their bodies crushed and broken against the surf.
“You worry too much, gentlemen,” cried Ranalte, perhaps sensing the clenched muscles. “If I wanted the two of you out of the way, there are much more legal and quiet methods than tossing you willy-nilly onto the rocks. You, Tom, were up neck-deep in the terror with Madders; it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to see you follow him to the gallows. And Ben, I know those diverted replanting generals were really your slush fund. It must have been hard, to watch Bradsworth go to his death for your crime.”
Ranalte’s words didn’t do much to reassure de Fenne, who wrenched himself free of the president's grip and backed away down the ramparts. Rinehart also tried to escape, but couldn’t free himself from the iron grip.
“Come, Tom. Although it seems silly to be forced to offer it, I give you my word that I shan’t throw you from the ramparts. I’ve no intention of killing you, sir; I need your help. Both of you. And Ben, kindly stop struggling before you hurt yourself.”
For a moment, Ranalte’s dark eyes locked with de Fenne’s blue ones. Then, reluctantly, the Shieldo-Noropian came closer.
“I wanted to come out here for two reasons,” said Ranalte. “One -- well, I’ve never been before. The other one, however, is that it’s the only place on the Shield where I may converse freely without having to worry about being taped. There are no bugs here, and even if there were they would pick up nothing but the wind.”
“You dance a great deal,” said de Fenne, “but kindly come to the matter.”
“I want to quit Gallaga,” said Ranalte simply. “And you’re the man to do it, Tom.”
Neither de Fenne, whose life ambition was to end the Raj, nor Rinehart, who had rallied to the pro-Gallagan lobby in the Assembly, could quite process the words.
Quit Gallaga? End four hundred years of Shieldian economic and political colonialism on the subcontinent? Quit Gallaga? Abandon what Tories called ‘the last gasp of Shieldian prestige in the world’? Quit Gallaga? It wasn’t thinkable.
“I want to appoint you Governor-General for the transition,” said Ranalte. “Congress knows you’ve been lobbying for this for five years. They’ll trust you. The last thing we want here is a Walmyesque mess. You mustn’t either tear off the bandage or allow it to fester on the wound. I want you to give them home rule, but not a vengeful government. What’s it you said back during the elections -- ‘Gallaga is a vast tropical sinkhole for lives, treasure, and reputations.’ I want you to fill in that sinkhole. I want you to close the Gallagan ulcer. Can you do that, Tom?”
De Fenne didn’t know what to say.
“And Ben, I’ll need you to head the Foreign Office here at home. I know you’ve experience there while Bradsworth was still with us. This will be huge news internationally, I’m sure, and I need you to make sure we come out of it with our best foot forward. What do you say, Ben?”
Rinehart couldn’t answer either.
“Very good!” cried Ranalte, clapping both on the back -- perhaps a bit too close the ledge for that sort of levity. “Tom, I think there’s a packet leaving for Nusheld in a few days. I want you on it.” He looked around at the stonework of Dun Adien. “You know, I think I shall nominate this place for the world heritage list. I can feel that regal power just standing here.”
Tiger Gate
Outside the Viceregal Palace, Nusheld, Gallaga
“Damn this weather!” exclaimed Arthur Dunbrook, the ci-devant Earl of Furthingham, as his motorcade turned a corner and passed under the Tiger Gate. “It’s not even summer yet -- how can it be so infernally hot?”
Unfortunately for Dunbrook, the hot season in Gallaga didn’t exactly follow the Shieldian progression of seasons. He had been called down from his luxurious summer resort high in the cool mountains for some urgent bit of business or another -- the work of the Governor-General was never done. He had been insane to accept Peter Appleton’s offer of this job five years ago and even more insane not to have resigned by now.
The familiar face of Peter Senden (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=7080381&postcount=272), his top advisor throughout the crises and president pro tempore of the Council of the New Shield, greeted him. Senden’s swarthy features -- he was one-eight Dianatranian, after all! -- made him almost appear like one of the natives, but Dunbrook relied on him before anyone. It was Senden’s instincts more than anything, even the 80,000 Shieldian troops, that held the fragile Raj together.
“What is it this time?” asked Dunbrook, shouldering past Senden and into the welcoming chill of the air-conditioned foyer. Senden followed a respectful distance behind. “I’ve left Lady Furthingham at Dalapur and I’d rather not be gone too long.” He didn’t add that his wife still despised Senden because of his Dianatranian ancestry.
“Well, Peter, what is it? Mutiny I suppose?”
“There has been a mutiny, with the 27th Nusheld Native Infantry stationed just up the river only two days ago. Fortunately the Dunerbridge Lights arrived in time to disarm them without bloodshed. Colonel Gills has rounded up the ringleaders already.”
“Ah, I hate signing death warrants,” said Dunbrook. He mopped the sweat from his forehead and then reached for a pen. “Dreadful business, all that.”
“Well, Excellency, I’m afraid there shall be no more executions,” said Senden. Dunbrook noticed the slightly more formal tone; it was not one he was accustomed to Senden using with him.
“What’s this?” demanded Dunbrook. “Is this mutiny in my own government?”
“No, Excellency, but I cannot allow any more executions until --”
“You cannot allow? You cannot allow? My standing orders, confirmed by Appleton, are that all mutinous ringleaders are to be hanged. You saw what they did at Fort Ash, damn your eyes!”
The massacre at Fort Ash was the most recent rallying cry of the Raj in recent months. The 14th Southern N.I. had put its officers to the sword then gone on a ten-day rampage through the city before the Tramd Regulars had arrived to restore order. More than a hundred Shieldians and other westerners had been killed and the Iansislean quarter of the city been put to the torch. The brutality of the mutiny was almost unique; unlike other, organized mutinies in the east and north, there had been little driving principle behind it beyond hatred of the officers and the Sirkar.
Although the mutiny had been atrocious, the circulated pictures of the corpses of ravished Shieldian women and bayonetted children had been only half the story. After the Tramds had stormed Fort Ash itself and scattered the mutineers, they had discovered the scenes of horror in the Iansislean quarter. The resulting week-long ‘punitive expedition’ which tore a hole through the native quarter had been recorded in Nusheld as having ‘some isolated cases of ill-discipline.’ What the Governor-General considered ‘ill-discipline’ might be considered in the rest of the world as ‘deliberate war crimes.’ Even though Congress had immediately distanced itself from the bloody mutiny -- and continued to press for nonviolent home government -- anyone found in possession of their documents had been executed.
Impromptu courts-martial, in some cases presided over by a corporal and two privates, had arrested and shot entire families for ‘crimes’ ranging from ‘providing comfort to suspected mutineers’ to ‘harboring anti-Shieldian extremists’ to ‘possessing antigovernment documents’. These quasi-formal kangaroo courts were punctuated by drunken nights of raping, looting, and murdering. Nearly all the official documents from the Fort Ash punitive expedition were of course destroyed by the government, leaving only Congress’s estimate of ‘more than 10,000 killed’ and the Raj’s official line of ‘113 Shieldians massacred, 43 ringleaders hanged for part in mutiny.’
Senden didn’t seem to have a response to that other than “Sir, there will be no executions --”
"Damnation, man! Have you thrown in with the Rumbiak Brigade, then?” The heat worked up Dunbrook’s temper. “You dirty half-breed, you damned hollywack!” He would have continued to shout racial epitaphs at Senden if he hadn’t noticed a new car pulling up outside and been shocked by what he saw. Dunbrook shouldered past Senden again and burst onto the grand steps.
Looking almost like a ghost, an extremely pale man wearing dark glasses against the sun stepped out of a Westerton Jackrabbit. He was clearly at least part Noropian, with the fair features and light hair typical to the northern lands. The face was however enough of a give away.
“Thomas de Fenne,” said Dunbrook in disbelief. What made the situation more absurd was the figure next to de Fenne. It was a native, whose face conjured up the strongest sense of familiarity in Dunbrook but which he could not quite place -- and yet he was certain he had never met the man before. He was grey-haired, of an average build and wore spectacles and a pleasant, friendly smile. Dunbrook considered his mode of dress -- a revolutionary brown suit, apparently cut by Ianapalis tailors -- almost grotesque, to his mind like dressing a chimpanzee in a tuxedo. He must be fairly important to be riding with de Fenne, and yet -- Dunbrook ran through his usually-impressive memory, without success.
“Ah, your Excellency,” said de Fenne, reaching out a hand. Dunbrook refused to shake it.
“Was it you, then, who gave Senden orders not to punish mutineers?”
“I wouldn’t say that...” started de Fenne.
“I should think not!” snapped Dunbrook. “You’ve no power here in Gallaga, de Fenne. That you’re even here I shall have to report to Director Appleton --”
“Ah!” exclaimed de Fenne. “I have a letter from the Director of the Gallaga Office -- let me see.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out two envelopes. “Yes, here it is.” He handed it to Dunbrook.
“What is this?”
“Your resignation, Excellency, needing nothing more than your signature. I was in favor of giving you the other envelope first, but Mr Appleton insisted that I allow you to have the chance to resign first.”
“What’s in the other envelope?” asked Dunbrook. His voice only shook a little.
“Recall orders back to the Shield in disgrace, to be given if you refuse to resign.” De Fenne smiled. “I also have orders here in my other pocket appointing me Governor-General. Now, are you going to sign that, Excellency, or shall I give you this other envelope?”
Dunbrook couldn’t speak, so de Fenne turned one shoulder, looking at the person standing behind him.
“Oh, how rude I’ve been! I suppose you haven’t had the pleasure of meeting each other yet. Sir, this is Arthur Dunbrook, the former Governor-General of Gallaga. Citizen Dunbrook, I’d like you to meet a truly esteemed personage -- a former Prime Minister of the Combined Parliament, in fact. This is Hiresh Dhawan. He’s here to represent the views of the Gallagan National Congress while the Home Rule program is implemented.”
“The what?” asked Dunbrook, at last finding his voice. It had been a hard afternoon.
De Fenne glanced up at the standard which flew over their heads, the Gull Flag emblazoned with the Star of Gallaga. “I’m afraid that shall be coming down in a year or so, Mr Dunbrook. I say, have you finished signing those papers yet? I’m rather impatient to get to work.”