NationStates Jolt Archive


The Administrator and the Agitator

Chivikistan
13-08-2008, 03:36
"We are labourers, Sire, labourers! We are for the great new time to come, when men will wish an end to ignorance; when Man will forge from morning to night, seeking great effects and great causes; when, gradually victorious, he will tame all things and ride horseback upon them! Oh splendid glare of the forges! And no more evil: none! What is not known yet -and it may be terrible- we shall know then! Let us, hammer in hand, sort out all we know: and then, Brothers, forward! Sometimes we dream the grand and stirring dream of the simple, ardent life, where you speak no evil but work beneath the august smile of the woman you love with a noble love; and you work all day, proudly, and you answer the call of duty like a trumpet-blast. And you are very happy; and no one -above all!- no one makes you bow the knee! You have a gun over the fireplace..."
-from Le Forgeron, A.Rimbaud

Outside, the fresh winds of spring pulsed through city streets, coloured golden by the blossom of the amberblott tree. Surging up main streets and creeping down alleyways it painted them all, arteries and capillaries, like it was dye, until birds above had the urban circulatory system mapped.

Indoors, cartography by more ordinary means had achieved much the same, all be it with greater difficulty and rather less grace. Not that the Imperial Survey hadn't given thought to the aesthetic of the charts it produced for the foreigners. It seemed in fact that even these pale imitations of the beauty of Chivikistan were going unappreciated by the outsiders. Facilitator Oie Folerott was having great difficulty explaining the latest map of Inner Tszinqi to a representative of the foreign authority in the Chhatt Concession.

"It means that there be dragons... here..." he was saying, wondering what about the striped red-gold serpent depicted west of Iinaq was so confusing: the horns, or the mane?

The Sacred Combine of Chivikistan, having stood for longer than writings recorded, was divided three ways, as the charts indicated. More, owing to the great number of attendant carrion-birds calling themselves civilised nations as they picked at the ancient body of the empire.

"Oh, but the air is full of the odour of battle! What was I telling you? I belong to the mob! There remain informers and sharks. But we are free! We have terrible moments, when we feel great! Oh, so great! Just now I was talking of peaceful work, and a home... but look at the sky! -It's too small for us! If we feared dying of heat, we'd stay on our knees! -Look at the sky!- I'll go back to the crowd, back to the huge and terrible mob that is rolling your cannon, Sire, across the dirty cobbles:- oh, when we are dead, we shall have washed them! -And if, against our cries and against our vengeance, the claws of old bedizened kings urge on their regiments in full dress uniforms across France - well, isn't it so, you lot? -Shit to those dogs!"

If the foreigners, in their concessions, were worried enough to take an interest in what lay beyond the walls of the oceanic and riverine port cities, the Sacred Combine must be struggling!

"He shouldered his hammer again. The crowd, with that man near it, feels drunk to its soul, and in the great courtyard, and all through those rooms, where Paris panted and yelled, a shudder shook the huge populace. Then, with his broad hand, gilded with dirt, although the potbellied king sweated, the Blacksmith, terrifying, shoved the red cap on his head!"

Word came in on the wind: Dzje Aip Qying and his Army of the Delta had been lost in action in the Central Tszinqi Passes after making contact with Hma Uqemot's II Corps Chivik People's Liberation Army.

Nothing could stop the Communists' progress into Inner Tszinqi (unless they were afraid of dragons!). Nothing except perhaps the spring rains: oh, Ancestors, send your tears!
Chivikistan
13-08-2008, 04:07
OOC Thread! Roll up, roll up! (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=562892)
Chivikistan
16-08-2008, 09:32
Qiantok, Shohan Prefecture

Hustle and bustle is all part of Qiantok living. Heo Cutterblot, the city's oldest resident, could tell you that it has been so for all of the hundred and four years that he is able to remember, at least in part. Today, though, Heo, now blind, hears all foreign voices, rising in his left ear and falling in his right. The Bigtopians are heading to the docks, pouring out of their concession.

Ah, over the years white people roll in and out like the rains. Wait, are Bigtopians white? Heo tried to remember. It had been thirty one ye... thirty two years since he'd seen anyone.

They certainly sounded white, all in a hurry, afraid for their lives but still taking time to loot Chivik cultural treasures in the name of art and anthropology. The old man could hear a foreign woman chastising her family's chauffeur for, in her judgement, handling a chest too roughly. "Uqi Period time pieces, Samuel!" "Awful sorry, ma'am, one of them local urchins pushed me." "Awful, awful children! Don't they know there's a war on?"

Heo sucked on a sherbet lemon and chuckled to himself. Barmy white people. Those children weren't so awfully stupid that they couldn't steal old man Cutterblot some sweets from the outsiders! Good little ones.

"Try the Austar Trade Mission. Lots of them will be there, trying to get their trunks and treasures into the docks." "Thank you, grandfather Heo!"

And a little army of urchins scurried through the foreign crowds and made for the mission with a plan for petty pilfering as the great white mob fled the great red menace supposed to be looming over the city.
Austar Union
18-08-2008, 16:22
Unlike many of their counterparts, the Austarian Mission to Chivikistan in Qiantok remained faithful and made no plans for any exit of the country. Whilst to a some degree hostility from the Communists was expected, the people who were a part of it believed truly in what they were doing. Not exactly run by the government of the Unione of Capitalizt States, the Austarian Mission to Chivikistan remained a not-for-profit organisation with the intent of somehow sharing 'Austarian values', whilst still observing and respecting local custom. As such, it operated largely as a refuge and support base for many families and individuals, and encouraged the development of enterprise and leadership wherever opportunity made itself available.

Concerning the war, the Mission attempted to as much as possible paint itself publicly as politically neutral to either side. And it took in many refugees from both sides, mostly citizens fearing the violence hoping for some sort of a place to hide until it was over. But secretly, the Mission was a massive base of support for supporters of the current regime. The Austarians simply weren't supportive of a Communist Chivikistan, and this was reflected in the way that they took in political refugees where eyes weren't watching, ears weren't listening, and the copious amount of resources they secretly shared with the Chivik government.

Of course, when the children came in they wouldn't have understood a conversation which they heard as they wandered into the Mission.

" And how is Andrea? Have you heard much from her? "

" Communication to those areas has proven... difficult. When I spoke to her last, they were putting the finishing touches on establishing a means of continuing the mission there despite now an official change in-, oh, children! "

Sweets were provided, of course. With a love for the local people, there was no question... and although candy wasn't exactly a priority they certainly had something, somewhere. Little would they realise that they were found in a well-hidden cupboard around and underneath the mission, among the rifles, explosives, and bullets.
Iansisle
19-08-2008, 09:31
"This all seems damned silly, if you ask me," said Ernest Jackson, an Iansislean merchant who resided near the compound in Qiantok. Three days had passed since Commodore Pidsby-Smith had ordered all citizens of the Gull Flag Republic living in the Shohan Prefecture to seek shelter within the city. The compound itself was an unassuming little slice of the Shield in Chivikistan: a few coastal acres surrounded by a chain-link fence and containing large coal bunkers and oil tanks reserved for fleet use. It was the tiny base's duties to reprovision those of the Republic's ships which either passed through the area or used it as a port to police the northern Chivik coast.

The principle ship on these waterways was the nearly fifty-year-old gunboat Garganey. Drawing only nine feet of water but mounting two rapid-firing 4" guns, Garganey had overseen Iansisle's interests in northern Chivikistan for more than forty years. Curiously forgotten during the purge of Iansisle's vast 'second fleet' for the buildup of the Linhower Plan, the gunboat had continued on her way with eighteen different captains -- usually young lieutenants on their way to better things with the battle fleet -- and occasional lengthy refits. Her ancient coal-fired machinery still worked (most of the time, at least) and, severely pressed, most estimated that she could do ten knots. Few Iansisleans in Chivikistan ever saw the need for such a rush, and Garganey more often conducted business at a leisurely five knots. Every now and then, a new lieutenant fresh off the Shield would order her canvas patched up, send the yards aloft, and rig the gunboat for sail. These evolutions seldom lasted longer than the resentful mutterings of the crew took to remind the zealous officer of how much easier life was under steam.

Right now, Garganey lay at anchor off the compound, the Gull Flag hanging lazily from her mizzenmast. It was the focus of Jackson's ire.

"Who does this commodore think he is? Commander-in-Chief of the Chivikistan Station indeed! Have I ever told you, Qang, of the time I had some trouble with some damned Galler raja?"

"I did not know that your Excellency did business in Gallaga," said Jackson's Chivik servant, bent double under the weight of the merchant's papers and trunk.

"Of course I did, man! Everyone worth their salt in the import business has traded in Gallaga. At any rate, this one bigwig upriver -- Sim Sim Sala Bim or whatever his name was -- he starts to get cold feet in the middle of a deal and closes his town to those of us working in the area. Did we just abandon our capital, I ask you?"

"I will guess that you did not, Excellency."

"Damned right we did not! Now, we couldn't go crying to John Company -- strictly speaking, we were operating in defiance of their monopoly -- so August sahib organized an irregular cavalry and we rode up to cause some havoc. Burned the bastard out and got our money back. 'Course, he went crying to Nusheld and we had to bust out before the sepoys came for our heads." Jackson laughed.

"It sounds like quite the adventure, Excellency."

"Mark me, Qang, those were the days. Before all this nonsense, a man had to be a man. 'Quit Gallaga' my gouty left leg! If this Pissy-Sissy had any true Shieldian courage, we'd be sailing up river to blast Ma Kumquat back to -- back to -- blast it, you little scamp, I haven't any candy! Now carry yourself to damnation before I do it for you with the back of my hand!"

The little child ran off and vanished in the crowded streets. They had at last arrived at the gates of the Iansislean compound. Already, Jackson could see the fashionable young ladies idling about in front of the neatly trimmed garden between the marine barracks and the coal depot. Tom Keeler, an old friend of his, was just inside the gate waiting for him.

"Glad you made it, Ernest!" Keeler cried, pumping Jackson's hand. "I believe that makes the last of us for the region; nasty business, this. Did you hear that the communists piked Qying's head and used it as a battering ram for the next village they sacked?"

"And no doubt Qying's ancestors summoned forth a dragon to avenge the atrocity and it has already chased his spirit into the afterlife," snapped Jackson. "You know better than to listen to Vik nonsense, Tom."

"It's not nonsense! I heard it from the commodore himself."

"Who doubtless heard it from his greengrocer, who heard it from the mystic down the street -- wait, Pissy-Sissy is here?"

"He is, and I wouldn't let him hear you say his name like that. I guess they're actually taking old Garganey upriver."

"At last! The Viks won't stand half a chance against modern firepower."

"I'd hesitate before calling Garganey modern, Ern. I heard talk around here that she hasn't fired her guns in two years, and even when she did they all missed at five hundred yards."

"The actual effect is irrelevant. The Viks will cut and run once they hear the report. Probably think it is a dragon come to punish them for their wayward ideals."

"This entire line is irrelevant by that standard, Ern. The commodore's not interested in fighting the communists -- the Petersons never came back. He just wants to see what’s become of them.”

“The who?”

“Petersons, Ern.” It was Keeler’s turn to sound exasperated. “You know, that family of missionaries who went upriver a few years back?”

“Oh!” said Jackson. He glanced around, then lowered his voice conspiratorially. “The Protestants. Why would he want to waste any effort on them?”

“Word has it that the Garganey’s commander fancies the young Peterson girl and hasn’t bothered to tell the commodore why he’s so keen to ride to the rescue.”

“The one with the face like a horse?”

“No, that was her older sister. The captain is after young Emily -- she was only too young to take proper notice when they passed through here, but the word is that she’s grown into quite the woman and that is why they’ve spent so much time ‘patrolling’ recently.”

“And here I thought all naval officers were either purists or sodomites! Learn something new each day, don’t you, Tom?”
Chivikistan
24-08-2008, 06:23
Western Borderlands Inner/Outer Tszinqi Provinces, Shohan Prefecture

Dominated by the seemingly endless meandering of the Tqar, the major northern arm of the great Chivris river system, Shohan is one of the more sparsely peopled regions of eastern Chivikistan. A small but significant step forward for the Communists was inherent in the arrival from the remote and barren west of their II Corps in this prefecture.

If they could take Shohan, perhaps even capture the detestable Prefect, and threaten the foreign concessions in Qiantok, why not the great cities and ports to the south?

Two Hairs, Rice Bucket, and Jug Ears meet the Protestants

I built my hut among the worlds of man, yet near me no noise of horse or coach was heard. You ask how this is possible? When the heart is detached, one's place becomes distant...
-T'ao Yuan-ming

For a fellow whom everybody called Two Hairs, the Petersons must have thought, Ertm was surprisingly far from bald. Still, he was the only resident of Hou Mn Settlement -known on the only foreign-made map of the area as Humour Hill- able to recite the Lord's Prayer, and somehow he was even previously aware of a Tszi Qiu, whom he enthusiastically associated with the missionaries crucifixes when they first arrived in the settlement. Two Hairs would always turn up to hear preaching, and often invited the Petersons to dine at his hut. He wasn't a bad cook, liked his spices and sauces, and was always keen to please.

Actually, this was why everyone else called him Two Hairs. He spent so much time with The Hairy Ones. Out here, everyone referred to the foreigners that way, behind their backs. No doubt one of the principle challenges in daily life, even without the struggle to get anyone but Ertm to show up on a regular basis when they were trying to preach -most of the settlement ran on Chivik Time, and that often meant sleeping through sermons or turning up after this board game was played or that meal properly digested- was getting about without having one's shirt pulled up or trouser leg lifted by a local curious as to how far the hair went or whether these people were that colour all over.

In the local cafe, such as it was for want of a better description of the tumble-down shack in the open front of which people could sit and take tea -traditional wisdom in Chivikistan holds that tea is one of the necessities of life, along with rice, salt, and cooking oil- or munch on buns and vegetable rolls, two friends were deep in conversation. So deep that neither could remember where or how it started. Presently the subject was Two Hairs as he relates to the foreigners, with a bit of the revolution thrown in for good measure.

"He'll take a cold bench before long." Said one, Aoning. "You know, word has it that the Communists are coming, and the Hairy Ones won't stick around to convert them. Then who'll he fawn over?"

"Of course you know." Replied the other, mumbling through a mouthful of sweet bread smothered in hot sauce. "Where did you pick-up this 'word'?"

"It's true! The old shepherd on the west side saw their banners moving through the pass, their scouts are probably watching us right now!"

"They're not the only ones." Came the hushed reply, causing Aoning to look up, whereupon he saw Two Hairs and one of his white friends passing by their table needlessly slowly, sure to have overheard something at least. "Shh!"

As they walked away, Two Hairs whispered to the Peterson in question. "That's Jug Ears. The sails on his head catch the wind, and every word carried on it. He's always first to know. The other one's Rice Bucket, no good for anything but sinking food, but he'll always hear Jug Ears' gossip if it gets him some treats."

"That Two Hairs. If he doesn't allow himself to be part of the proper community, he'll never be able to feel happy. I wouldn't be surprised if he joins up with the Communists just to fill himself up with a new fad."

Rice Bucket nodded, smacking his lips as he finished up.
Iansisle
25-08-2008, 09:15
Robert Peterson nodded as he continued up the path with Ertm. Robert refused to call the man ‘Two Hairs’ and forbade his children from engaging in the widespread practice of nicknaming. He tolerated it in the natives but felt that it would undermine the atmosphere of mutual respect that he was trying to cultivate around the Humour Hill Mission.

“It is no secret that Aoning says more than he should, but it is also no secret that he knows more than he should. Do you believe that the shepherd is correct? Are the communists here?”

Pisby-Smith’s missive ordering all Iansislean nationals from across Shohan into Qiantok had been received at Humour Hill with a mixture of resentment and fear. There was no question that the Petersons could not abandon this, the only mission of the Iansislean Free Movement Church of Jesus Christ in Chivikistan. There was too much tied up on his shoulders.

The Movers, as the Iansislean press was fond of calling them, were the largest non-Catholic Christian denomination on the Shield and jealously fought for a reformation to go along with the Gull Flag Revolution. Precedent had been set, they argued, in the massive land-seizures of monasteries and other Church land by the short-lived Weshield Republic (which, the Movers were also quick to point out, had never been returned by either the National Assembly or by President Ranalte) and the formal disestablishment of the Church was only a matter of time. To publicly fail in Chivikistan would be a humiliation that the Free Movement could not bear. In the back of his mind, Robert wondered if this entire revolution weren’t part of some vast papist conspiracy to ruin the Movers.

At the same time, in more rational parts of his brain, and his countrymen viewed communism through the lens of a boogeyman. Salvador might be half a century distant but a man of Robert’s age could still remember his parents drawing the blinds against the howl of a blackout siren when the nation was sure that Beddgelen aeroflyers would soon be overhead. The image of his father, armed with an ancient hunting rifle, standing between the family (tucked under a table for safety from the atomic bomb) and the door, presumably in case Sopworth Igo should come bursting through with the intention of eating the children -- or worse, teaching them about communal living! -- still haunted him. Robert had nearly taken the entire family down to Qiantok and he had prayed for a sign.

Although God did not explain the differences between Igovian thought and the more regimented Daytan doctrine, apparently Robert had become convinced that doing the Lord’s work in Chivikistan was more important than his own safety. Robert had also considered sending his wife and five children to the compound, but feared for his daughter Emily’s purity without his constant oversight. He knew she was rapidly changing into a beautiful young woman and had caught the eyes of several of the naval officers who patrolled the river. The idea of his daughter marrying a Catholic -- for surely they were -- was one that could keep him awake at night even longer than the memories of listening to wireless reports on the disaster at Salvador.

They had truly built something special at Humour Hill, Robert was convinced. Sure, there were occasional problems with attendance -- all right, he forced himself to admit, so they were more than occasional -- but educating the heathens and spreading the light of God’s word (in a way strictly separate from what he called in private company the ‘Cult of St. Adie’) had to be worth any slight discomfort that revolution might bring to the countryside. Indeed, the mission could take in those displaced by the war, fancying itself a haven for the refugees of both sides -- surely Hma Uqemot would not object to that!
Aerion
25-08-2008, 09:54
Perhaps most telling of the culture of Aerion was that often, as in the case of Chivikistan, was that the megacorporations had come first offering their economic plans along with (if necessary) more bribery money than was perhaps necessary. Subsidiaries of Amkarethz Holdings, such as General Aerionian Productions Company, one of the largest megacorporations in Aerion with huge ownership by the Amkarethz family was one such megacorporation. Morthian Amkarethz, CEO and Chairman of the Board of Amkarethz, was often accusedin more independent press of being an ruthless Machiavellian manipulator who more than simply making a profit enjoyed manipulating and seeing what he could make of poorer countries. So it was with that that representatives of GAPC had applied for, and opened twenty factories near one of the port cities. GAPC would have probably created a separate company within Chivikistan with a local name and puppet owners to be able to have plausible deniability if international attention came to them. Though no doubt some in the know would have an idea of what was going on. Where there was lack of infrastructure they had literally, if allowed by Chivikistan, built a dam on one of the rivers to supply the electricity to the factories. These massive factories, some of the largest employing nearly 5000 or more, would have drawn people no doubt from miles around. If allowed by Chivikistan authorities or by bribed authorities who would now live in wealth, they would be as bad as any other sweatshops or at the very least meet minimum government regulars. Many perhaps could even live on the factory grounds, but at a great price to both freedom and comfort. Those working at these factories would make little over the very minimum wage.

On the other end of the spectrum, perhaps a world away, would be the Royal Embassy of Aerion in the capital. For such an less modern nation, though with a large population, the appointed Royal Ambassador would be some minor scion from a wealthy family. The Deputy Head of Mission would truly head the mission in management while the Royal Ambassador lived in the Ambassadorial Residence enjoying his diplomatic immunity and socializing with the upper class of Chivikistan. Being a less modern nation with less power on the national scene, the Royal Embassy in Chivikistan would have perhaps 30 staff from Aerion and around 50 more locally employed staff. The section for Political Affairs would have a staff of 8, who would be analyzing the situation of the communist uprising. Perhaps the Security Attaché would be making arrangements for the security of the embassy, but unless the danger became more immediate there would be no evacuation of the embassy. The situation would have probably been reported to someone in the Esolina Palace, which housed the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, but only one person handled country desk duties for Chivikistan.

As the situation progressed, the staff at the Royal Embassy would keep a close eye. However, keeping an even closer eye would be agents of Amkarethz Security pundercover insuring the security of Amkarethz Holdings. If allowed by the government there would be armed security at the factories under a different moniker.
Chivikistan
28-08-2008, 12:27
Longin

The ancient capital of the Sacred Combine. That the walls around the Old Quarter relied more on serpentine frescos, wind chimes, and lanterns than height, thickness, and ramparts in their task of protecting the city to which they gave their name spoke to the Chivikistani assumption that bad spirits were the motivating element in aggression. This went a long way to explaining the negativity felt amongst even prosperous collaborationist families when considering foreigners: the only thing that could explain how the outsiders were, with evil in their hearts, able to disregard traditional defences, from painted dragons to flying lanterns, was that their spirits were either absent or beyond redemption.

Still, these days it was not just the foreigners who had guns and wall-felling cannon. Against Communist rifles, coming in through Daytanistan, even the most colourful flare rockets seemed ineffective! And after what had happened to Dzje Aip Qying's Chanting Battalion -nobody was exactly certain, but surely nothing good- it was clearly time to try a new approach.

At the so-called Facility, where the Combine could address foreign missions generally and states and firms looking to involve themselves in Chivikistan could make first contact, Administrator Xchu Amberblott appealed for help.

Lacking reliable telecommunications, Amberblott still preferred to appear at the Facility and let the foreigners sort out the response, even when it was in her interests to push the issue at hand. Something from the attitude that gave rise to Chivik Time, no doubt, and was probably responsible for the Combine's reluctance to get up and do something about the creeping tentacles of the great red squid.

Xchu was extremely small of stature but rather pretty. Or at least, she would have been called cute had that not been so patronising a term for one in her high office. Very much a Chivikistani, it was accordingly hard to say in reference to more well known races whether she looked more like a Turk, Indo-Aryan, or even Han. The fourth point on a square made of these, perhaps.

Dressed to make an impression, she could have been the fantastical offspring of a Geisha and a peacock for all the make-up, frills, fans, and feathers, and her dress was unashamedly close fitting and emphatic in regard of her curves. The first hints of bashfulness and social conservatism had only barely begun to seep into Chivik culture with the arrival of straight-laced foreigners, and despite popular imaginings of a repressed, primitive past from which this technologically inferior nation seemed to hail, the Sacred Combine in reality was a pretty bawdy, uninhibited place. Some of the ornate and charming murals and frescos surrounding the Old Quarter, on closer inspection, could be seen to depict unnatural acts being shared between girls and dragons, or scenes in which 'soldiers' and wise men see off threats with certainly exaggerated appendages swinging about while they do so.

The Administrator, as we have said, one of the most powerful people in the Combine, had to ask for help. The Communists had rifles, and sometimes mines, grenades, and the like, and reportedly conducted extensive drills in Daytanistan so that half of them could actually shoot straight.

Combine armies were going into battle with one musketeer answered by a whistle player, a drummer, a dancer, a rattle shaker, a lantern bearer, a kite flyer, and likely as not somebody covered in sparklers and waving flares (usually no longer placed in line beside said musketeer and his black powder). Worse, the Combine's gunmen were still treating their firearms like all the other apparatus used to frighten off bad spirits. Sometimes musket balls were not even loaded along with their powder charges, or in the case of more modern weapons with self-contained cartridges, they were not being precisely aimed.

The connection between the discharge of a firearm and the falling of an enemy was not yet fully appreciated. Some had got the idea that in order to chase a bad spirit out of a Communist, who was especially stubborn, you had to make sure that spirit knew that the flash, bang, and smoke was specifically for his benefit, and as such it was best to thrust the muzzle in his direction as you pulled the trigger. But even this, which resulted in the odd almost accidental hit on the enemy's ranks and almost as many on the Combine's own side, was really the pinnacle of Combine army marksmanship and the exception rather than the rule.

In contrast, at least five percent of CPLA soldiers were shooting to kill, and the rest had a better accidental hit rate, because even the most reluctant of them wanted at least to look as if they were trying, and would discharge their weapons generally into the mass of the Combine army facing them even without picking a target. While the Communist's sociopaths were happy to kill people, the Combine's didn't know how.

Meanwhile, like many Chivikistanis, Xchu Amberblott was impressed by Iansisle's gun and armour warships. When they first arrived in Longin harbour, most foreign ships seemed to be almost outside the field of Chivikistani perception. They were too big and too strange, and the locals had no frame of reference in which to regard them, so ended up essentially looking right through them. It was the big gun ships, not the missile cruisers or submarines, that spoke to a Chivik understanding of combat between spirits and the superstitious ceremonies apparently mirrored in raised flags and flashed signals from ships that belched smoke and cried thunder.

Could these people teach the Sacred Combine to cleanse the Communists in battle? And were they even remotely interested?

OOC: I have another post for the Petersons written out, but no time to type it up, and owe Aerion something, I know. I'll get there, eventually!
Midlonia
28-08-2008, 14:51
OOC: Hope this works about right. Thought I’d ramp up some Westernized-style impatience and some slight Imperialistic cruelty.

Dockside of the Chhatt Concession

The boat lifted and dropped slightly in the river. It was a slightly larger vessel than some of the ones used by traders, and others around it. It was a large bulky vessel with a large, long flat area before the bridge, on it were the tops of tanks, from which a large pipe snaked from one of these large tanks into another on the quayside. The Supply ship Venus had arrived in Chivikistan at the now Midlonian-controlled and dominated Chhatt Concession and was dealing out her cargo as necessary, behind her a pair of cranes lifted out ration-boxes and sacks of coal for the smaller vessel that was moored up nearby.

Another pipe snaking from another tank led it’s way across a short strip of water into the Gun Cutter Patrol-boat used by the Greater Royal Navy. It was around 90 meters long and had a crew of 50 or so, all of whom, seemingly were scuttling around the deck, working on various bits and pieces, working on fuse boxes, fixing lights into place and generally getting the boat looking more ready for operation in the area.

Upon it’s side were large, deep red lettering, denoting NCC 2520 further forward were the lettering denoting her name. Pevensey Bay. The newest boat from the shipyards at Ashby-De-La-Zouch had been this small gun boat, and it had wound up being sent to something as mere as a trading post in an area that was, to the Greater Kingdom Government at least, “A spot out of the way” .

The crew running around the Pevensey Bay, whom had come from the ancient Master PT boat, sold to the Crunn and Bannister Tea Consortium about 30 years ago which still sat steaming gently moored up to the quayside near to their new charge, had been confused at first, but it seemed the paperwork had checked out along with a new training crew for the ancient Master. Both ships were now theirs for use in the area.

Something, they felt., was afoot as they had effectively doubled everything here within the last few days, a new more capable ship, another platoon or so of the private security force in their distinctive royal blue lined with yellow jackets.

This group was largely composed of officers, if one didn’t know better one could say they were part of a vanguard to train up the locals. Something that was already beginning to happen, and was being done quite hard already.

Chatt, Cartography office

“Oh for the love of…” Jones, Mr Crunn The Youngers Personal assistant muttered as the facilitator pointed to the dragon on the map and explained it because "there really were dragons within the Chivikistan interior." He rolled his eyes and let out a deep, long breathe before scribbling something into a small notepad that was attached to his wrist. And snapping the book shut looked to Crunn The Younger.

Despite being known as “The Younger” Crunn was actually 62 years old, some 20 years junior than his father who still presided over the company. To this day. He was balding and the small half-moon spectacles on his pointed nose, the arms straining around his fat cheeks showed every last year of them.

“We’ll take them anyway, even if they are horribly inaccurate.” Crunn wheezed, snatching the map out of the cartographers hands with a tut and another look, pointing at a gigantic figure with a club and one eye and rolling his own eyes. “How you people have managed this long with such bad mapmaking skills I’ll never know.” he muttered as he rolled the map up and tucked it under his arm. “We’ll take several more also, see if we can’t make something of it. Anything in which you show natural resources of the land? Where the soil is bountiful or where Gold trickles from the ground?” he waggled his fingers in a slightly impatient manner, but his tone was almost deadly serious. To be honest Crunn The Younger hadn’t travelled much outside the Greater Kingdom, only to other states that were comparable to the Greater Kingdom in technology and culture. As well as accuracy in mapping.

Crunn was finding the experience novel and primitive.

Very primitive.

Chatt, Civikistan Trading Company Headquaters

“Not like that you bloody ignorant swine!” The ruddy faced, mutton chopped whiskered man screamed into the face of the native as he trembled slightly from the verbal tirade, the man’s swagger stick jabbing hard into the chest of the man holding a rifle and wearing a blue coat with yellow edges, his dark hair shaking under the heavy taps from the much taller, much fatter Midlonian.

“You hold the bloody thing steady and aim at the target, you don’t run around thrusting it like you do into your woman you moronic fool!” the man continued screaming, “Look how Fang-Go does it!” The man brought his stick up to the young Chivkistani’s face and turned it to face a similarly dressed man standing next to him.

He was also a native, who wore a stovepipe hat. In three smooth movements he brought the rifle up to his shoulder, brought it up to his eye and took aim, then fired the old repeating rifle twice at the target next to the wall, scoring two hits before he stood stock still, the rifle still in his hands.

“See? See? You don’t wave it around hoping to get rid of spirits, you don’t make loud noises, you make it some bloody use and you kill! Got it?” spittle flew from the man’s face onto the terrified young man could only nod. “Now try it again, if I have to keep you here all day and all night doing this, I will. Goes for you two as well.” the Seargent-at-arms said, his head snapping down to another two natives who had been watching the tirade.

Since arriving they had started to mould small groups of Chivikistanis, no more than five to ten men at a time, into something vaguely resembling a proper militia, so far they had a single platoon of men, that is 10 natives in a unit of Consortium Colonial Militiamen, abbreviated to CCM.

They were being effectively used to strong arm some areas, and to ensure their control and security was kept across the concession. The rumours of the communists trying to get slowly closer was prompting the Consortium to invest a little bit more than originally thought into defence, and a lack of money to do so meant the need to use members of the local populace and forming some sort of security force with them.

This, of course, was problematic as many of them had never seen weapons before, let alone operate them, and it had been trying the patience of the sergeant for too long.

Chatt Concession, Yuks Bar

The youngish Midlonians hands traced themselves along the Chivikistani female’s form sitting in his lap.

He couldn’t have been older than 23 else 24 and, like all young men his age, finding these exotic females very interesting. Across from him in the snug-like seating area sat another man, womanless he muttered under his breathe as he tapped away on a small PDA computer in front of him.

“Mr Pitt.” the man began before looking up and rolling his eyes as the Midlonian’s hands had disappeared under the table, and from the way the young woman was blushing he could only fathom at what the young Pitt, third son of the Pitt family who owned the National Coal Consoritum, was doing to her. “Sir.” he said again, causing the young man to look up from the girl in his lap across to the haggard looking financier.

“What is it, Mr Handleson?” Pitt said, before he looked back to the squirming woman in his lap, she shifted to the side for a moment, revealing perhaps the reason why she was allowing this.

Pitt was wearing the Green Dragon emblem of the National Coal Consortium. So perhaps she felt she had been blessed, having been picked by this foreigner and his connection to dragons, just like in the stories her mother had told her long ago. Pitt of course, didn’t mind this at all.

“If we don’t find some sort of deposit within the next six months we’ve run out of funding. Your father has put on hold the exploitation of a new oilfield in the Falcon Isles because you believed there were massive, massive natural resources here in this place.” the Financier said, pointing his stylus at Pitt and rolling his eyes in frustration as the young woman on the man’s lap made a light moaning sound. He slammed his hand down on the table. “If we go bankrupt we have no more money, if you find some materials however, funding will come from both the National Government, as well as from the Consortium proper. Do you understand that?”

“Of course I do, Handleson.” Pitt snapped, glaring at the tweed-suited financier across the snug from him. “Hence why I’ve started hiring on some porters to go exploring. Crunn was getting the maps personally himself and I was going to lead the expedition into the interior with some of the prospecting equipment to find any coal and gas deposits. She’s coming with me, of course.” he nodded to the woman. “Wouldn’t want to get too bored out there and she knows some of the area, don’t you?”

“Yes sir.” the woman said quietly.

“See? I found a guide already.”

“I know what you ruddy found.” the Financier muttered as he lit a cigarette and the conversation continued.
Chivikistan
31-08-2008, 06:56
Hou Mn Settlement, "Humour Hill"

The Petersons had, no doubt, noticed that Chivikistani naming conventions, especially when you got involved at a local community level, were a pain in the neck, to put it rather mildly. Sometimes it was family-name/given-name. Sometimes the reverse. Some children were given traditional family names as their own, and some names had been adopted as family names in memory of some storied ancestor and probably arose from the practice of adopting such a person's given name as a third name in hopes of gaining some reflected honour. Of course this could mean family-ancestor-given, family-given-ancestor, given-ancestor-family... well, you understand enough.

And, unlike some eastern cultures, girls in Chivik tradition were no less likely to take a third name. Then there were the different forms of mid-life modification. These changes were usually assigned by a communal consensus or else enforced by the authorities, not chosen by the individual in question. A hopeful father might name his son in a manner meaning, "one who is wise" only for the disappointing offspring to earn a court-ordered alteration and live out his adult life as, "the stupid one who is wise and whose father is John of the family Doe" for example.

And then come the nicknames. These do not necessarily have legal standing, but almost every Chivikistani who was not of noteworthy status went by one in daily activity outside of his or her family (where more proper names would continue to be used, even if they were court-ordered badges of idiocy). Though one would never call an immediate or respected family member by their nickname, mothers would address their daughters' friends and their families in this seemingly informal manner without thinking twice.

While modern research has suggested that the ordinary human brain is well configured to deal with pertinent information for life in groups of up to some hundred and fifty individuals, such as the maximum level of hunter-gatherer cohabitation in most environments, often mirrored in religious sects and the like, but that a minority has begun in the last eight thousand years to develop new markers indicative of a capacity to process thousands of names, faces, and personality profiles, many rural Chivikistanis exhibit some arguably equivalent development without ever having experienced city life!

Two-Hairs, Ertm, whatever you called him, replied to Mr.Peterson first with a bobbing of his head that probably meant something but was in itself neither nod nor shake (Chivikistanis do that the Albanian and Bulgarian way, too). "It depends which way the wind is blowing. If it comes from an honest source to Jug-Ears' sails then he expresses truth, but if a bad wind is blowing, who can say?"

Helpful, no?

At this point, if he was more observant than Ertm, Robert may notice that, actually, he could hear the wind, and that it was unusual to do so on this side of the broad, gentle hill for all the activity going on at this time of day. If he looked back, he would see that Jug-Ears and Rice-Bucket had vanished from the cafe front, and that indeed the dirt road of the main street was suddenly quite bare of people.

Longin

In Chivikistan's greatest city, the Royal Embassy of Aerion was able to sit a minimum of two kilometres from the fringes of the industrial district in which that nation's factories were a dominant feature. Life on and around Embassy Row in the Old Quarter was pretty darn pleasant. Most things in Chivikistan were outrageously inexpensive, with the exception of rare special interest items that had to be imported... well, specially. Traditional social liberalism mixing with foreign ideas and technologies for the first time gave certain streets quite the roaring twenties feel, and crime was virtually unheard of, unless you counted the more excessive liberties taken by some of the foreigners.

Not so far away, outside the small walls of the quarter, things were rather different. People were really struggling to get their heads around what was happening as Longin, temple of the dragon, became the new Manchester, drawing people from the countryside to work in a manner they could barely understand. By the clock, in doors, for wages, with strangers. Chivikistan was only just beginning to look into modern timekeeping as a necessity, realising that it was no longer workable to tell the time by the sun, since whole regions involved in manufacture and export had to be in step. The foreigners had brought, at least to parts of the nation, railway time.

This was confusing enough for ordinary people, but the dam built by Aerion was utterly confounding. Some people were terrified of it. Some were flabbergasted by its scale. Most were just ruined, their villages flooded, or in other cases their fields cut-off from traditional water sources.

Not to worry! They could go to the city and work in Aerion's factories!

These people really didn't have a choice, so there was no point the Combine stepping in and trying to tell the companies how much to pay them or how to treat them.
Iansisle
31-08-2008, 11:58
"By the mark five!"

Another splash.

"And a quarter less five!"

Poor Garganey was trying to find her way upriver without a native pilot. Lieutenant Earman, like so many other Shieldians before him, had relied on native pilots to help the gunboat on its patrol from the ocean to Humour Hill, and they were discovering that locating the main channel without their assistance could be surprisingly challenging. She was feeling her way along at bare steerageway with two men in the leads. The charts which had been made twenty years ago were completely useless, and Earman had the added problem of having Commodore Pisby-Smith staring over his shoulder. Earman was far inferior to the commodore in rank, but did have command over the day-to-day operations of his own ship. Not, of course, that he felt any less self-conscious because of it.

"And a half four!" came the cry from the leads.

"She's shoaling fast," Pisby-Smith said, quite distant from the entire affair. The gunboat could pass through water with just more than two fathoms, but that didn't mean that her captain would be comfortable.

"Bixens, another point to port."

"Another point to port, aye sir," said the quartermaster, moving the gunboat's tiller ever so slightly. "She's handling awful sluggish, sir. She'd be much more responsive if we gave her another knot or two."

"Kindly keep your observations to yourself, Bixens," snapped Earman. The quartermaster looked a little wounded, but Earman could not afford his usual lax discipline with the commodore aboard. The leads splashed into the water again.

"By the mark five!" was the call. Earman let out a sigh of relief, then caught himself. Pisby-Smith was eying him, no doubt aware of the thin veil of sweat covering his brow. A Shieldian officer did not worry over something as simple as grounding his command; he was supposed to be stoic and in command at all times.

"And a quarter less six!" cried the man in the leads. Earman smiled. He had found the channel.

"Ring the engineer for another two knots," he said. "And tell Jones that we only need one man in the leads now." The gunboat, accelerating gradually at Earman's command, swung out into the middle of the river, well clear of the shoals that had threatened them. The expedition to rescue Emily -- and her family, he assumed -- was officially begun.

((ooc: some stuff upriver tomorrow))
Aerion
01-09-2008, 07:12
Somewhat hypocritically, in most areas of Aerion dams were not allowed because of their environmental impact. The environment, and land of Aerion had in nomadic tribal times been considered utterly sacred. Such was it was once practically ritualistic for the peoples of Aerion to remain nomadic, for they did not want to disrupt an area for too long. In modern times, the megacities of Aerion covered miles where most of the population lived but in-between there was nothing but uninterrupted pristine wilderness with sparsely scattered super-interstates and railways. Airships were used to gently cross the sky.

Royal Decree strictly enforced environmental regulations, except in the western provinces near the coast they were somewhat lightened and this was where most megacorporations kept their production though no doubt in Chivikistan the megacorporations would be as lax as possible and do things as cheaply as possible.

To this end they would do something that was somewhat environmentally friendly, dangerous, but was only done in western Aerion. As the megacorporations built their factories, it would be assumed the primitive peoples of Chivikistan would build small towns around these factories. Perhaps out of manipulative desire, perhaps out of some twisted sense of science, CEO Morthian Amkarethz had sent down secretly for construction of a nuclear power plant to be erected immediately. This power plant was near completion and had been constructed at breakneck speeds. This power plant would power the whole of the Longin, any electronics Amkarethz Holdings decided to put there, and would most likely insure the loyalty of thousands of government officials would now depend on the corporate owned nuclear power plant for their power.

At the same time, through another company, Paisyae Broadcasting, Amkarethz Holdings began distributing 1 flatscreen television to every village that survived near the dam to be powered by the dam. In Longin, if allowed, they would erect digital billboards to broadcast their message. Through this satellite broadcasting network, Amakrethz Holdings would send constant messages of capitalist ideas and the value of working for their other named companies in Chivikistan. To Combine politicians they would offer space in these billboards, and broadcast. The megacorporation was insuring that the Combine would be indebted to them. The pro-capitalist messages would help fight the communist ideas developing as well.

Royal Embassy of Aerion, Longin

The Counselor for Environment & Science, Isisha Lapala, sat at her desk in the Royal Embassy staring at the screen of her touchpad. She was receiving reports from others of what the Aerionian megacorporations were doing in Chivikistan, and only shook her head as she stared sadly. She sighed deeply as she heard the news about it. There was so much she wanted to say, so much she wanted to do. Her section of the Embassy had only 3 employees though it was partly because the country was not influential on the international scene or had not interacted with Aerion often. Though in this Royal Embassy, the section for Commercial Affairs had 10 officers, and was much more influential. She almost had a personal hatred for the Counselor for Commercial Affairs, as well as an extreme dislike for the Ambassador. Commercial Affairs helped support Aerionian firms in the Combine, and promoted economic interests.

Isisha knew, for a fact, that the Crown Prince Damoen Wasterin would not approve of what was going on. He was a Makan Buddhist, and a staunch idealist she knew. She knew though the very sensitive nature of Aerionian politics, the balance between the Royal Government and the megacorporations, the outright bribery by the megacorporations of many low and mid officials in the Royal Government, and the apathy of many higher up.

So she could do nothing. Sometimes she almost wanted to become a communist herself, to fight the megacorporate influence, and to overcome the apathetic Royal Government. She thought she could get away from the capitalist Aerionian society by entering the Diplomatic Service, by getting away from it all. But here she was in a society being exploited in the worst way by capitalists.
Questers
01-09-2008, 15:00
Chatt

The small naval launch cut its way around the docks, avoiding both larger and smaller ships alike. The crew of African Questarians manning the boat continued with their work silently, the only European - and therefore, man of station - standing motionless at the helm of the small motor launch. With one foot on the deck and one on the slightly raised forecastle, he was clearly marked as somebody different to the rest of the boat's crew. As they tendered to the boat's direction and its engines, he stood like a statue, observing the wide dock front of Chatt. Reaching into his slacks he slipped out a pack of cigarettes, flicking the top open effortlessly.

Alexander Houghton snickered as he watched the character a hundred yards out to sea fumble in his pockets and then slip the packet of cigarettes back into his pocket in disgrace. Standing on the dockside, Houghton was significantly different to the new arrival. Instead of white slacks and shining shoes, he wore jungle green fatigues and boots; instead of a waistcoat, another jungle green military shirt, and instead of wind breaking and flapping through soft brown hair, a boonie hat covered a military crew cut. Yes, indeed, this new arrival was not the sort of man Houghton really needed.

The motor boat came to a stop at the jetty and Houghton stayed still, waiting for the man to depart. He muttered a few words of Afrikaans to the crew and they prepared to set off again. The next thing he saw was a man in a military uniform looking straight at him. The uniform was Questarian, of course; he could tell, because almost every other military in the world had at least some pattern of camouflage.

"Hullo," he said, offering out a handshake, "I'm Sir Oscar Stanley-Belvoir. Colonel... Houghton, I presume?"

"Well presumed," Houghton replied, shaking Oscar's hand more vigorously then he had expected. "The building is only half a mile down, we may as well walk."

"Hold on just one moment; you don't happen to have a lighter, do you?" Belvoir inquired. Houghton plucked a zippo from his hat and handed it over to a delighted Belvoir. "Thanks awfully old sport; I'd left mine on the ship, you see, rather embarrassing in front of those African chaps on the cutter."

"I'll say," Houghton replied.

The two men turned and began their stroll, which would lead down the dockside and then two street turnings into the city. Houghton had never been one to give the initiative, and so it was that Mr. Stanley-Belvoir was met by a volley of questions.

"You're an adventurer, are you?"

"I prefer to be called an explorer; but yes, we do a little adventuring, from time to time," Belvoir replied positively.

Houghton grunted. "I dare say that your skills will be needed then. You know what you're here for?"

"Well, I got the briefing all-right. Sounds like your typical colonial ruckus to me; this place may have resources, and who doesn't want resources?"

Houghton stopped. "Listen, this isn't a game we're playing here. Much of this land is unchartered and unmapped. Any local support we have will be half-hearted and undisciplined, and the locals themselves are hardly endeared towards Europeans. To match that, there could be Communists anywhere. If you wanted a colonial adventure without the possibility of being killed, then you shouldn't have come here, that's for sure."

Oscar's eyes widened. "Bolshies? Here? Really?" he rubbed his hands. "This could get interesting!"

"Have you ever seen a Communist, Sir Stanley?"

"Oh, once or twice. I work in Continentia, so they do pop up now and then, but I must say, they are rather violent fellows!"

"It's part of their ideology. Their creed, in fact. There's only one way you can respond with violence, Sir Stanley," Houghton observed.

"Of course!" Sir Oscar Stanley-Belvoir said, "Send in the cavalry!"

"Smashing," Houghton replied in a dead-pan, matter-of-fact fashion. "Do you suppose we've any cavalry in Chivikistan, Sir Stanley?"

Sir Stanley-Belvoir's attitude faltered a moment. The image of his devilishly handsome figure standing on the decks holding off hordes of fanged communists with a Webley and a cavalry sword while Royal Navy battleships made their way through the harbour disappeared in an instant and was replaced with a mere frown. The discussion turned to domestic Questarian matters while they paced their way through the crowded city, eventually coming to a gated, two story house with a Land Rover and a Range Rover decked out in all-terrain gear parked neatly behind the iron gates. The house itself was quite small, as most of the outside yard was stacked with boxes upon boxes of supplies, drums of fuel, and a generator.

Sir Stanley’s here, Houghton said out loud when they entered the front door. Belvoir followed Houghton into the kitchen, where two men were playing cards. Both wore military fatigues of the same nature as Houghton’s and one had a cigarette dangling from his mouth. "Bonjour," from a genuine French accent, and "Morning," from an even more genuine English accent, greeted Sir Stanley, but neither of the players looked up.

"This is Jacques Guischard and Thomas Cholmondley," Houghton introduced them, "Daniel Manners and Dick Lawley have gone with the other Land Rover to pick up supplies from the boat," Houghton added.

"Supplies?" quizzed Belvoir, "What sort of supplies?"

"Food, fuel, ammunition; the only thing we're reliant on the Chiviks for is water. The generator is on for six hours a day. Unfortunately, I hope you're not too fond of food; all we have are MREs."

"Ammunition?" Belvoir asked, his face brightening up a little. "What sort of guns do we have here?"

"An Enfield, three FALs, three shotguns, six sidearms and six parangs."

"And mon bebe!" Added the Frenchman.

"Forgive me for forgetting your blasted grenade launcher, Jacques," Houghton muttered. "It's a good job you arrived so soon. Later today I'm going to speak to a Chivik official and see if I can't find out where they suspect there are some resources. Then we'll take a drive over there for a spot of prospection, and if it is, we'll contact Command for more... er, resources."

"In the meantime, I'd better take down your numbers!" Belvoir said, whipping out the latest iPhone model from his pocket.

"Put that thing down," Houghton shook his head. "Do you think they've got reception towers here? We have encrypted personal radios and satellite phones for all that." Belvoir sadly put the phone back in his pocket. Just as he began to wonder what the bloody hell he had got himself into the rumble of a Land Rover made the crew of this sorrily small expedition turn their heads to the window. "Ah, Manners and Lawley are back," Houghton said, switching on the kettle. Moments later two figures appeared at the doorway, putting their hats and coats on the rack and motioning for Houghton to prepare a brew. Instead he decided it better to introduce the new character.

"This is-"

"Bloody hell! I know you, you old bastard!" Lawley blinked at Belvoir.

In response, Belvoir thinned his eyes ever so slightly. Without judging from the accent, he could tell this man was a colonial. If Sir Oscar Stanley-Belvoir Esq. or anyone he knew, ever said bastard, they bloody well pronounced it barstard or they didn't say it at all and that was the end of things, as far as he was concerned. Sir Stanley didn't like the way this was panning one little bit. Next thing he knew, Houghton would be bringing in coal miners, or worse, black people, to work with him on this expedition. Sir Stanley thinned his lips. "Do I know you?" he replied, curtly.

"No, but I know you," Lawley said, taking one of Jacques' cigarettes. "Do you have to buy these bloody local things? They taste like a dog's arse," he broke topic and cursed angrily at the Frenchman who shrugged and continued his card game. If there was anything Sir Stanley hated, the nouveau-riche notwithstanding, it was obscenity. "Anyway, yes, I know you, but you probably don't know me. You own that bloody big estate up in Hemingsway, don't you?"

"If you know it by that name, then yes, maybe I do." Sir Stanley didn't call Hemingsway, the capital of Questarian Karungaland, by its European name. He liked to call things by their proper; and by that, the first name given to them, names. He called it a petty trait of his. Probably it was just the desire to be awkward towards just the sorts of people that didn't call things by their real names. Yes, Sir Stanley excelled at being awkward. "Why? Is it if some importance?"

"No," Lawley said shortly. "It's just that I worked in Security, so we knew all the estates."

"I see," Sir Stanley said, watching as Lawley forgot their conversation and moved onto a more topical issue with Houghton, while Manners sat down and watched Cholmondley attempt to cheat.

"Houghton, we saw some CCM blokes at the docks. They're bringing more equipment in by the day, it seems. If we want to beat them to anything we'll have to move fast and quietly. I suspect they've informants and aircraft here already."

Houghton let some air out of his mouth in a mock sigh. "You're right. They're really getting tooled up here. Last I heard, they were training some of the natives, although I dare say they've not enjoyed that much success with that little endeavour. I'll contact-"

"CCM?" Sir Stanley made another inquisition.

"Coal Consortium of Midlonia, they-"

"Midlonians! The blighters, what are they doing here? Why, if they interfere with any of the Crown's business we'll give them a jolly good thrashing and send them back home just in time for tea, shan't we?" Sir Stanley rubbed his hands at the prospect of a combat he might actually stand a chance of winning.

"Er, no," Houghton snickered. "The CCM is here in force. Their company is interested in Chivikistan; interested indeed, especially as we are, in prospection. Their operations here dwarf ours, but I was hoping with such a small force, we could sneak under the radar, so to speak, and establish some sort of resource concession that they wouldn't touch for diplomatic reasons. In an open fight I don't suspect any of us would be returning home, in a body bag or otherwise."

Sir Stanley frowned. This was going to be so very boring.
Daytanistan
02-09-2008, 03:29
Marching with the II Corps Chivik People's Liberation Army
Shohan Prefecture

Hma Uqemot's II Corps was well equipped and passably drilled. Their primary weapon, the Khemal Nugat Balishta 1947 (KNB-47 for short), was an extremely durable and rugged assault rifle of Daytan manufacture. It was just perfect for dismissing evil spirits, and even better for slaughtering the Sacred Combine's backwards hosts. Daytan People's Army training manuals said that the KNB-47 was designed personally by the first General Secretary of the Daytan Communist Workers Party, Khemal Nugat, but in reality, the design was licensed and almost identical to one of the most ubiquitous assault rifles in the world. In defence of its alleged designer, Khemal Nugat did sign the license agreement and commission Daytan People's Factories 56 through 69, the factories in which almost all KNB-47s in the rifle's long production life had been, and still were, made according to the exact same process and procedure which had been licensed back in the early days of the Democratic Republic of Daytanistan. At this very moment, back in Outer Tszinqi, where the Communists were in undisputed control, Daytan advisors were overseeing the construction of Chivik factories to manufacture their own KNB-47s. These new factories would be built to the exact same specifications and follow the same production processes as Daytan People's Factories 56 through 69, the same specification and processes set down nearly 60 years ago in Daytanistan. Of course, when labour is cheap, efficiency is overrated and overpriced, relatively speaking.

The KNB-47 and instruction in its use alike had been introduced to II Corps by Colonel Banda Shapoola, formerly Head of the School of Infantry at the Daytan People's Military Academy, Socialist Province of Yshtafha. Colonel Shapoola now rode alongside Hma Uqemot on horseback as the two moved up and down a column of troops. Colonel Shapoola was the chief Daytan military attaché to II Corps Chivik People's Liberation Army, and was unofficially in charge of the corps' training. It was he who had taught the troops to shoot to kill, and the voices of his drill sergeants rang in the ears of that minority of Chivik revolutionaries in whom that instruction had taken hold. Shapoola himself was of the Daytar shoobdiman, a descendent of the Turkic peoples who had moved through Central Asia for thousands of years, and while that made him in the ethnic majority back home, here in Chivikistan he stood out rather obviously as a foreigner. But then, there were two kinds of foreigner, and a Central Asian Communist who brought the means and method of Chivik liberation was a very different kind of foreigner from the Western imperialist swine from the Austar Union, Midlonia, and even more repugnant countries. The Daytan People's Army uniform Shapoola wore was impressive by Daytan standards, but far less conceited and flashy than the sort worn by galavanting cavalier Iansislean captains. It spoke to the character of the man - proud but cautious, confident but not over-confident, optimistic but realistic. He knew that the army under Hma Ugemot's command was superior by far to any native Chivik army which might be thrown against it, but he equally knew that it was primitive, poorly equipped and poorly supported by international standards. It would have to rely on strength of numbers alone to overwhelm any of those Western imperialist types of foreigners the army might encounter.

"Comrade General, sir." Colonel Shapoola began, addressing Hma Ugemot. "I have received reports from Daytan intelligence sources in Longin. The Administrator has appealed to imperialist governments and capitalists to intervene and provide assistance to the Combine. Westerners are driven by money, and they all hate communism. No doubt none of this is new to you... In any event, Comrade General, the Chivik People's Liberation Army is ascendant now, unchallenged in its dominance. The Chivik People's Liberation Forum is the unchallenged government of Outer Tszinqi, and Inner Tszinqi is yours for the taking, Comrade General. But Chivikistan is vast... and if we follow a slow, winding road to Longin, I fear we will never get there. The longer we take, the harder it will be for other elements of the CPLA to emulate your success."

Shapoola knew he was telling Ugemot how to suck eggs. Nevertheless, a significant part of his role as military attaché to II Corps was making sure that early successes, which the general staff of the Daytan People's Army knew the Chivik People's Liberation Army would achieve against the archaic armies of the Combine, did not translate into vast over-confidence. If anything, the overwhelming victories II Corps especially had achieved made it clearer sooner than it might otherwise have been that the Sacred Combine was doomed unless it has some serious outside assistance to reform its military. This meant that landing a killing blow before the slumbering giant woke up was even more urgent. Pressing that urgency was important. To this end, Shapoola produced some photographs of Midlonian military hardware - nothing top secret, just things publicly available from Midlonian arms dealers in their catalogues. He handed them to Ugemot.

"The KNB-47 is an excellent rifle." Shapoola continued. "But nothing Daytanistan can produce can compete with aircraft like these, or this sort of armoured vehicle... Comrade General, with respect, it is the opinion of the Daytan People's Army that you must urge your superiors to attempt to cut off the serpent's head as soon as possible, and to seek arms dealers who will deal with the Chivik People's Liberation Forum. Now that it is the uncontested government of Outer Tszinqi, and soon all Tszinqi, that should be a lot easier now than it was when this great struggle began..."
Midlonia
02-09-2008, 14:53
Midlonia likes arms.

It also liked sales.

It didn’t always, however, enjoy communists.

Well, not unless they were willing to cut deals and concessions bigger than the Chivikistanis had done so far…

The Catalogue itself consisted of fairly standard pieces of equipment regularly sold to various states. Pieces that might have interested members of the II Corps were things like the Dove VTOL aircraft and the Nymph Helicopter in the air. (http://fc08.deviantart.com/fs24/f/2008/031/6/2/General_Midlonian_Aviation_by_Din626.png)

Aircraft able to take off from small patches in a number of places, both with the words “Versatile” in large lettering next to the very brief statistics next to them which didn’t give away all capabilities.

The 155mm light-howitzer, capable of being set up, with a well drilled crew, in seconds.

The Crusader Mk 9 Tank (http://fc04.deviantart.com/fs28/f/2008/160/4/f/Crusader_IX_by_Freethinker1984.png), classified as a “medium” tank came with a bewildering number of variations, including a particularly nasty “chain gun” 10mm barrelled version (http://fc05.deviantart.com/fs30/f/2008/167/0/b/Crusader_Lionheart_by_Din626.png) capable of tearing apart most cover in seconds, and with a top road speed of 59mph, and off-road of 40. Would be on top of most other armoured formations in the blink of an eye.

Finally, for the good old ground pounders, the ancient and venerable Mittelstand Self Loading Rifle (http://fc02.deviantart.com/fs26/f/2008/035/5/0/Mittelstand_SLR_by_Din626.png). Otherwise known as the “Right arm of the Greater Kingdom”. It was in use still the better part of a century after it’s introduction by the Midlonians.

Largely in the territorial army and in some part-time militias such as the Urban Defence Forces as well as in use by some of the many Midlonian Special forces units.

The Stuzi (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v160/Midlonia/Stuzi_final_image.jpg), a joking nickname for the Sten-Huzine Sub Machine Gun. It was small and compact and typically recommended for officers and for tank-crews as self-defensive weaponry.

And those were just some examples….
Austar Union
02-09-2008, 17:30
Activity in and around the Chivik regions had certainly gained the attention of members within the Unione of Capitalizt States government, and more worryingly, the world. With nations such as Daytanistan, Questers, Midlonia, Aerion, and Iansisle confirmed involved to some degree, the field was wild and varied with multiple circumstances having the possibility of arising. More troubling, was military activity on behalf of the bolshevik forces, assisted by Daytanistan elements. This would be a precursor to any change in government within Chivikistan, to which the UCSCentralGov kept its eye on with no uncertainty of un-enthusiasm.

The Secretaries of State and Defense were called into the Secretary-General's office, where Goodchild had already been keeping close watch of the developments.

" I presume that you both know why I've called this meeting, " Carmine began with an air of confidence. " It isn't often when I'm tempted to intervene in a situation which doesn't influence us directly. But the Cultural Embassy has built up a healthy relationship on our behalf, I believe that we owe it to at least the members of their government who have proven enthusiastic toward our citizens' efforts. "

Ezra stood with arms folded, " If you don't mind my clarifying Mr. Secretary-General, just what kind of intervention are we talking about? "

The Sec-Gen shot a glance at his Secretary of Defense before resuming his former stance, watching a wall of tens upon tens of different newsfeeds from all over the world, and then some from Military Intelligence.

" Not enough to begin briefing you in private, Secretary Qu'Salos, " He turned and began wandering to his desk more toward the middle of the room. " I'll have you reminded that the U.C.S. does not engage in a conflict where its interests are not directly, or indirectly threatened. No, I'm thinking more of extending an invitation to the legitimate government of Chivikistan to relocate itself somewhere under our jurisdiction should things get out of hand, which I'm expecting. "

He turned to his Secretary of State, a Mr. Marzio Scevola, " Think you're up to the task? "

" I'm up to anything you give me, " replied Marzio coolly. " Obviously, with respect the the backwards technological nature of the- "

" With respect to the nature and customs of the Chivik people, " Carmine interjected. " In any case, I'll need you to work out a means and a method of getting them out should they choose to take us up on our offer. And quickly. "

Marzio nodded with a smile, " Of course. "

" With all due respect Mr. Secretary-General, " the Secretary of Defense spoke up once again. " Shouldn't we be offering them some sort of aid package, peacekeepers to deter a more comprehensive intervention from Daytanistan? I hate to say it but I don't think there'll ever be a day where I'll be able to trust baby-murdering, daughter and son killing Communists. "

He grit his teeth.

" I'll have you know Mr. Qu'Salos, that I've met a few lefties in my time and although their politics is not exactly my cup of tea, not all of them are as bad as you think, " Goodchild was an experienced, confident man. " There are thugs and criminals in all sorts of businesses, not just in the such and such Liberation Army. That being said, I will extend such an offer--war's good for nobody. "

*~*~*

Over at the Cultural Mission of the Unione of Capitalizt States in Longin, a letter was received via a portable connection staff kept open at all times. Printing it, they rolled it up and put it into a small tube, then tied it to the foot of a small homing pigeon. Instructed to head directly for the residence of the Administrator of the Sacred Combine.

Dear Administrator!

I write to you of a very important matter. I must profess that my colleagues and I have taken a great interest in your struggle to maintain supremacy over the Chivik territories and provinces in a prolonged battle against the Communists. Make no mistake at all, they represent a grave threat to the people and freedoms of the Sacred Combine that you now enjoy.

Unfortunately, I am saddened to learn that the soldiers fighting beneath your command are beginning to falter--outside assistance from foreign and unfriendly forces have proven a much needed (and much appreciated) boost on behalf of the Bolsheviks, a term which I am certain you would have heard during your successful and benevolent rule as Administrator.

I fear that without some sort of successful intervention on your behalf, Longin will fall and prove a death knell for your government and its ministers, and their ministers et cetera. Whilst I am certain that you are probably thinking my government has remained largely uninvolved in matters concerning the Chivik people thus far, you may be more familiar with our citizen-run Cultural Missions... I have been told that a great number of them operate throughout Chivikistan including Longin, from which this message has been delivered. Naturally, we feel a sorts of recourse to you and your government for your assistance in their development, but even more importantly we believe in the cause in which you defend yourselves.

Thus, I am inclined to offer you one of two possible solutions:

1) That the Unione of Capitalizt States Military be allowed to deploy and fulfil the role of peacekeeper in Combine controlled territories, administering humanitarian assistance to the people and residents and such and to dissuade any formal intervention from a list of known hostile powers.
2) That the government of the Sacred Combine, finding itself in a position unable to effectively guarantee its defence and protection from the Communist aggressors, formally relocates itself somewhere within the protection and jurisdiction of the Unione of Capitalizt States, where it may effectively behave as a government-in-exile should the Communists declare victory in both Longin, and broader Chivikistan.

Please consider both of these options carefully as I fear that any procrastination on these matters may dampen the effectiveness of either. Time is of the essence, and as they say, it shalt not wait for any friend nor fiend.

Yours Truly,

Marzio Scevola
Secretary of the Department of State
The Unione of Capitalizt States of Austar Union
Midlonia
05-09-2008, 14:02
Chatt concession

Pitt rolled his head around, loosening his shoulders and neck somewhat as he glanced back at the motley collection he had assembled for the first part of the expedition.

In all around two dozen locals had been hired, cajoled, bought, employed and generally gathered to work as porters and a couple as cooks to get into the Chivikistani interior. They were all loading themselves up onto the rattling and noisy pair of lorries that were part of the Crunn and Bannister’s fleet of trucks brought ashore to bring in boxes of produce and tea leaves from the surrounding area of the Chatt concession. With Pitt were two coal and gas experts, an expert in soil fertilization and an expert in flora and fauna. They were to ride with him up front as part of the main expedition force of “experts” in the small open-topped jeep in front.

In the second truck were a half-dozen or so CCM, made up of 3 Midlonians and 3 of the best Chivikistani candidates so far trained, and then the various odds and sods that made up the porters, carrying a bewildering amount of bedding, tents, foodstuffs a portable gas stove and supply and, to the most careful, the important electronic equipment that detected coal, gas and analysed the soil.

“Mr Huntley.” Pitt said as he looked to one of the men, a middle-aged bald fat man who, with his squat, broad frame looked every inch the miner. “Shall we get to it then?”

“Aye, sir. Though we’ll be on foot after just a few miles, the roads and pathways run out.” Huntley replied with a smile. “Then good old slogging fer about two-three weeks before we reach that deposit by my reckonin.”

“Urgh.” Pitt said as his face fell. “I wish we’d had that helicopter.” He muttered as one clattered overhead. A flying machine causing some wonder from the locals who looked up and pointed.

“Yeah, well, that’s being used to keep an eye on any communists nearby, you knows that Mr Pitt.” Huntley said as he revved the jeep and waved his arm out the side to the two trucks behind them.

With a lurch the small convoy began to move through the bustling streets of Chatt very slowly, heading out towards the edge of the city. This was hampered as it was apparently market day, and all the hustle, bustle and hubbub of Chivikistanis going about their business, grabbing food and supplies.


Midlonian Far Eastern Flotilla, GRN Lazarus, Tigermoth Class Escort Carrier.

“So they want us in, huh?” Captain Morrison said as he scratched his chin where his stubble was beginning to worsen. He was flicking through a dossier on his desk and glanced out his window at the coastline some way away. Chivikistan. The Flotilla was largely made up of older vessels and heftily refit ships. Including the Tigermoth, which had originally started out as a helicopter landing ship had since been converted into a small carrier to lead the Far Eastern Flotilla. This included it’s small compliment of Territorial Army men and a small company of Royal Marines.

“Not in force. Not until we offer it properly. They want us to send a delegate to assist the military there.” Morrisons aide said as he set a tea cup down and began to pour the steaming liquid into it with a slight splash. “Largely because they seem to be doing very badly against the Communists, sponsored by the Daytanistanis.” He shrugged. “Seems simple enough, just send me in and I’ll talk to them.”

“Austarians seem to be offering it already.” Morrison offered lazily.

“True, but they don’t have as many vested interests as we do at present. There’s more we can do, and already are doing than they will bother with. Failing that we’ll steam in ourselves and crush the lot. It’s down in the folder, sir. Ensure the communists don’t take charge even if it means removing or knocking the present government about a bit.”

“Better get going then, hadn’t you?” Morrison said. “There’s a Nymph Helicopter waiting for you on the landing deck.”

“Captain.” Aide Christopher Brown saluted smartly and left, his brown eyes sparkling and his slightly beaky nose dashing out of the cabin very quickly.

Longin, Midlonian Embassy

The Nymph Helicopter landed on the roof of the Embassy, it was barely staffed with a single diplomat, a typist and a military detail of two men, who did little but keep the grounds in check around them. Most of the locals simply avoided the place, because there was very little of interest until the flying machine turned up.

Stepping from the helicopter he clasped hands with the diplomat and headed downstairs, reeling off facts, figures and various offers the Midlonians were to be making to the government. This was limited to a few options, direct assistance from the Midlonian Military machine sitting off the coast, arms and training which could be delivered by air within days, or similarly to the Austarians, assistance in evacuation to “friendly territory” of the Royal Family, the government and anybody important enough to warrant it.

Leaping into the Hydrogen powered Astin-Super Seven they began to make their way from the embassy towards the Palace, drawing to an arrival shortly afterwards and informing the hailer who they were, and their business so they could announce them properly.
The Resurgent Dream
06-09-2008, 02:55
James Story jerked upright as though startled. He had almost fallen asleep at his desk again. Perhaps he had for an instant. It had been almost a week since the 26 year old volunteer had actually gotten a real night’s rest and it was starting to take its toll. Working for the United Education and Development Aid Program, an NGO with some government support, was not supposed to have been like this. He had volunteered to teach children and to distribute aid, not to face mortal danger. Running a hand through his dirty blond hair, he stood up from his desk and made his way towards the door just in time to see two men come in, one a tall, thin redhead and the other a larger black man with a shaven head. Arthur Marbury and Kendon Sealey were two of the larger men at the office as well as two of the more experienced. That didn’t mean they could actually do anything at the moment but the other personnel, James included, felt better having them check on the situation every so often.

“No sign of immediate danger,” Marbury said, sliding off his coat and putting it on the hanger by the door. “The fighting is still a long way from here. Popular sentiment seems mixed. Some of them fear the violence and extremism of the communists while others seem to think that nothing could be worse than the current tyranny of the foreign companies.”

“I can’t say I don’t understand,” Sealey added, flinging off his own heavy black coat. “There’s really no excuse for what these people have been put through. Still, we are foreigners. It may be that we’ll have to seek the protection of the Iansisleans before all is said and done.”

Story blinked again and surveyed the room. Three women stood near the back, looking more resolute than Story felt. One of them was a rather plump blond woman in a purple dress and wearing a hat decked out with bright peacock feathers. The other two included a plump Asian woman with glasses and a rail-thin white woman with her silver hair in a bun and a rather severe expression. Along with Marbury and Sealey, they were the only people in the room over thirty years of age. For the rest, there were two more young men of Story’s age and ten young women. They were not the most intimidating looking group.

“I don’t know if we can just abandon the people we came here to help,” Ashley Maffey said tentatively. She was another volunteer, one year younger than James. An athlete, she was fairly muscular, especially for a woman, but hardly the sort who could fight an angry mob.

Sealey frowned as he walked over to one of the old wooden chairs near the wall. He slumped down and placed his head in his hands. “We’re some distance outside of Qiantok and the communists are likely to pass through this area. We’re going to need to head for the city.”

Five hours later, a large van packed to the brim with eighteen people and their most important belongings was on its way towards Chiantok. Marbury was driving and Sealey stood near the back, constantly glancing out the window. This was not going to be pleasant.