NationStates Jolt Archive

*ooc note - Since the goings on involving Largentian Mars have been poorly RPed and documented I have decided to put a copy of this thread here as well as the Mars forums so that it gets the attention it needs from me. This first post will simply outline what has already happened on several threads on different forums at different times.

Chapter 1: A Fractured Empire

For several years political tensions plaguing the old Largentian Empire had been concealed from international eyes, and had been played off as though they were simply standard arguments and debates between colonies. The truth, however, was far from that. Each colony, even Largent Prime, inhabited its own corner of the system, isolated from other Largentians, plagued by its own set of concerns and problems. The Martians concerned themselves with defense, Mercurians with land distribution, the Terrans with heavily nuanced political issues. However, one issue was common between them, the Empress' inability to relate to each region's concerns and thus effectively govern. Not through any fault of her own, it was simply the nature of an absolutist state trying to rule a wide variety of peoples. However, always the enlightened monarch, Empress Oronrà found herself with very few options, and thus made her final decision to grant them their independance from the rule of the Ba'ath National Command.

This decision created mixed emotions amongs regional rulers and certainly came as a great shock to the international community. While Martian territories were relieved at their ability to control their own fate, other, smaller, colonies were concerned at their ability to stand alone without the Empress' support. This is why a combined fleet of Imperial and Colonial fleets was created for the sole purpose of ensuring stability in the newly founded states. Once again, Largentian forces were divided as the Martians refused to aid the creation of a combined fleet having a fleet that would rival anything the rest of the Largentian States could combine.

Realising the unique situation provided to him, Govenor Beauchamp, de facto ruler of the Martian State, adopted a policy of agression towards other colonies, but a Mercurian blockade allowed political action to be taken before the situation was permitted to escilate.

Chapter 2: Its Always Darkest Before Its Totally Black

As news of Martian foreign Policy reached the ears of Empress Oronrà, immediate action was taken to call a summit between regional leaders. Knowing the extreme biases that would ultimately guide the decisions of a summit without neutral arbitration, the Tiburnese were asked to provide neutral ground for the leaders to meet.

With all in attendance, the summit tried to reach an understanding, with all but the Martian Govenor appearing to be in agreement. The proposal for the Largentian Security Organization and Largentian Treaty for Mutual Peace (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=11662213&postcount=16) was agreed upon, despite great Martian resistance. And only through, what eventually became out right threats from the Empress and Tiburnese, did the Martians grudgingly agree to the Treaty of Mutual Peace, although they refused to join the LSO, of which the Tiburnese had agreed to join to help ensure security along with the Ba'ath National Command.

This new system has created a political situation entirely unique from anything else currently in use. While Largent may no longer be a single political entity, it is an incredibly close set of states with not only a common sense of nationality and the willingness to remain fully supportive of the Empress in all her decisions, but one without the burnden of political unity that entails the total subgigation of everything to the monarch. It has almost been an ideal resolution.

With an appearant agreement having been reached the summit wound down as closing statements were prepared.

Chapter 3: Our Darkest Hour

With news of the summit not having reached the Largentian fleets, which were at the time operating under total silence, war broke out. A meager Neptunian fleet found and engaged a large portion of the Martian fleet. With Tiburnese ships looking on in horror, the vastly out numbered Nuptunian Fleet chose to engage the Martians, who were for an unknown reason, using vastly out-dated tactics, giving the other fleet just a glimour of hope.

Although what exactly transpired in the few seconds of fighting is still largely unknown, what we do know is that the Martian fleet put themselves at a suicidal tactical disadvantage and were promptly massacred as the Tiburnese watched, unable to intervene.

It seemed civil war was imminant.

Chapter 4: The Flaw in the Plan

With only one quarter of the Martian fleet having been destroyed, there was no doubt that Beachamp would strike back, and hard. The Empress knew that she was faced with a life and death decision: Uphold the judgment and ruling of the Tiburnese arbitration or take action. Deciding that the risk of war out weighed the risks of backhanded politics, the Empress ordered the assasination of the Martian Govenor.

On the very same day as the peace summit, Govenor Beauchamp took his last breaths. Through an elaborate plan that disguised an ortillery attack as a pipeline exploding, a small, elite special forces team was able to penetrate the govenor's residence on the Martian surface. With much of the attention elsewhere, the team was able to incapacitate the lone guard in front of the Govenor's chambers and a single shot ended the rule of Govenor Beauchamp and ushered in a new era.

A power vacuum had been created and would have to be filled. The man who would rise to power was the iron-fisted George Louis Burbon. A talented politician who was would return the appearance of stability to the region, even if it meant using an Orwellian style of brainwashing and the imposing of Martial Law.

Chapter 5: Martial Law Can Be Such A Bitch

Present day Marte Largenti is a living hell for those who are unable to leave. Soldiers patrol the streets and any dissenters will dissappear late in the night, only to (occassionally) reappear several days later and an ardent supporter of whatever Diety Burbon declares to be true.

The full truth about the new Marte Largenti, is known only by the Martian government and Ba'ath National Command Intelligence Agencies. Thus, it has been the policy of the BNC to keep the full extent of the situation quiet while the reintegration of Martian territory to the Ba'ath National Command is attempted.

The strategy that has been deemed necessary will most likely turn out ot be a direct approach, designed to be rather blunt and obvious to Martian neighbors, but one that will end the conflict the quickest. However, any sort of future invasion plan has been repeatedly denied by all Imperial Officials.

ooc#2 - As of the moment, this is just me RPing out the story of the predetermined fate of my Mars territory. Nevertheless, I am not one to deny people the ability to post something worthwhile as long as you speak to me beforehand (on IRC or via TG) so that I can work you into the plot.

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

At age thirty-three, Minhaj al-Siraj Juzjani was the youngest general officer in the ranks of the Imperial Army, and by conventional criterion, an improbable choice for such responsibility. He had been a full-time soldier for all of six months. Unlike any of the other Largentian generals, he had never commanded in a campaign, never set foot on a battlefield. He was, in fact, a shipwright by trade. Aside from the armed vessels he helped to produce, all that he knew of warfare and military command came almost entirely from books.

Besides, he was a Taoist, and though of robust physique, a childhood accident had left him with a stiff right leg and a limp, although unnoticeable to those who didn’t know to look for it. He also, as a child and older teenager, had suffered from occasional asthma attacks.

But Minhaj al-Siraf Juzjani was no ordinary man. He had a quick, inquiring mind and uncommon resolve. He was extremely hardworking, forthright, good-natured, and a born leader. His commitment to the Glorious Cause of the Empress, as it was called, was total. And if his youth was obvious, this cause was to a large degree a young man’s cause. The commander of the army, Samuel Taylor Coleridge himself, was only forty-three. In recent times many were being cast in roles seemingly beyond their experience or capacities, and Coleridge had quickly judged Juzjani to be “an object of confidence.”

Minhaj had been born and raised outside of Kharakhorum, in the town of Ulaanbatar. He was the third of eight sons of a prominent, industrious Taoist, also named Minhaj, and the one, of all the sons, his father counted on most to further the family interests. These most importantly included a shop for custom furniture of the highest quality and the Juzjani Shipyards. The Shipyard, the most thriving enterprise, which produced primarily hulls for civilian shuttles and employed scores of men and drones alike, was one of the leading businesses in the area, and as a result, the Juzjani had become Largentians of substantial means. The fact that the Empress has decorated her palace with a piece of Juzjani furniture was taken as the ultimate measure of just how greatly the family had prospered.

Because education did no figure prominently in his father’s idea of the Taoist way, along with his brothers, Minhaj had been put to work at an early age, in the furniture workshop first, then the Shipyard. In time, determined to educate himself, he began reading all he could, guided and encouraged by several learned figures, including a prominent businessman Ezra Stiles who would later become president of Largent University.

Minhaj immediately showed a love for classic texts, reading Caesar and Horace in English translation, Swift, Pope, and John Locke. On visits to the Largentian capital, Wincha, he began buying books and assembling his own library. During lulls in the clamor of the shipyard, Minhaj could be found seated, a leather-bound colume of Euclid in hand, calmly studying.

Full-grown, he was a burly figure, about six feet three inches tall, with the arms and shoulders of a foundryman, and handsome./ A broad forehead and a full, decided mouth were considered his best features, though a soldier sent to deliver a message to the generals would remember his fine, blue eyes that struck him with a considerable degree of awe.

It was in his early twenties that he turned his mind to the military art. Having ample means to buy whatever books and scholarly papers needed, he acquired a number of costly military treatises few could afford. Resolved to become a “fighting Taoist” he made himself a master of tactics, military science and leadership. He would learn that the first of all qualities is courage, the second is intelligence, the third is health.

After his basic training he would take a leading role in his unit. Almost over night he was transformed from a private to in full command of the two Fife Brigades and the Fife Regiment in the Imperial Army, a total of 9,000 men. Undoubtedly, the Duke of Fife, a close friend, had played a role in his remarkably fast ascension, but there it is almost certain that having risen from the very bottom made him a popular choice amongst the ranks when a commander was chosen.

When the Martian Crisis broke out, Juzjani applied himself every waking moment, at times sleeping only a few hours a night to ensure all units under his command would be fully prepared for any type of military engagement at a moment’s notice. Thus far no one had found cause to complain about his youth or inexperience, and when word was out amongst the generals that a full scale invasion of Marte Largenti was in the works, his attentiveness and dedication was praised at every rank in the army.

Juzjani’s actions had certainly not gone unnoticed by Overseer Victor Gulenko, a man who preferred to remain in the shadows. He had a slim figure and rather phlegmatic movements giving the impression of a certain calmness and self-confidence. Never one to wear eye-catching clothing he preferred to wear traditional suits. Any one of his colleagues would be able to describe his facial features in depth if ever asked. He had asymmetrical eyebrows, which would form a very angry frown whenever he wished to show dissatisfaction, a very square jaw and a nose that was rather wide at the base as well as quite thick lips. He also had a tendency to squint while contemplating very big decisions or even mundane ones. He had been the opportune choice as the Overseer of Martian Reintegration.

Gulenko was known for his self-restraint and tact and had a very characteristic way of handling himself while in conversation. He could pause for long periods of time before replying to questions or statements, giving the impression that he was assimilating the received information. In situations such as these he would usually squint.

When in confrontation, Gulenko quickly focuses on his opponents’ weaknesses, usually destroying them with one perfectly placed phrase. If this opportunity does not manifest itself, he has the skills to provoke the reaction he desires. Victor had always been very slow to anger. And when he does become angered it is very difficult for him to calm down. Victor, a national chess champion, likes games that require quick thinking and tactics and often wins these games as he has great skill misleading and provoking his opponents into making bad moves.

Many praise Gulenko's cast-iron self-control and the fact that he nearly always achieve his goals. If required he can step on anyone or anything often ignoring ethics completely if the situation calls for it. Victor does not care much how he achieves results, earning the nickname "The Prince".

Gulenko had reviewed Juzjani’s record and the decision to send in his regiments in the first wave seemed to be an obvious one. He sent word to the general that he had one week to fully prepare his men for a full-scale invasion of the red planet.

----

Lieutenant Alastair Dalziel, the brown-haired, brown-eyed leader of the Gaelic Platoon was by all accounts a handsome, well mannered, and bright young man. His platoon had earned its name through the now famous coincidence that had landed 44 Scottish soldiers all in the same platoon. Dalziel, standing just over six feet with a large build and athletic gait, was both an ideal leader, but at the same time able to grasp the concept that those he commanded were more than just units, but living, breathing young men that he was leading to their potential deaths. Never outspoken, Dalziel remained silent during all operations except for the occasional command. Although a dear friend to all who served along side him, every single soldier feared his temper when mistakes were made. This gave the Gaelic Platoon one of the best reputations in the brigade, which is why orders to prepare to be shipped out were delivered there first.

While Dalziel’s reaction was a somber one, that of Duncan Carnigan the platoon’s Noncommissioned Officer and long time friend of Dalziel’s was much lighter. Turning to Farquar Gainnes, the private who was often along side Carnigan while receiving disciplinary action, Duncan immediately began joking about the news. Certainly he was just as terrified, but Carnigan and Gainnes seemed to share of means of dealing with those emotions, and that was through humor.

“What do ya say to one last round of ‘smoke grenade catch’ before we go to die for our country?” Gainnes offered and Carnigan was on his feet in seconds. The game the two had invented involved pulling the pin on a smoke grenade and tossing it back and forth. If it went off in your hand or you chickened out, you lost. Simple. Dalziel watched the two toss the grenades until there was a faint pop followed by laughter. Shooting a glance towards Mirren Wadsworth, the two reached a silent agreement that either Gainnes or Carnigan would be the first to go once on the battlefield.

Only the day before, Wadsworth, the most religious soldier in the platoon, had asked Dalziel why he didn’t object to their behavior that most LT’s would immediately put a stop to. Dalziel shrugged.

“I guess its because I know that despite how immature they may be, the fact of the matter is they do each other some good, and they keep each other’s mind in the right place when were out there facing an enemy. I need soldiers who psyche I can always count on. So I guess this will be our last tour together?” He looked at Wadsworth questioningly.

“Yup. After this I think I’ll be a priest.” He looked down at the golden chain and cross that he was twirling between his fingers. “I guess that is if I make it back.”

Dalziel frowned slightly. While Wadsworth was certainly the most devout and intelligent soldier he commanded he found his occasional pessimism to be bad for those around him. “Shut the fuck up Mirren. How bad could it get over there?”

That night your great guns, unawares,
Shook all our coffins as we lay,
And broke the chancel window-squares,
We thought it was the Judgment-day

And sat upright. While drearisome
Arose the howl of wakened hounds:
The mouse let fall the altar-crumb,
The worms drew back into the mounds,

The glebe cow drooled. Till God called, “No;
It’s gunnery practise out at sea
Just as before you went below;
The world is as it used to be:

“And all nations striving strong to make
Red war yet redder. Mad as hatters
They do no more for Christés sake
Than you who are helpless in such matters.

“That this is not the judgement-hour
For some of them’s a blessed thing,
For if it were they’d have to scour
Hell’s floor for so much threatening. . . .

“Ha, ha. It will be warmer when
I blow the trumpet (if indeed
I ever do; for you are men,
And rest eternal sorely need).”

So down we lay again. “I wonder,
Will the world ever saner be,”
Said one, ‘than when He sent us under
In our indifferent century!”

And many a skeleton shook his head.
“Instead of preaching forty year,”
My neighbour Parson Thirdly said,
“I wish I had stuck to pipes and beer.”

Again the guns disturbed the hour,
Roaring their readiness to avenge,
As far inland as Stourton Tower,
And Camelot, and starlit Stonehenge.

No one dared make a sound as the landing ship plunged towards the blood red surface. The tensions was palpable. The only noise was the thunderous roar of the enemies guns. With AA batteries buried in civilian populations, softening the enemy with low grade ortillery attacks was out of the question. Instead with only minor support from orbiting battleships, the thousands of gravships lunged into harms way, racing desparately for the surface and any sort of cover or refuge.

The bursts of the shells, which began as a dull thud off somewhere in the distance now rocked the tiny shuttle. Lieutenant Dalziel watched his platoon, casting reassuring glances whenever he could. All playful banter that had preceeded the invasion days before had since ceased, and each man's countenance was grave in preparation for the blood bath that was only seconds away.

The rallying point for all Imperial forces had been carefully selected and it was decided that a small crater, thirty miles north of the capital city was their best bet. Few had any illusions that the thirty mile push to victory would take any less than several months. Battle lines would be clearly drawn and maneuverability would be limited until artillery could creat any sort of a soft spot in the enemy lines. Trench warfare seemed to be the tactics the Marte Largenti wished to employ until a second wave of invaders could get their foothold in this hell hole.

Contact in t-minus thirty seconds.

Dalziel nodded slightly and adressed his men briefly. "Gentlemen, despite your duty to Empress and country, you have one objective for the next twenty-four hours. Survive." The lieutenants words hung ominously, and moments later the shuttle came crashing to the ground, trashing those inside.

As their world came back into view there was a his and the shuttle opened as the platoon scrambled for cover. In the split second that it took for fifty of their fellow soldiers to die, all the men could gather was that they had landed next to a second shuttle which errupted in a violent explosion as men like Private Gainnes instictively rose their arms to cover their heads and vital organs, feeling the heat from the blast on their faces, and suddenly, what was once an abstract idea became very, very real. It had been a direct hit from an artillery shell.

Strangely, each soldier felt nothing. Not despair at the thought of a dead comrade, not pity. If anything they were overwhelmed with a thankfulness just to be alive. Suddenly the they noticed just how red the fine sand was which they now had their faces buried in as they dove for cover. Using the carnage of their fellow Imperialists' shuttle as a momentary refuge, Dalziel oriented himself identifing the enemy lines.

Judging the distance roughly he estimated it to be seven miles, stretching at least half of the horison. Every few moments it would light up, sometimes preceeding the falling of debris having scored a direct hit. Dalziel knew he could do nothing but wait for more ships to land. Thousands of them dotted the sky, and until he had more support, his primary mission of clearing a landing zone for the larger transports would be impossible. Letting out a deep sigh he leaned against the wreckage of the Largentian shuttle, simply muttering, "Poor fuckers."

All around the platoon the earth belched massive chucks of rock and sand as Marte Largenti shells carved new craters all their own. Dalziel and all his men were well aware of the fact that no matter where they went they would never truely be safe. If artillery rounds came too close and they panicked, they would be picked up by the machine gunners shortly. Right now it was the job of gravships to boostbomb any enemy defenses they could. However, the use of monopole enhanced thermonuclear devices so close to civilian cities may be looked upon in a rather negative light, and so bombings were kept to a minimum as more waves of shuttles touched down.

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

Sixteen hours into the fighting and all that remained of the initial invasion force was now on the surface. With all the largest transports situated in the northern most corner of Marte Largenti territory, artillery fire had ceased at the risk of stray shells pounding into Aelosian territory. This provided momentary relief for the regiments now on the surface as they helped establish the base as erect the artillery positions that would come into use during tommorows assault.

Intel from satellites confirmed that the enemy had established eacch of their three strongholds at the outskirts of the three cities between the Imperial forces and the Marte capital. It would appear that the only hope for the Imperial forces would be to cover no-man's-land as quickly as possible under the cover of an artillery barrage and bring the fighting into an urban setting where their temporarily weaker numbers would become a nonissue at least until reinforcements could arrive some time in the next week. For now however, Dalziel and his men sat in a circle, going through their standard weapons maintenance gazing across the vast martian landscape, trying desparately to think of anything other than the impending battle that loomed like an ominous storm cloud above each man's head.

And from this ceaseless turmoil seething
As if this Earth in fast think pants were breathing
A mighty fountain momently was forced
Amid whose swift half intermitted bursts
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail
Or chaffy grain beneath the threshers flail

When the assault first began, these sorts of meetings had been typical. Sometimes they would happen several times before lunch. Now things were different. The fighting on Mars had ground to a near halt. In the beginning the red sand had been made redder, but casualties had become sparse. Imperial forces had taken an unbreakable hold on the north and had had moderate success in the south. Unfortunately, the same could be said of the martian forces. For some reason, which Juzjani could not comprehend, the military had deemed the arena a backwater of fighting and thus was content to allow the remaining martian forces to remained garrisoned with limited, albeit sufficient, supplies until public opinion dethroned the militaristic dictators. On the other hand, because of its backwater reputation, no reinforcements would be directed to the red planet until surrender or guaranteed victory in a final assault became possible.

"Of course our third option is a single ortillery assault to end the conflict immediately." Juzjani rolled his eyes at the Admiral's comment. Overseer Gulenko offered a disapproving frown. This option was offered repeatedly, despite its immediate and continual rejection.

"Admiral, our purpose today is not to debate strategy as has been done in the past. Our only immediate concern is to decide how this most generous offer will effect our immediately and previously determined course of action." The Overseer's voice was eerily smooth and emotionless. The 'offer' to which he referred was proposed only hours ago by Dynaflex Industries. It was no great secret that Marte Largenti's history had been tumultuous at least, and Dynaflex had offered a staggering amount to purchase the entire colony and further industrialize the more residential cities currently standing. "Their generosity will not extend indefinitely and I have made my stance on the issue well known. Forces must be reinforced and a final assault must be immediately forth coming."

"I for one, am in complete agreement. And, if it pleases the council, I would like to be the one to lead the assault," Juzjani stated remarkably cooly. "In addition, in light of the lack of objection to the Overseer's stance, if none object, I see no reason to put this to a vote."

Nodding in agreement, Gulenko made a motion to his aid to bring news of the council's decision to the appropriate commanders and to inform the Dynaflex CEO that the transaction would be in the near future.