NationStates Jolt Archive

*New Geneva, Greater Prussia*

“Even when I am gone, I shall remain in people's minds the star of their rights, my name will be the war cry of their efforts, the motto of their hopes.”

-Napoleon the Great

“Such a pity the star burned out…”

“Burned out?”

“Yes. As they all will and do.”

“Perhaps a passing cloud just obscured it from view?”

“No cloud can be that opaque.”

“So it’s dead…forever.”

“I’m afraid so my boy.”

A light breeze tussled their hair, and brushed past their cheeks drying the small beads of sweat that had condensed on their foreheads.

“Look up.”

The flag rose into the air, bourne skyward by the wind. It hung aloft there, snapping and poping in the breeze, a few golden threads glittering in the sun.

“Edward?”

“Yes, Richard?”

“Do you know the national anthem?”

“The tune…somewhat…but not the words. ‘Veillons sur l’Empire…’ or something like that.”

“I don’t think that’s even grammatically correct.”

“Perhaps not.”

Richard felt a taping on his shoulder.

“Mr. Secretary, Senator von Leibnitz requests your presence” a panting Senate page gasped. “It’s urgent.”
“Calm down my boy. Nothing is urgent. If we’re at war, they can handle that in Derscon. If a bill won’t pass… it won’t do anything if it does. If he wants more money, he can visit the Reichsbank…or ask the Dersconis.”

“Richard!”

“Edward…pardon…Senator Graff…if you take umbrage, please inform me of what it is you do?”

“Point.”

“You don’t understand Secretary DuChamp…” the page said more calmly, having regained his composure, “your presence is requested at the Palace.”

Richard looked down once more at the base of the statue, an equestrian sculpture of Napoleon IV, the last Reichskamphian Emperor of Greater Prussia, or at best the last one of any consequence. For some reason the inscription at the base seemed to jump right off of the pedestal “my name will be the war cry of their efforts, the motto of their hopes…”

“I’ll be along presently.”
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“Not at all how I remembered it.”

“Nor I, Edward.”

Once New Geneva had been the capitol of one of the most powerful and opulent Empires on the face of the earth. Formed out of Marble and Steel, it had been hewn out of the earth in the heart of the wilderness by the sheer will of Napoleon IV. His desires were policy…his word was law. Fancying himself a bit of a Constantine, Emperor Napoleon abandoned the ancient capitol of Reichsburg and founded his own new city, uprooting two million people and creating a bustling metropolis out of thin air.

After 45 years of Dersconi rule his name was still hallowed in all of the Empire. Even the all-powerful Czar of Derscon held a grudging respect for the memory of the man.

His palace, dubbed New Versailles after his death by the newly hostile Imperial media, had fallen into great disrepair after the death of his heir and the transfer of the throne to the Czar of Derscon.

While New Geneva remained the titular capitol of the Empire until only recently, the Czar seldom set foot there, preferring to remain holed up behind the walls of his own fortress city.

“My God it’s a wreck.” Richard exclaimed, gazing on the rubble of what was once a triumphal arch, the entry to the palatial grounds. The rusty iron gates lay on the ground where they fell years ago when the bolts fastening them to the graying concrete had rusted away. Secretary DuChamp and Senator Graff felt a slight bump as their Rolls Royce phantom, a luxury their own wealth had afforded them, rather than the paltry salaries paid them by the Dersconi Empire, rolled over the the fallen gates.

What were once the vast Imperial Gardens, were now merely elaborate beds of weeds covered over with Kudzu and teeming with snakes. The scenery blurred into a humbled nothingness as the driver increased his speed.

The Palace itself didn’t fair much better. The entire West wing had been destroyed during the civil war 50 years ago that brought the Czar to power. The rubble still littered the grounds and the wing was never rebuilt.

As the car pulled up to the grand entrance, past the dried up fountain, the true extent of the damage could be seen, the elaborate façade of the once ornate structure was pockmarked with bullet holes; some in a neat row where some Dersconi soldier had sprayed his machine gun for pure spite.

This day though, there was a bustle of activity. Men in emmaculate military uniforms were carrying in luggage from a number of cars that were parked in the circle. Workers had even begun erecting scaffolding on one side of the building.

Richard DuChamp stepped out of the Phantom as soon as it had come to a stop. Edward followed when his footman had opened his door. A man dressed in a military uniform that looked to be from the early 1800’s greeted Richard as he rushed up the stairs.

“What is the meaning of this!?” Richard shouted. “You have trespassed on Imperial property, and what the hell is this ridiculous getup? The Czar will have your job, if not your head.”

“Not to worry, Richard.” The man in the uniform proclaimed rather self-assuredly, “You are now the Secretary of Defense of Reichskamphen.”

“And so I was the day before, and so I was two minutes ago. That is why I am warning you that you need to get the hell out of here…and fast.”

“The Imperial Gendarmes don’t work for us anymore, and they won’t be far behind you.” Senator Graff added non-chalantly as he leisurely approached the two men.

“The Gendarmes left their Headquarters here last night,” the uniformed gentleman informed them “ and in somewhat of a hurry. They burned all of their papers and nearly burned the whole place down in the process. As of 8 a.m. this morning, ownership of New Geneva has been signed over to the provisional government of Reichskamphen.”

“Provisional…?” enquired Richard.

“Provisional, as we have been granted home-rule and the right to form a government. The Media will be notified within the hour. I have been appointed the President of the Provisional Government and have been charged with finding the legitimate heir to throne…and this” he motioned to the sprawling palace ground around him “will be the heart and soul of the new Reichskamphen. God Save the King!”
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Meanwhile, 50 miles south of New Geneva, the new President's orders were being followed to the letter as the vast Reichskamphian military, funded with Dersconi Reichsmarks and supplied with Dersconi weapons, was mobilizing. Patrols of troops canvased city squares throughout the land, posting notices in every public place:

"Levee en Masse! All men between the ages of 18 and 35 who are not presently enlisted in the armed forces are ordered by President Nathaniel von Leibnitz of the Provisional government of the Kingdom of Reichskamphen to report to their nearest military base to register for military service.

God Save the King!"

Edward poured another Scotch.

"Richard?" he motioned to bottle.

"No, thanks."

"Who do you think it will be?"

Richard stared forward a moment, letting the question thoroughly sink in. He closed his book, Julius Caesars Memoirs on the Gallic War, and carefully marked his place with a scarlet ribbon.

"No one I hope."

"That's no option."

"Quite true...but the collapse of the Monarchy has brought us nothing but good." He opined, admiring his meerschaum pipe, an image of an imperial eagle on the bowl, sitting politely in its wooden holder. "It's only been ten years since we legalized abortion, and five years since we were allowed to marry." He looked across at Edward.

"That has more to do with the collapse of the Church than the Crown."

"Who do you think it was that paid for the Church all these years and KEPT it from collapsing?"

"Point."

Richard laughed out loud to himself picturing Senator von Leibnitz in that ridiculous uniform. Maybe fifty years ago that would have made sense...but today Reichskamphen was a vastly different nation from the ground up than it was on the last day of the Napoleonic Monarchy over 50 years ago. The nobles, now without titles and royal privileges, used their vast inherited wealth to hole themselves up in their country estates, surrounded by courts of pretenders and fawning admirers. They still dressed as if they were nobles, and took great offense if you did not dignify them with the use of their titles in public and private.

The people on the street though, were vastly more urbane than Reichskamphians a generation ago. The real nobility of the nation was the new business class whose ceremonial dress were Dolce and Gabbana suits, their palaces; highrise penthouses in the heart of the city. It was only a matter of time until the old Nobility died away entirely, and their vast monetary resources dried up.

Once the tallest building in the Empire, the spire of the Imperial Cathedral was in actuality a soaring skyscraper that housed the heart of the Greater Prussian religious institutions whose tendrils stretched into every conservative ecclesiastical movement around the world. Today all but one of its offices lay vacant, the doors to the vast cathedral barred shut when the flood of congregants dried up.

Few went to church anymore. "Why visit the tomb of a dead God?" seemed to be the unspoken sentiment. Of course there were still a number of holdouts who continued to faithfully preach the gospel but they were the exception rather than the rule.

The newly free Reichskamphian media broadcast the same smut, the same violence and filth that every other nation sent over its airwaves intermingled with a few things of value. On the whole, the things that made Reichskamphen unique as a nation had slowly melted away under the yoke of Secular Dersconi-supported military government. Not that the Dersconis cared whether they were religious or not, it just so happened that the most reliably loyal Czarist faction happened to be equally reliably athiest.

"The Bonapartes are all dead." Richard mused. "So are the Leipzigs...and their predecessors. The only royal line left are the Bourbons...we may be making a visit to Pantocratoria, Edward."

OOC: interesting read

*Reichsburg, Reichskamphen*

“Presenting Senator Edward Graff.”

The white-wigged footman struck his staff on the ground three times, and two uniformed soldiers opened the large oak French doors into the study.

“The Duke is right this way, Senator Graff.”

Edward walked purposefully through the doorway, the heels of his black Ferragamos clicking against what must have been a 300 year old parquet floor. In truth, it didn’t look like anything in the room had been changed at all within the last few centuries.

There, at the far end of the room, he saw the Duke perched in his Corinthian leather chair. He was dressed much the same way as the footmen and the door guards, if a bit more opulent. Edward couldn’t help but think to himself that this looked like something that would be elaborately staged by reinactors in some tourist trap in any other country in the world. Here, this was called Tuesday.

“Your eminence…It’s been a while.” Edward bowed slightly…not too deeply.

“Edward my boy…if your father could see you now he’d blow a gasket. What a ridiculous suit.”

Edward looked down at his trim black suit, paired with a skinny black tie.

“It’s John Varvatos…”

“I don’t care who it is, a noble of your status is required to dress a notch above. If you’d like you can have some of my suits.”

“My family was stripped of their titles when the monarchy collapsed, the same as yours.”

“Perhaps…but all of that is about to change.”

Edward looked at the towering two story tall bookcases that lined the walls of the Duke’s library. In between the cases, rows of portraits of the Duke’s ancestors stared back aloofly at the two men. They had to be his relatives, they all had the same beak like nose and hawkish eyes.

“That’s what I’m here to speak with you about, Duke Bernadotte.”

“Take a seat then my boy.”

Edward settled down somewhat uncomfortably into a gilded Louis XIV style chair across from the Duke.
“The President and Secretary DuChamp are taking a trip to Pantocratoria this week to meet with the Emperor.”

“Fat Bourbon pig.”

“Quite. But more importantly, I believe they intend to offer him, or his direct heir the crown of Reichskamphen?”

The Duke stood up quickly from his chair…quickly for a seventy year old at any rate. “We’ve got to do something.”

“I know.” Edward said calmly. “Please sit back down.”

“I can’t.” The duke walked over to a mahogany cabinet. Cajoling a large brass key from his pocket, with a shaking hand he placed it in the lock, opened the door and brought forth a cut crystal bottle with a dark amber liquid inside. “Edward?”

“Yes, please, with three cubes of ice.”

“Here you go.”

“At any rate, that’s why I came to you. We have no nobility left with the pedigree to claim the throne, that is why they are seeking out the Bourbons.”

“Does Richard know that you’re here?”

“No.”

“For the best I think.”

“You are the only hope of restoring a Bonapartist monarchy. You are second in line to the throne of Sweden and the Royal family of Sweden, the House of Bernadotte, is the only extant monarchy that was established by Napoleon the Great.”

“But I’m only SECOND in line.”

“The argument can be made that due to the current King’s diluted bloodline, it is truly your branch of the family that represents aristocratic continuity.”

Edward drained his glass. He felt a slight haze settle in on him.

“What do we do next?”

“We catch the next train to New Geneva.”
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*New Geneva, Greater Prussia*

“But that place has been boarded shut for twenty years!”
“Richard…it’s done…end of discussion.”

“Gerhardt…I mean President Leibnitz…” he said using finger quotes, “do you have any idea how big of a check you are writing…and that we are all going to have to cash it?”

“That place is a symbol of Reichskamphen, a symbol of Greater Prussia, and a symbol of our Emperor Napoleon…now that I’m President I won’t allow the Imperial Cathedral to remain closed a moment longer.”

“Since when did you turn into a Free Presbyterian nutjob…I know those two hookers you were with last night will make the case pretty strongly that you aren’t.”

“Shut the hell up Richard, and pack your damn case.”

Richard fetched three suits from his cedar-lined closet and placed them gingerly in a garment bag. Folding the arms over the front of the coat, he zipped the bag, folded it in two and fastened it.

“Sorry Gerry…you know I don’t mean anything by it, but I think you’re making one hell of a mistake. Twenty years ago when you were a junior congressman and I was a first term Senator, we both voted for the bill that cut funding to the Jesus-freaks and, hell, we both took publicity photos outside of that monstrosity of a Church when they nailed it shut.” Richard picked up a pair of black laceups and brown tassel loafers and placed them on top of his garment bag.

“Look…reality has changed…the winds have shifted and as politicians it’s our job to rig the sails and go with the prevailing wind. When they were burning bibles in the Ian Paisley memorial square and tearing down that B*stard’s statue with two pickup trucks and chains…we did the right thing to tow the line. It just happened that we agreed with them too. All the better.”

Richard fastened his suitcase and picked it up off the bed. “Let’s go.”

They walked out of the bedroom and down the spiral staircase to the grand entrance. “Marcus!” Richard shouted.

“Yes sir!?” a muffled shout came from somewhere in the cavernous mansion.

“Bring the Rolls out front.”

“Yes sir!” The shout came again.

“Dick, we aren’t going to outlaw abortion, we aren’t going to throw you and Ed in jail. We’re just opening a Church.” He paused a moment. “Where is Ed anyways?”

“Visiting an aunt I think” Richard replied without much thought. “That’s not my concern,” he started in with more passion, “you’re using tax payer money to help these people spread lies about the Easter bunny, or whoever they’re praying to these days. We should tell our kids from the time that they’re old enough to speak that there is no God just like we tell them that there is no Santa Clause.”

They heard a horn honk from outside and gathered their things. Richard closed the door behind them, and locked it. The lock made a solid thud as the key turned. Richard loved that sound. Nothing like a good lock.

Marcus came up the steps, took the bags, and loaded them into the trunk.

“Besides Gerry, are you still going to rig the sails when the ship is sailing us all to hell.”

“Ironic turn of phrase, Dick.”

“So it is.”

OOC: What's the point of putting an AiM nick in your profile if you never use it?

To say that the Dersconi were not paying attention would be an understatement. Since the disappearance of Tsar Xavier a year ago, and the utterly failed elections, where the people refused to sanction any government at all, Derscon has existed in a de facto state of anarchy. Rekjyavich-Andropov Military City had been completely shut down since the barrier rituals were put in place, sealing the entire complex with some sort of supernatural force. Since then, the rest of the city had been deserted, kept in stable condition only because of a dedicated cult to Rachek. Most of the noble families had willingly given up their estates and titles, while the more arrogant were forcibly driven out of their positions of power, to be replaced with...nothing.

Veliky Kynaz Tarakh Andropov now lived at the summer palace, kept by the numerous fortunes of the Andropov family, while Kynaz Sanin, having just finished his M.D. in neuroendocrinology, now travelled the world for no reason in particular.

Really, the military government had granted the Reichskampheneren permission to govern themselves simply because they were bored, and didn't care anymore. Most all of them returned to Derscon, where Tarakh granted the commander's wish to disband the unit. In fact, the entire military was effectively disbanded, with marshals and generals teaming up with private businessmen to create market defence organizations.

Subscriptions to mises.dpe were increasing exponentially, as Austrian economics caught on in the entire population, and the anarcho-capitalist theories of Rothbard and Block permeated the culture.

So to say that Derscon didn't care is somewhat misleading; Derscon did not have a government to care. So when the Reichskampheneren decided to start messing around with New Geneva, no one gave it a second thought. It was their land to begin with, they could do what they wanted with it.

OOC: No idea things had gone THAT route. Post coming up.

*Imperial Cathedral: New Geneva, Reichskamphen*

“Vice President Stevens…so great to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise Reverend Graves. I think you will find things mostly as you left them.”

The two men looked on in awe at the towering Imperial Cathedral. It had been shuttered nearly twenty years ago when the rising anarchy in Derscon spilled over into its protectorate state of Reichskamphen. It wasn’t greatly missed. The congregation every Sunday had dwindled to nearly nothing amid rising anti-religious fervor.

The Presbyterian Church in Nation States once operated its sprawling religious Empire with billions of weekly congregants from the offices in the towering skyscraper that served as the Church’s spire. It had since been forced to relocate its headquarters to a similar but much smaller facility in Liberty-City Allanea that was built as a mission to the notoriously irreligious country. Little did Reverend Graves’ father know when he broke ground on the property fifty years ago that there would be more PCNS congregants there than in its home country.

“The government is fully prepared to finance the restoration of the sanctuary.” Vice President Franklin Stevens informed the rather young and dapper man of the cloth.

“Many thanks…but after twenty years, we are finally going to be back on the air. And the word will once more be preached in the land…that is most important to me.”

Reverend Peter Graves Jr. was the spitting image of his father the former Moderator of the Church during its glory days. When uncertainty and anarchy gripped the land, it was his father, Dr. Graves and the Church that took the reigns of power and kept all hell from breaking loose.

Rev. Graves assistant tapped him on the shoulder and whispered secretively into his ear.
“Apologies Mr. Vice President, but we are going to have to cut this meeting a bit short. I have been called away rather urgently.”

==================================================

*The approaches to New Geneva*

The teacup rattled in its saucer on the table. The steaming brown liquid inside rippled slowly outwards as the small silver spoon that was balancing on the rim of the saucer slid onto the table with a clink.

The Duke looked out of his window to admire the passing scenery, and then turned again to admire the luxuriously appointed car in which he was being carried.

“When you said catch the next train, I didn’t realize you had one of your own.” The Duke chuckled to himself as he placed three lumps of brown sugar in his cup. He watched them turn dark and soften at the edges. The little granules fell apart slowly into what looked like tiny piles of sand.

“It was my Grandfather’s. You knew we owned the train companies. My Grandfather was made a noble, not born one.”

His surroundings more resembled his own study than a train.

“I only use it for special occasions, but it’s worth keeping it around and keeping the tracks repaired.”

“That must cost a fortune, since no one uses these things anymore.”

“I find the money somewhere Duke Bernadotte.”

“Please, call me Alex.”

“Well then…Alex…” it felt almost uncomfortable to say. “You must admit its times like these that having your own trains and your own tracks come in pretty handy.”

Then, with a great squealing commotion, the train came to a measured stop. The Duke looked around nervously. “What happened, my boy?”

“We have a stop that we need to make first, there’s a few people that I think you should meet.”

The two men stood up and duely proceeded to the exit. The door soon opened to reveal a uniformed footman and a waiting black Rolls Royce Limousine that looked to be from the early 1940’s.

The Duke peeked his head out of the train’s doorway. As he surveyed his surroundings he couldn’t help but feel panicked. Not only did a Rolls Royce sit idling in front of him, but far more importantly a gigantic superheavy Imperator tank stood watch off in the distance, surrounded by what must have been thirty uniformed soldiers of the Imperial Guard.

“Edward???”

“Relax, Alex. They’re with me.”

The two men made their way off the small wooden train platform, and ambled towards the idling limo. As the Duke passed one of the uniformed sentries that had stood just out of his view from the train, he noticed something very strange indeed.

Every Imperial Guardsman wore a golden patch on his left arm near the shoulder with the Emperor’s crest and his name. Nearly to a man, every patch read either “By the Grace of God, Napoleon IV, Emperor of Greater Prussia” or the name of Napoleon IV’s Cousin, Emperor Joseph-Napoleon. This was strange as there had been two Dersconi Emperors after the Bonapartes were killed, and the few Imperial Guard that still took the field in the Empire bore the name of the last Dersconi Emperor who had recently gone missing.

“Name and Rank soldier.” The Duke commanded from one of the sentries. “Private First Class Friederich von Stalhoffer of Your Majesty’s Imperial Guard.”

“Where did you get this uniform boy?”

“It was my father’s.”

Edward leaned in and whispered to Alex, “Your Majesty, I think there is someone you should meet.”

Duke Bernadotte looked up and noticed that the door to the back seat of the car had opened. A man that looked to be of perhaps ninety years of age was helped out of the car by two strapping Guardsmen. His uniform hung off of him like the clothes on a scare crow, and his two wisps of bone-white hair were neatly tucked under his visor cap. Immediately, Alex noticed the insignia on his hat of two crossed batons.

“It can’t be.”

One of the soldiers reached in the car and handed him a gleaming baton; perched atop it was the Napoleonic Eagle.

“Marechal Brune?”

“It’s been a while Alex.”

“I thought you were dead!”

“Thank God that, for my sake, so did the Czar.”

King Richard I of Jeruselem aka Richard de Levante was reading the paper when his wife Queen Katherine Alexandra Dallas or just "Queen Kate" wandered in her bathrobe, still recovering from a hang over. His father Henry was the son of the famous Queen Mariah, and he took the name of her husband Richard. His wife resembled Queen Mariah in many ways except his wife was grand-daughter of immigrant whore. Jeruselem had become quite liberal and some of the things that were allowed now would have been unthinkable in the past. The liberalisation had started with Queen Mariah.

Kate asked "Where's this Reichskamphen?". He replied without looking up
"Oh, it used to be grand capital of Greater Prussia. These days Reichskamphen is just another country in anarchy and well, Derscon itself is just the same. We used to run the Treasury of Greater Prussia but when Reichskamphen and Derscon collapsed, there wasn't much left. We ended up taking what was left of the treasury for ourselves since there was no use throwing money at broken places."

Kate replied "We should go visit Reichskamphen one day. Just for a looking around"

The King shook his head
"The place isn't exactly a country anymore. You'd need to spend lots of money just to get there safely. I wouldn't bother. They used to hold parties - grand ones but I doubt that happens anymore. Even the grand palaces look like wrecks these days."

Kate wasn't going to be deterred as she loved parties
"Well, I'll inquire anyway. I'll see if I can get there myself for a diplomatic visit to reestablish ties. If I can get hold of someone who can organise something"

She ran off to her room to contact the Foreign Ministry to get hold of anyone who could help get in contact with anyone important in Reichskamphen.

OOC: Oh, yeah...forgot about that. ;) And hooray Brune!

And Jeru, I assumed that the treasury was still in operation -- there are still GP facilities around that are operational.

OOC: Oh, yeah...forgot about that. ;) And hooray Brune!

And Jeru, I assumed that the treasury was still in operation -- there are still GP facilities around that are operational.

OOC Treasury is still there, but it's just a bit smaller after the disasters and been turned into a GP bank to keep it running called Bank of Greater Prussia to allow private citizens of GP to invest in the future of GP.

OOC: Righto.

The Imperial Court of Christ Pantocrator
New Rome

"...in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen." concluded the priest standing over the silver tray of crystal goblets and the crystal decanter filled with wine held before him by an adolescent gentleman dressed in Imperial livery.

The teenager nodded politely to the priest, before turning to the head table. He was halted on his progress by a Varangian in dress uniform and another liveried palace official, this one a middle aged professional drink taster as opposed to a child whose noble father had purchased him the office of pankernes. There was a ringing of seven small bells from behind the head table.

"Halt!" the Varangian commanded.

The taster took the decanter of wine from the tray, and one of the goblets at random. He half-filled the goblet, and placed the decanter back on the tray. There was a second ringing of bells, and the taster first smelt the goblet suspiciously, and then gulped down the wine, being sure to swallow. The Varangian standing next to him came to attention, and produced a pocket watch which he watched for thirty seconds. He then replaced the pocket watch, and the taster nodded to him.

"Proceed!" the Varangian instructed the boy, and he and the taster stood aside.

Chamber music emanating from the orchestra across the hall from the head table began to play a gentle triumph for the progress of the pankernes, who made his way to the head table. There, the goblets were distributed to the four other pankernes who waited upon the table, and were filled with wine from the decanter, before being humbly set upon the table before the Emperor, Monsieur and Madame, and Princess Zoë, the four members of the Imperial Family seated at the head table.

The court applauded the conclusion of the wine pouring ritual politely, and out of sight the master of ceremonies checked his watch. The ritual had taken exactly eight minutes, the precise period of time prescribed by the code which had been in place at the Imperial Court of Christ Pantocrator for over two hundred years. In the whole of the present reign, the ritual had been over or under time by more than five seconds only a handful of times. On each of those occasions the master of ceremonies at the time had offered his resignation as a result, and on each of those occasions, the Emperor, through Monsieur le Secrétaire du Palais, had accepted. Protocol was important.

At the head table, Monsieur, Madame, and the Emperor's youngest child, all waited for the Emperor to pick up his glass and take a sip before doing so themselves. At length, the Emperor did so, and after taking a little wine, he resumed the conversation about diplomatic matters. It was a relief that Monsieur was no longer the Leader of the Opposition, which had made such conversations difficult in recent years, as the Emperor did not wish to appear to be taking advice from the Leader of the Opposition over that of the Imperial Chancellor. Now that Monsieur had resigned from Parliament, the conversation could be unimpeded by the need to maintain an appearance of propriety.

"In a vacuum as exists in New Geneva, suggestions which would otherwise be laughable are all at once and of a sudden possible." the Emperor observed.

"I've heard from some of my former colleagues that overtures have been made... about a possible visit to Pantocratoria, from certain envoys of Reichskamphen's provisional government." Monsieur ventured.

"Monsieur Raoul has never managed to seal up the leaks in his department, I see." the Emperor observed, confirming his brother's suspicions indirectly.

"What could they possibly aim to achieve from such a visit?" Monsieur wondered, aloud.

"I shouldn't like to speculate." the Emperor said, sipping more wine. "I dare say that even if they keep that to themselves, I should like to receive them. Their last delegation was poorly treated."

"You're referring to Doctor Graves?" Monsieur stated more than asked. "I rather thought that the Attorney was altogether too rigid in his application of procedure there. Still, I couldn't fault it politically. Protestant demagogues have never been popular, and even if the Government suspected that the Iesian charges were bogus, I'm sure it didn't mind public attention being deflected from the economy for a while."

"Bogus?" Princess Zoë piped up. The seventeen year old girl was usually bored stiff by political conversation, but something seemed to have her bothered by this particular topic. "He was accused of raping one of His Majesty's Maidens! One of the poor girls was attacked by him when he was visiting Chantouillet, and at Christmas time no less!"

"Nonsense!" Monsieur replied, openly laughing at his niece's suggestion. "That was just hysteria from a populist radio shock jock, my dear."

"Really? How can you be so sure, Monsieur?" Zoë demanded to know, scowling. "Accusations like that aren't simply made up. If a journalist did that he would be exposing himself to all sorts of litigation."

"I wouldn't refer to the gentleman in question as a journalist. Even your aunt Irene, when she was Chancellor, thought him an extremist and instructed her cabinet not to be interviewed on his programme." Basil said.

"I had the matter investigated by the Mistress of the Emperor's Maidens." the Emperor told Zoë in what he supposed was a reassuring voice, which she could be pardoned for finding condescending. "There was nothing to it."

"The girl was afraid of coming forward because she knew it would mean she'd be expelled from court!" Zoë said. "No girl would willingly come forward about it or admit to it if asked, and you could hardly blame them."

"I told you, I had the matter investigated, and there was nothing to it." the Emperor repeated impatiently. The conversation had gone off on somewhat of a tangent and he was keen to return to the real news of the day.

"How can you be sure there was nothing to it, Sire?" Zoë demanded.

"I had every Emperor's Maiden inspected." the Emperor replied tersely, letting Zoë imagination fill in the details.

"Oh." she eventually said.

"In any event, I am convinced that if the proceedings had been allowed to come to their natural conclusion," Monsieur continued the thrust of his previous point. "Dr Graves would never have been extradited to Iesus Christi. The evidence was obviously fraudulent, or at least the majority of it surely was."

"While you're speculating of course, I believe you are correct. The terrorists who abducted Dr Graves and practically everyone else from the court room have a lot for which to answer." the Emperor opined. "Wretched beggars with no confidence in the rule of law, not content to wait for the proper process to be observed and completed. Protocol is important."

"Well said, sire." Madame smiled disingenuously, bored stiff by the conversation.

"Quite, sire." Monsieur nodded in agreement.

"Le protocole surtout..." Zoë murmured quietly.

"So I shall be happy to receive Reichskamphen's new envoys, whatever they have to say." the Emperor returned to his original point before the discussion of Graves.

"I understand the provisional government is charged with restoring the monarchy." Monsieur nodded. "Shall we see a Napoleon V, I wonder?"

"There are very few Buonapartes still alive." the Emperor observed, emphasising the Italian pronunciation of the original form of the Bonaparte name. "Saints be praised."

"Maybe the President will crown himself..." Basil speculated.

"Perhaps..." the Emperor replied with a frown, paying closer attention to his now empty goblet of wine than to his brother, Monsieur.

He looked over to the nearest pankernes. The boy bowed severely, and there was another ringing of the bells as another wine pouring ceremony began. The Emperor looked over to the side doors of the hall, which opened to admit another teenage noble carrying another tray of crystal goblets, and spotted an Emperor's Maiden tending to her chores on the other side of the door. His mind suddenly turned to the interest Zoë had shown in the baseless allegations made against Dr Graves, and he turned back to his daughter.

"Mademoiselle," he began. "I wonder why you seemed so concerned in our earlier discussion. Do you speak with any of the Emperor's Maidens?"

"That would be forbidden, Your Majesty." Zoë replied, worried that her concern had given the impression of an inexcusable breach of protocol.

"Quite so." the Emperor nodded, his attention turning to the priest who had began to read the traditional prayers (accompanied by the gentle sounds of the choir singing the response parts) over the Emperor's wine as the wine pouring ritual proceeded. "Le protocole surtout."

Christhof, Neuwittenburg

The new headquarters of the former Grand Imperial Council for the Advancement of the Protestant Faith and Heritage, now known as the less imperial Grand Union of Protestant Organizations, finished construction just a few months before Tsar Xavier's disappearence. It transformed the former fortress into a bustling Modern Dersconi style complex, fully integrating the elaborate decorative structures of the baroque and gothic periods with the advanced technology of the current era and the unique constructions of the ancient Amaranthines.

Blazhei Voikinov, now several hundred years old (yet not looking any more than 45 in normal human years) thanks to the mystical experiences had on his travels, stared in wonder at the headline on one of his massive wall monitors. "Well well, Reichskamphen is being reborn." He smiled to himself at getting to meet the son of the Graves he onced allied himself with on spiritual and political matters. It would be an interesting discussion, no doubt, what with Reichskamphen reforming a government, and Derscon losing one. Interestingly enough, though, both acts are leading to greater religiousity within both populations.

Blazhei pressed a button on the desk console. "Sasha, could you please get Lekar in here?" In a few minutes, the Chief of Operations, Lekar Adkav, walked in, just as Blazhei sealed the envelope.

"Sir?"

"Ah, Lekar! I need you to travel to New Geneva and hand deliver this letter to Reverend Graves." He took it in hand with eyebrow raised.

"May I ask as to the contents?" Blazhei shrugged.

"Sure. It's just inviting him up here once he's done with everything he needs to do elsewhere so we can talk." Lekar grimaced.

"Are you sure a conservative minister would be comfortable setting foot in a land that happily embraces their lack of government?" Blazhei couldn't help but smile.

"We'll find out, won't we?"

* New Rome International Airport *

The plane touched down with a rather large jolt. “Carrier pilots.” Mumbled President von Leibnitz.

“And how much better are you Army pilots?” Richard jabbed.

“Hmph.”

Slowly the craft came to a stop. The two men released their seatbelts and stood to stretch their legs. “You think we’ll get drug off in chains?”

“No, Gerry. Let’s hope that point in our relationship is past. If we’re dumb enough to offer the crown of Reichskamphen to them…perhaps they’re smart enough to take it.”

“Do you still have doubts?” von Leibnitz inquired, only somewhat concerned as he fished for his luggage in the overhead bin. ‘What I’d give for an Airforce one…’ he thought to himself. For now, he’d have to settle with a time share on a Lear jet.

“You know me Gerry, I always have doubts. It’s when I don’t have doubts that I really start to doubt myself…”

“Wipe that smirk off your face, Yogi Berra.”

Richard now retrieved his own luggage from overhead and walked with Gerhardt to the now open door.

“Ready?”

“Let’s say hello to Pantocratoria, Dick.”
===================================================

*A Country Estate, 15 miles South of New Geneva*

“Welcome to my humble abode, your Eminence.”

Marechal Brune hobbled through the half-opened front door, heavily favoring his left leg and using a cane to brace himself as he went.

“How long have you known about this?” the Count demanded of Edward when he thought that the Marechal was sufficiently out of earshot.

“I received a letter from him just…”

“Long enough to know that you don’t need to know!” Shouted Marechal Brune from several yards in front of them.

“How did he…?” Alex mumbled under his breath.

“Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I’m dead…” Brune shouted back. Count Bernadotte simply looked on quizzically as the old man limped quickly ahead of them, the click of his cane on the wooden floor echoing throughout the cavernous mansion.

The men slowly climbed a circular stone staircase. As Brune continued upwards, Edward and Alexander paused to look out of the second story window. Outside were parked nearly 15 more Super Heavy Imperator tanks in a neat row. Alex couldn’t figure out what make they were, but he knew he had seen them in footage of Allanean military maneuvers.

“How did you afford all of this old man?” Count Bernadotte shouted up the stairway.

No answer.

“Marechal, did you hear me? I said how did you afford these tanks!?”

Still nothing.

Edward’s eyes opened wide in an expression of sheer horror. Immediately, Graff nearly pushed Alex down the stairs as he hurled himself up the staircase four steps at a time.

“MARECHAL!”
======================================================

To: Son Altesse Royale, La Reine de la Levante
From: Guillaume Richarde Lefebvre de Centreville III

Your Highness,

The Foreign Ministry has informed me of your desire to visit New Geneva. I would like to immediately allay any of your concerns as to the safety or relative comfort of our Capitol.

Though the Imperial Palace and some of the other Greater Prussian Governmental buildings have been abandoned for years, New Geneva itself has remained relatively stable for the past two decades and is every bit the equal of Paris or New York in terms of culture, wealth, and urbane sophistication.

Our government is penniless, but our people are not. Now that we are no longer paying taxes and tributes to Derscon, we expect to recover in short order, but not without a good deal of effort.

Myself and President von Leibnitz would very much look forward to hosting yourself and His Majesty the King as soon as it would be convenient so that we can tell you of our plans to restore our land.

Warmest Regards,

Guillaume Richarde Lefebvre de Centreville III

Foreign Minister
Greater Prussian Kingdom of Reichskamphen
==========================================

To: Mr. Blazhei Voikinov
From: Reverend Peter Graves Jr.

Mr. Voikinov,

I very much appreciate your kind invitation and intend to accept it at the earliest possible opportunity. Unfortunately, there are extremely pressing matters which we must discuss before I will be at liberty to venture into Derscon. Would you be able to chat briefly over a secure line or to take a day trip to New Geneva? New Geneva is, after all, is directly on the border between our two lands, and should be a convenient location.

Grace and Peace,

Rev. Peter Graves Jr.

Senior Minister
Imperial Cathedral of New Geneva
Moderator
Presbyterian Church in NS

TO: Guillaume Richarde Lefebvre de Centreville III
FROM: Queen Katherine Alexandra Dallas of Jeruselem

I hear the Government of Reichskamphen is need a capital injection of funds. As Jeruselem still operates the former Greater Prussian Treasury, now the Bank of Greater Prussia which is now an independent commercial bank serving customers from Greater Prussia as well as people of other nations. Jeruselem still underwrites the Bank of Greater Prussia in time of need.

We invite a member of the Government of Reichskamphen to visit Jeruselem should any money be needed to help the governance of Reichskamphen. Times have changed and the Bank is no longer willing to fund adventurious projects. Of course, the Bank is happy to lend for anything which pushes the Greater Prussian nations forward (and return an investment).

The billions lost in the past have been recovered over time and now the Bank has a strong standing in the international community.

We look forward to your response. Oh, please call me Kate ... I dislike being called Kathy.

Queen Katherine Alexandra Dallas
XXX

OOC - Kate is a bit of whore

Christhof, Neuwittenburg

Lekar Adkav quickly returned with Graves' reply, which Blazhei immediately opened and read.

"Hmm. No surprise here." He pressed the button on the console. "Sasha! Wire New Geneva, tell them I'm coming immediately." He turned to Lekar while getting up and putting on his cloak. "Hold down the fort and alert the Knights. I have a trip to make."

*** ***

GUPO Airfield

The plane, two personal guards, and a staff aide were waiting for Blazhei as he rushed out of the maglev to the terminal. The aide handed him a folder as they ran to the flight.

"Sir! In there is a full briefing on the situation in Reichskamphen, put together by some ex-MSS friends. The place is a wreck -- Xavier wasn't exactly the friend his father and grandfather were to our southern neighbours. Rumours are that Brune surviv-"

"Wait," Voikinov interjected, cutting the aide off as the plane started liftoff. "Brune is alive?"

"Well, we don't know, but there are a lot of rumours to that account, yes." Blazhei sighed as a huge smile set upon his face.

"This is the best news I've heard in awhile." The aide cocked his head.

"You know him personally?!"

"About fifty years ago, yeah, during the war. Brune, Volckner, and Graves Sr. worked with the late von Papen, Sablinov -- God knows where he is -- and myself to fight against Xavier. When I left Friedensberg before the final assault to go look for Prince John's party, I thought that when the fortress was burnt to the ground, everyone inside went with it."

"Well," the aide continued, still uncomfortable with the almost superhuman lifespan and aging (rather, lack of) of his boss since his departure to Hrimgardr. "Like I said, only rumours.

"But anyway, they might not be too happy to see a Dersconi, and Lord knows that they're unhappy with the fact Derscon has no government." Blazhei shrugged.

"Well, with the way things are looking, they'll have to get used to it." The intercom announced that they were beginning descent, so they buckled up and waited to land.

Unsurprisingly and for what seemed to be a growing trend in the state of things in the universe, these past few years had led the Grummian leaders to also relocate their offices, at least on a temporary basis, to their home about a two hour drive just north of the capital city. Most of this was in part to the old structure where a majority of the government’s functions had taken place being gradually deconstructed – things were just not as simple as detonating explosives to the place and carrying all the rubble off to a landfill. Instead, it had to be carefully dismantled, its main structural frame being carted off to mills to melt back down into useable metal and the more vital components such as the shielding system along with the drive systems – since it was after all the prototype of the Corporation’s city-ships – being harvested and studied to see how it could be improved in the future.

So because of this, the Chairman and Chairwoman’s offices had been relocated to their home, not exactly the best solution for the entirely overworked pair, but it was better than having to travel further than absolutely necessary like to the city of Wilmington entirely on the other side of the nation, which was were the Departments of Commerce and Justice had been placed. Their home was usually bustling with messengers, secretaries and other administrative personnel trying to keep the Corporation still rumbling along, but this evening, it had managed to remain entirely quiet, leaving the two alone to their thoughts, and a seemingly never-ending amount of paperwork.

“Hrm…interesting…” mumbled Siri as she planted her back against the antique couch’s arm, carefully flipping through a pile of various reports that included some from the Grummian intelligence networks and military branches.

Across the front of her husband’s desk, his own stacks had formed a barrier, blocking nearly all of his view of anything outside of their confines and forcing him to pull one of the stacks to the floor so that he could speak with Siri, “Eh, what is it?”

“Well…” she began, steadily reading through the remainder of the contents of this report as she rose up from her seat to approach him. “From what I can understand here, it appears that Reichskamphen is attempting to regain some of its former glory and self-identity, you could very well say. For one, the city of New Geneva has been released to the hands of a new government set into place to rule completely over that nation for the first time in years. And of course, to top this all off, this very government is currently in the search for a legitimate heir to their throne…”

“I see…” came the response from Jack as he steepled his fingers and considered what had been told to him. “…have they decided who might head this government in the meantime?”

Siri scanned over the paper once more, searching for the answer. “Seems so…a Nathaniel von Leibnitz? Are you familiar with him in the slightest?”

Rocking his leather chair back and forth, he settled his hands onto his lap and shook his head in disaffirmation, hoping that this was not the case, but alas, it was. “No, I’m afraid I haven’t really heard of the man personally, but it appears to be the way things are nowadays. Seems everyone has either retired or passed on, much more so the latter, I think. Can’t be surprised really…we’ve managed to outlive and outlast a majority of the people we knew over that way…sadly…”

The report dropped onto the desk just as delicate fingers rested upon his aging shoulders and began to gently message them. “Unfortunately, it all comes with age and the mortality therein. None of us have gotten any younger and as we age, people gradually pass on as they succumb to either their bodies just tiring out on them, the destruction of war, or even disease…until finally, everyone we’ve known has been taken from this world…”

Silence persisted for several minutes, allowing the two leaders to recede into their own minds to consider their thoughts and the reality that, yes, times had changed since they were in last contact with these people. Governments, ones people would think of near indestructible, had fallen, religious conflict erupted where there had been none and greatly changed the underpinnings of these societies, and several generations had passed on into the great beyond.

But these thoughts would only lead to further sadness and despair, certainly not anything Siri wanted her husband to succumb to, especially not in these times of old age for the main. So she whispered to him, breaking the silence that had held the two firmly in its grasp, and tried to pull his mind back to the matter at hand. “What do you think we should do about this…if anything?”

An audible sigh emanated from his lips as Jack glanced over the cover page of the report and shrugged his shoulders slightly. “Well, even though I’d like to get into touch with them again and while the folks from Reichskamphen had been some of the nicest of people, the Emperor included….despite that being so long ago for really anyone in that government to remember…it’s probably best to wait a bit of time before we do anything too forward, I’d think. The stigma associated with the GPE still lingers in quite a bit of people here and with all the religious strain going on here that could probably create some nasty connections in that regard, doing something about it now wouldn’t be all that smart and might just set things off again. We ought to let the press play with it a bit and gauge the reaction from the population and figure things out from there…”

TO: Guillaume Richarde Lefebvre de Centreville III
From: Alexander Kazansky, President of the United States, General-Secretary of the Confederacy of Sovereign States, Chairman of the Confederate Banking Corporation, count of Centreville, etc. etc.

Dear Sir!

I understand that your government is in dire need of liquidity. This is a sad bit of news for all of us, but as a man who bears the Centreville title too ( having been awarded it by the glorious Emperor Napoleon IV). The Empire of Greater Prussia has had a reputation for its greatness, for the refined culture of its people, for the nobility of its leadership – and yet now it stands in dire need.

Allanea owes Greater Prussia, and specifically Reichskamphen, many favors. Reichskamphen had rescued Allanea from the depths of enemy occupation and the dark shadows of civil war. The Emperor granted us the very land upon which Liberty-City resides. The Emperor, in his kindness, had helped build Liberty-City and founded some of the country's finest private schools. It is time for Allanea to repay her debt.

Though formally I am currently on vacation in one of Allanea's many colonies, I am still President – and in addition, I wear many other hats. I am also the Secretary-General of a mighty Confederacy and businessman. This allows me to aid you by a variety of tools.

First of all, I shall don my hat as the Secretary General of the Confederacy of Sovereign States. I will open up the Confederate Emergency fund and send over 78.4 billion dollars for you to invest into the restoration of your country. I trust that you shall use them wisely.

Second, as the man in charge of the Confederate Banking Corporation, I am sending over Olaf Magnusson, a junior economist. He graduated from the Robert E. Lee Military Academy, which was founded under the auspices of the Imperial Crown, and proceeded to study at the University of Concord at Liberty-City. Formally, his task is to locate the most prospective sectors of the economy of Reichskamphen for the bank to invest in. Informally, he will provide your government with economic advice.

Third, I am still President of Allanea, am I not? I shall send a diplomat from the Department of State, Ambassador Robert Beamer. He is a summa cum laude graduate of the Academy as well, and his real task will be to advise your government in the restoration of Reichskamphen to her former glory.

Let me remind you that the rise and fall of nations is a result not just on some passing adversity of fate, not just on the presence or absence of some natural resource or some alliance. Natural resources run out or lose price, alliances fall apart – yet the inherent greatness of a nation's culture and heritage is what keeps it afloat. Should it not have such greatness, it will never have any major success and will langish forever as a third-rate hole. Should it have it, and any setback or crisis will be temporary for it – as it is, I believe, temporary for Reichskamphen. Reichskamphen was a great nation, and it will be a great nation again – because Reichskamphen is inherently a great nation.

Remember Psalm 23: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: For thou art with me; Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; Thou annointest my head with oil; My cup runneth over. “ I am not, as you know, a very religious man, but I believe that this is how it is with Reichskamphen. You have not lost faith so far – do not lose it now, when your troubles are nearing their end. Your trials are but that – a trial, not a punishment – and they will no doubt soon end, for the virtue of Reichskamphen has endured well, and so shall her glory.

May God continue to bless Reichskamphen, and may God continue to bless Allanea.

New Rome International Aiport
The honour guard of the Seventh New Rome Infantry Legion snapped to attention as Leibnitz and DuChamp disembarked their aircraft. It was raining lightly and the sky looked quite uncertain, but the honour guard didn't seem to mind the weather which was slowly soaking their dress uniforms. A red carpet extended from the top of the ramp down to a large black luxury Peacock Motors limousine, the bonnet of which bore the Cross of the Pantocratorian Crusade and the last known gazetted flag of Reichskamphen. Waiting in the rain by the car, underneath a large purple umbrella, stood Prince Constantine and Foreign Minister Demetrios Raoul. Behind them was the usual press mob, recording the presidential arrival.

If Leibnitz and DuChamp looked awkward, standing at the top of the stairs in the rain carrying their own luggage, none of the Pantocratorians let it show. Two soldiers marched up the stairs with umbrellas, and wordlessly relieved the Prussians of their luggage and extended umbrellas over their heads to shield them from the rain. In the meantime, the honour guard's band began to play, beating drums and blowing horns, the sound strangely complimented by the gentle patter of rain. The visit was clearly being treated as the visit of a head of state, with all appropriate dignity, despite the dilapidated, anarchical state of Reichskamphen (and much of the Greater Prussian Empire), and despite the temporary nature of Leibnitz's presidency.

"Monsieur le Président, on behalf of His Majesty and the Imperial Government, welcome to New Rome." Raoul greeted Leibnitz at the end of the carpet, offering him his hand.

(OOC: Short post only - away this weekend, back Monday!)

*Marechal Brune's Country Estate, on the approaches to New Geneva*

“Marechal!”
“Alexandre!”

Edward and the Count ran towards the cowering form in the stairwell. Before them lay Marechal Brune on his knees, one bony hand clinging desperately to the brass railing. They could see his chest heaving up and down beneath the billowing folds in his uniform. When his chest fully expanded, his threadbare royal blue embroidered jacket almost seemed to fit him. When his lungs contracted, the man was once again awash in fabric.

“Alexandre! Speak to me!”

“Just a minute…” Brune whimpered, almost irritated. “Almost…”

Edward and the Count each grabbed one of the great man’s arms and pulled him to his feet.

“Just three more steps to the top old friend.”

“I know that, I’m not senile yet.” The Marechal snapped back, pulling himself off of the two men as if nothing had happened. A bit unsteady, he pulled himself up the next few stairs unassisted while Edward and Count Bernadotte watched carefully, thinking to themselves which way they would jump should he fall, how each would avoid hitting the other.

Now up the stairs, Brune fished through his pocket for another large antique looking brass key. A moment later the door swung open with a creak.

“Perhaps you should leave a few doors unlocked Alex.”

“Ed, you can’t be too careful these days.”

Immediately as the men entered the room, they saw a sprawling three dimensional tabletop map before them. As Count Bernadotte drew nearer he could tell that it was a map of Reichskamphen and Derscon. Edward and Brune walked to one distant corner of the map. Brune outstretched a thin, wrinkled finger and pointed to some point beyond his reach. Bernadotte looked on as Brune lectured the junior Senator, his air of superiority and self assurance had certainly not dissipated with the years.

After a few moments of remaining silent, Bernadotte edged closer to the two men who were now deep in conversation.

“But what happens if they shoot?”

“Ed, they won’t shoot.”

“We can’t have blood.”

“I don’t want it either, boy, but you must be prepared incase it comes to blows. If it does, it won’t be there. Lord knows where it will be, though I have a few ideas, but you have to ready.”

“Excuse me…” the Count interjected, “but what the HELL kind of BLOOD is there going to be?!”

The two men snapped their heads around to face Bernadotte, surprised, as if they had forgotten he was there.

Brune placed a cold hand on the shoulder of the count’s scarlet greatcoat. “There should be none at all. I’ve seen too much bloodshed in my lifetime, but we have to be prepared should it come down to it, to fight for our land. The Dersconi’s guns are gone…now we have to rid ourselves of their legacy. It’s been nearly thirty years since the Dersconi army dissolved the government and installed Senator Domitius as President. Since then, Reichskamphen has been an atheist, totalitarian sh*t hole.”

“But, there is something to be said for the relative peace…”

Brune interrupted the Count “There is plenty of peace in graveyards too, my friend. I’ll be seeing that first hand soon enough. But I swear to God that before I draw my last breath, I will make this a nation where my grandchildren can grow up, where their kids will have a future…where everything I’ve worked for wont be stolen from them in an instant by a man who looks more to Judas than to Christ as his saviour.”

The Count looked on pensively. He could tell by Brune’s expression, he was far from finished.

“We have lost two Emperors to regicides. We have lost countless more Kings before the Empire was even a twinkle in Napoleon’s eyes. After Joseph-Napoleon was killed, a few words jumped out at me from the op-ed page of the New Geneva Imperial Tribune. I still have a copy of it somewhere, but I don’t need it. I know the words by heart.

‘The King is covered in his own blood. What do you take it all to mean? Do you think that you have broken your chains? Do you think now, that you are free?

Think you now that you have purchased peace; purchased it with your Sovereign’s blood?
The Emperor shall be laid to rest; his soul in Heavn or Hell. The wars though, shall continue still. The chains shall always bind.

The King is God's gift, the King is God's curse. But the King is God's. No man can give you freedom. No man can take it away. The blood that is spilled is spilled for blood’s sake.
Only, now...an empty throne.

When the people rise as one, when they shout with one voice; they say nothing.’ “
“Who wrote that?” Edward interjected.

“I did.” The Marechal stared out the window. The three men were serenaded now by the loud rumble of douzains of tank engines rumbling into action. Out on the grand lawn, soldiers formed into neat columns as their Captains barked commands. The storm was brewing.

“I cannot bring people freedom, the Dersconis cannot take it away. We gave our lives, our dignity to them willingly…there is no other way they could have gotten it. We laid down and let their jackboots trample us. Eventually we grew accustomed to the feeling and simply couldn’t do without it. But now the weight is gone…” he spun around with a rapidity one would certainly not expect from a man of his age. “The Dersconis are gone.” His voice got louder, as if were in the middle of a Shakespearian monologue. “And I have a chance to make this nation remember what it once was. I can, if you will, bring this horse to water, but I cannot make it drink. But if I don’t give our people the chance…If you, Count Bernadotte don’t help me…can you ever live with yourself?”

*11:00am Service, Imperial Cathedral, New Geneva*

“Ye people, rend your hearts and not your garments for your transgressions: the prophet Elijah hath sealed the heavens through the word of God. I therefore say to ye: forsake your idols, return to God; for He is slow to anger, and merciful, and kind, and gracious, and repenteth Him of the evil.”

The antiphonal organ, perched stories in the air near above the Narthex in the rear of the massive cathedral quietly sounded the dominant and tonic chords as the melodious tenor voice fell into silence, finishing the recitative. Then, from out of nowhere, and everywhere at once, a deep resounding voice boomed, “Behold, we worship a living God! Christ our Saviour moves among us. You are never alone.”

The slumbering Organ, the largest in the known world, thundered forth in all of its glory. The first notes to be played on the majestic instrument after decades of silence was a Romanic Verismo Fugue, the melody seeming vaguely familiar, now climbing to the heavens; pulling the soul of the listeners up on the wings of angels. Then, the trumpet ranks heralded the familiar melody of the Processional as the 200 voice choir processed down the cavernous sanctuary and towards the great altar.
Then in an instant, the whole room burst forth in song.

“When I survey the wondrous cross,

on which the Prince of Glory died;

my richest gain I count but loss,

and pour contempt on all my pride.”

In an instant a sea of candles burst to life all around the sanctuary as if by magic and flames were passed from candle to candle in the cradling arms of the processing choristers.

“Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,

save in the death of Christ, my God;

all the vain things that charm me most,

I sacrifice them to his blood.”

The crowd this day numbered nearly 25, 000 yet the sanctuary stood barely half full. This week, visitors from all over the world had descended on New Geneva for the reopening of the Imperial Cathedral, once the flagship of a sprawling religious empire whose influence was never unfelt in the civilized world.

However, only a quarter of the parishioners this day were ministers of the PCNS, in town for the ceremony. More than any other group, New Genevans filled the halls of the Church for the first time in years. Some fumbled through their hymnals, not quite sure what to do, but in not a few eyes you could see a glint of rememberance. Without glancing down, their lips formed the words of this hymn to the Cross, though they had not uttered them in years.

Suddenly the massive Organ fell silent but for a rumbling pedal tone. The Choir broke then into intricate four part polyphony that hung in the air, beautiful like a spiders web, heavy with dew, glinting in the morning sun.

“See, from his head, his hands, his feet,

sorrow and love flow mingled down.

Did e'er such love and sorrow meet,

or thorns compose so rich a crown.”

Rev. Graves, and his assistant ministers then walked in behind the Choir, processing to the altar. Rev. Graves took his place for the first time at the very same pulpit that his father had stood in so many years before. His hands rubbed the carved mahogany podium. The wood was rough beneath his hands.

When the Choir had all gathered in their place in the towering choir loft, the music director looked up towards the balconies. Staggered at different levels, but all several stories in the air, the balconies looked as if they were simply hanging in mid air, suspended by nothing. There, in the highest balcony near the ceiling sat the New Geneva Symphony Orchestra. With the director’s cue, the Orchestra began to play a symphonic accompaniment to the organ. With a sudden dramatic key change he cued again. The parishioners turned their heads skyward to behold a sea of faces and choir robes. Nearly three hundred more voices joined as the organ rattled the ribcages of the gathered worshipers, perhaps in a differant way than any rock concert ever could.

“Were the whole realm of nature mine,

that were an offering far too small;”

The symphony soared furiously higher, and one couldn’t help but think that perhaps the very ear of God was inclined to this small corner of the earth, as some of the truest words that were ever uttered by human lips were offered up to God as a humble offering.


”Love so amazing, so divine,
 demands my soul, my life, my all! A-men!”

No sooner had the music fallen silent than Reverend Graves began to pray.

“Oh Lord, we have turned our back upon you. Forgive us for our blindness.”

His voice was low, calm and measured. He looked out upon the vast crowds.

“We see the endless starry heavens, we look upon the vast unchanging sea, we feel the power when the earth falls from beneath us, and deep in our hearts we know you are there.”

“We are told by governments, teachers, philosophers, wives, husbands, children, and friends that there is no God, that we are foolish to believe in superstition. Yet Lord, we behold the irreducible complexity, the infinite intricacy of even the lowliest cell in our bodies. And we know, and any mind that will look knows that this is no accident. We are not a speck of nothingness, aimlessly spinning through space at tens of thousands of miles per hour with no captain at the wheel, no star to guide us. We are held and protected each moment by a Creator God who loves us.; who sent his son to die for our sins.”

“We sing this great hymn of the Christian religion and in our own hearts and minds, we do as Martin Luther’s abbot told him to do so many years ago when his heart was troubled and soul was in distress: we look to the wounds of Jesus.”

His voice now raised, he braced himself upon the pulpit, leaning forward.

“We see the tears in his flesh, ripped open by the Roman whips, we put our fingers in the very holes of his hands so that we may never doubt. We trace the tears, mingled with blood, that trickle down his blessed cheek. We know, beyond the smallest shadow of a shadow of a doubt that when his chest heaved for the last time, when he breathed his last breath and shouted to the very Devil himself ‘It is done!’…. He saw our face…. He saw your face, he saw mine in the smallest corner of his minds eye, but more importantly on the faces of his tormentors.”

“We killed him! We drove the nails! We scourged him with whips and drove the crown of thorns upon his head! An innocent man, guiltless and spotless died for our sins…our Lord gave up his one precious son, indeed, he gave himself to save not some nameless, faceless horde…but to save you and me.”

“Love so Amazing, so Divine, demands our souls…our lives…our ALL. Let us always give you nothing less.”

“We pray this in Jesus’ name, Amen.”

OOC: Responses to other posts coming shortly.

New Rome International Aiport
The honour guard of the Seventh New Rome Infantry Legion snapped to attention as Leibnitz and DuChamp disembarked their aircraft. It was raining lightly and the sky looked quite uncertain, but the honour guard didn't seem to mind the weather which was slowly soaking their dress uniforms. A red carpet extended from the top of the ramp down to a large black luxury Peacock Motors limousine, the bonnet of which bore the Cross of the Pantocratorian Crusade and the last known gazetted flag of Reichskamphen. Waiting in the rain by the car, underneath a large purple umbrella, stood Prince Constantine and Foreign Minister Demetrios Raoul. Behind them was the usual press mob, recording the presidential arrival.

If Leibnitz and DuChamp looked awkward, standing at the top of the stairs in the rain carrying their own luggage, none of the Pantocratorians let it show. Two soldiers marched up the stairs with umbrellas, and wordlessly relieved the Prussians of their luggage and extended umbrellas over their heads to shield them from the rain. In the meantime, the honour guard's band began to play, beating drums and blowing horns, the sound strangely complimented by the gentle patter of rain. The visit was clearly being treated as the visit of a head of state, with all appropriate dignity, despite the dilapidated, anarchical state of Reichskamphen (and much of the Greater Prussian Empire), and despite the temporary nature of Leibnitz's presidency.

"Monsieur le Président, on behalf of His Majesty and the Imperial Government, welcome to New Rome." Raoul greeted Leibnitz at the end of the carpet, offering him his hand.

(OOC: Short post only - away this weekend, back Monday!)

"Thank you very much, your eminence." Leibnitz was all of a sudden very self conscious about the obvious poverty of his position in comparison to even that of a minister of another country. "We are very grateful to be here and extend to you the greetings and well wishes of the people and government of Reichskamphen and New Geneva."

DuChamp extended his black-gloved hand to Foreign Minister Raoul. "Your Emminence." he said in a courtly tone.

The two men struck an obvious contrast.

President Nathaniel Gerhardt (Gerry) von Leibnitz, while certainly not an image of Imperial splendor, was far more traditionally attired in the manner of the Reichskamphian nobility, regardless of the fact that he had never been a member of that particular class. He sported a knee length crimson great coat emblazoned with brass buttons down the double breasted front and on the dramatically cuffed sleeves. Gold Embroidery trellised elegantly up the front. The only thing missing was the white powdered wig that was formerly a staple of Imperial fashion. Sadly, to wear one now was a bit of a faux pas as too many white wigs had turned red when they ended up in the bottom of wicker baskets with the heads of their owners.

Richard DuChamp struck a far more modern silhouette; a simple black suit, slim black tie, and white pocket square.

It had been a very long time since either of the two men had heard the national anthem played; let alone so spectacularly. There was almost a hint of irony listening to the Panocratorian band play "Veillons au salut de l'Empire".

When Richard and the President were led down from the steps of the airplane, they were brought to greet Prince Constantine. President Leibnitz bowed deeply. "Your Highness, Grace and Peace from the people and the government of Reichskamphen."

Richard slightly inclined his head. "Your Highness."

TO: Guillaume Richarde Lefebvre de Centreville III
FROM: Queen Katherine Alexandra Dallas of Jeruselem

I hear the Government of Reichskamphen is need a capital injection of funds. As Jeruselem still operates the former Greater Prussian Treasury, now the Bank of Greater Prussia which is now an independent commercial bank serving customers from Greater Prussia as well as people of other nations. Jeruselem still underwrites the Bank of Greater Prussia in time of need.

We invite a member of the Government of Reichskamphen to visit Jeruselem should any money be needed to help the governance of Reichskamphen. Times have changed and the Bank is no longer willing to fund adventurious projects. Of course, the Bank is happy to lend for anything which pushes the Greater Prussian nations forward (and return an investment).

The billions lost in the past have been recovered over time and now the Bank has a strong standing in the international community.

We look forward to your response. Oh, please call me Kate ... I dislike being called Kathy.

Queen Katherine Alexandra Dallas
XXX

OOC - Kate is a bit of whore

TO: Queen Katherine Alexandra Dallas of Jeruselem
FROM: Guillaume Richarde Lefebvre de Centreville III

Your Majesty,

As this letter reaches you, I am already making preparations to embark for Jerusalem. We are in dire need of whatever capital we are able to secure and are extremely thankful for Your Majesty's support.

The state is currently in the process of selling off anything that is not nailed down to fund the re-establishment of the government. Currently, though, our Military budget is quite short and we would be appreciative if your Majesty would be so kind as to dispatch a division of her Army, preferably an Armored division, to stand on Garrison duty in the more rural areas. This request comes not from my office, but was forwarded through us by the office of the Secretary of War, Richard A. DuChamp. As there is currently no force capable of providing organized resistance, we doubt there will be any problems, but we need the presence of a strong military force to ensure the successful establishment of the government.

Warmest Regards,

Guillaume Richarde Lefebvre de Centreville III
His Majesty's Foreign Minister

TO: Guillaume Richarde Lefebvre de Centreville III
From: Alexander Kazansky, President of the United States, General-Secretary of the Confederacy of Sovereign States, Chairman of the Confederate Banking Corporation, count of Centreville, etc. etc.

Dear Sir!

I understand that your government is in dire need of liquidity. This is a sad bit of news for all of us, but as a man who bears the Centreville title too ( having been awarded it by the glorious Emperor Napoleon IV). The Empire of Greater Prussia has had a reputation for its greatness, for the refined culture of its people, for the nobility of its leadership – and yet now it stands in dire need.

Allanea owes Greater Prussia, and specifically Reichskamphen, many favors. Reichskamphen had rescued Allanea from the depths of enemy occupation and the dark shadows of civil war. The Emperor granted us the very land upon which Liberty-City resides. The Emperor, in his kindness, had helped build Liberty-City and founded some of the country's finest private schools. It is time for Allanea to repay her debt.

Though formally I am currently on vacation in one of Allanea's many colonies, I am still President – and in addition, I wear many other hats. I am also the Secretary-General of a mighty Confederacy and businessman. This allows me to aid you by a variety of tools.

First of all, I shall don my hat as the Secretary General of the Confederacy of Sovereign States. I will open up the Confederate Emergency fund and send over 78.4 billion dollars for you to invest into the restoration of your country. I trust that you shall use them wisely.

Second, as the man in charge of the Confederate Banking Corporation, I am sending over Olaf Magnusson, a junior economist. He graduated from the Robert E. Lee Military Academy, which was founded under the auspices of the Imperial Crown, and proceeded to study at the University of Concord at Liberty-City. Formally, his task is to locate the most prospective sectors of the economy of Reichskamphen for the bank to invest in. Informally, he will provide your government with economic advice.

Third, I am still President of Allanea, am I not? I shall send a diplomat from the Department of State, Ambassador Robert Beamer. He is a summa cum laude graduate of the Academy as well, and his real task will be to advise your government in the restoration of Reichskamphen to her former glory.

Let me remind you that the rise and fall of nations is a result not just on some passing adversity of fate, not just on the presence or absence of some natural resource or some alliance. Natural resources run out or lose price, alliances fall apart – yet the inherent greatness of a nation's culture and heritage is what keeps it afloat. Should it not have such greatness, it will never have any major success and will langish forever as a third-rate hole. Should it have it, and any setback or crisis will be temporary for it – as it is, I believe, temporary for Reichskamphen. Reichskamphen was a great nation, and it will be a great nation again – because Reichskamphen is inherently a great nation.

Remember Psalm 23: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: For thou art with me; Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; Thou annointest my head with oil; My cup runneth over. “ I am not, as you know, a very religious man, but I believe that this is how it is with Reichskamphen. You have not lost faith so far – do not lose it now, when your troubles are nearing their end. Your trials are but that – a trial, not a punishment – and they will no doubt soon end, for the virtue of Reichskamphen has endured well, and so shall her glory.

May God continue to bless Reichskamphen, and may God continue to bless Allanea.

President Kazansky,

First, I must say that I have heard a great deal about you from the lips of my late Grandfather who you may recall was a Marechal de l'Empire and served the Empire in many capacities in his later years before his untimely death in Derscon in the ranks of the Rebel Army commanded by the late Marechal Brune.

I wish to thank you immensely on behalf of myself, President Leibnitz, and the entire Royal Government. Your monetary assistance is certainly going to be put to great use in restoring infrastructure and other symbols of our Greater Prussian heritage. I am pleased to inform you that President Leibnitz has declared that the Grand Entrance and Foyer of the Imperial Palace at New Geneva are now to be named in your honor.

We will also be honored to recieve Mr. Olufsen as a guest of the state. We have secured the use of the top three floors of Kant Tower to serve as his residence and offices unless he wishes to take up his offices in the restored Treasury Building.

Ambassador Beamer will likewise be treated with the utmost respect and courtesy as we are greatful to have such a well established statesman to offer us advice. I have been authorized to extend the Allanean government a 99 year lease on the Winter Palace 5 miles outside of New Geneva which we hope you will take. This should make a fine Embassy.

I look forward to working with you and your representatives and I thank you for your words of reassurance. I know that in due time, we will recover our lost pride. The crown of Reichskamphen lies on the floor. What we need now is for a man to, as Napoleon said, "pick it up with his sword."

Let us all pray that we find a member of the Imperial dynasty alive somewhere in this world. Let us pray for a new King and a new Emperor.

Regards,

Guillaume Richarde

Christhof, Neuwittenburg

Lekar Adkav quickly returned with Graves' reply, which Blazhei immediately opened and read.

"Hmm. No surprise here." He pressed the button on the console. "Sasha! Wire New Geneva, tell them I'm coming immediately." He turned to Lekar while getting up and putting on his cloak. "Hold down the fort and alert the Knights. I have a trip to make."

*** ***

GUPO Airfield

The plane, two personal guards, and a staff aide were waiting for Blazhei as he rushed out of the maglev to the terminal. The aide handed him a folder as they ran to the flight.

"Sir! In there is a full briefing on the situation in Reichskamphen, put together by some ex-MSS friends. The place is a wreck -- Xavier wasn't exactly the friend his father and grandfather were to our southern neighbours. Rumours are that Brune surviv-"

"Wait," Voikinov interjected, cutting the aide off as the plane started liftoff. "Brune is alive?"

"Well, we don't know, but there are a lot of rumours to that account, yes." Blazhei sighed as a huge smile set upon his face.

"This is the best news I've heard in awhile." The aide cocked his head.

"You know him personally?!"

"About fifty years ago, yeah, during the war. Brune, Volckner, and Graves Sr. worked with the late von Papen, Sablinov -- God knows where he is -- and myself to fight against Xavier. When I left Friedensberg before the final assault to go look for Prince John's party, I thought that when the fortress was burnt to the ground, everyone inside went with it."

"Well," the aide continued, still uncomfortable with the almost superhuman lifespan and aging (rather, lack of) of his boss since his departure to Hrimgardr. "Like I said, only rumours.

"But anyway, they might not be too happy to see a Dersconi, and Lord knows that they're unhappy with the fact Derscon has no government." Blazhei shrugged.

"Well, with the way things are looking, they'll have to get used to it." The intercom announced that they were beginning descent, so they buckled up and waited to land.

The Dersconi plane landed in the dead of night. Per the instructions of Rev. Graves, all definitive markings had been removed. Somehow, the aircraft had avoided detection. New Geneva lay on the border between Reichskamphen and Derscon. One gate faced Andropov Military City and the other faced South to Reichsburg, the more ancient Capitol of Reichskamphen.

The plane arrived at a small private airfield just on the Dersconi side of the border. Immediately upon landing, two black Mercedes S Class Sedans pulled out onto the tarmac. Though it was dark and difficult to see, the men inside the plane, the men could just make out the shape of Reverend Graves exiting one of the cars flanked by two uniformed, armed men.

The plane recieved a radio transmission "Do not be alarmed, Rev. Graves body Guards are here for his protection alone. Welcome to Rekyavik Airfield."

TO: Queen Katherine Alexandra Dallas of Jeruselem
FROM: Guillaume Richarde Lefebvre de Centreville III

Your Majesty,

As this letter reaches you, I am already making preparations to embark for Jerusalem. We are in dire need of whatever capital we are able to secure and are extremely thankful for Your Majesty's support.

The state is currently in the process of selling off anything that is not nailed down to fund the re-establishment of the government. Currently, though, our Military budget is quite short and we would be appreciative if your Majesty would be so kind as to dispatch a division of her Army, preferably an Armored division, to stand on Garrison duty in the more rural areas. This request comes not from my office, but was forwarded through us by the office of the Secretary of War, Richard A. DuChamp. As there is currently no force capable of providing organized resistance, we doubt there will be any problems, but we need the presence of a strong military force to ensure the successful establishment of the government.

Warmest Regards,

Guillaume Richarde Lefebvre de Centreville III
His Majesty's Foreign Minister

TO: Guillaume Richarde Lefebvre de Centreville III
FROM: Queen Katherine Alexandra Dallas of Jeruselem

We will receive you and your envoys with great pleasure. You will be treated like a head of state and with same respect afforded to a representative of the Capital of Greater Prussia. The folks at the Bank of Great Prussia will be ready for your requests for saving the once great nation of Reichskamphen. One day, the Phoenix will rise out of the ashes to the greet people again.

I talked to hubby about the military request. A contigent of our personal guard complete with armoured vehicles will be sent to Reichskamphen to assist with the Garrison duty. Since we aren't having too much civil unrest around here, they are bored and need some action to keep up their training skills. What better to help the Reichskamphen government reestablish control over it's own domain.

I cannot get to Reichskamphen personally as there's plenty of things to do here. My son is growing fast and I want encourage him to become a great military man like my husband who spent some time in the army.

And one other thing, if you see lots of indecent images of me on the Internet - yes it is me. I'm an attention whore. It's one way of being popular although some don't like it.

Queen Katherine Alexandra Dallas of Jeruselem
XXX

The Dersconi plane landed in the dead of night. Per the instructions of Rev. Graves, all definitive markings had been removed. Somehow, the aircraft had avoided detection. New Geneva lay on the border between Reichskamphen and Derscon. One gate faced Andropov Military City and the other faced South to Reichsburg, the more ancient Capitol of Reichskamphen.

The plane arrived at a small private airfield just on the Dersconi side of the border. Immediately upon landing, two black Mercedes S Class Sedans pulled out onto the tarmac. Though it was dark and difficult to see, the men inside the plane, the men could just make out the shape of Reverend Graves exiting one of the cars flanked by two uniformed, armed men.

The plane recieved a radio transmission "Do not be alarmed, Rev. Graves body Guards are here for his protection alone. Welcome to Rekyavik Airfield."

Blazhei walked down the ramp, his two guards and his aide following. When he reached the bottom, he glanced at Graves and his two guards, shrugged, and turned around. "You three stay in the plane."

"But, sir..." Blazhei laughed.

"I think I'll be fine." The two guards and his aide walked back into the plane as Blazhei made his way towards Reverend Graves, his cape gliding behind him in the slight breeze, the moonlight glistening off his obsidian-shaded metallic armour made from the minerals only found in the Dersconi Tundra.

He shook hands with the Reverend, completely ignoring his guards. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I must say, if you're anything like your father, it will be a a true delight working with you. Lead on."

"Monsieur le Président, Monsieur le Secrétaire, welcome to Pantocratoria." replied Prince Constantine with a smile.

"Your Excellencies, His Majesty would be pleased to receive you at the Imperial Court of Christ Pantocrator immediately." the Foreign Minister said, gesturing to the waiting cars. "If I may briefly remind Your Excellencies of the agenda of the day, after your formal reception, there will be an adjournment of two hours, followed by an interview with His Majesty, the Imperial Chancellor and myself."

The black luxury Peacock Motors sedan, flying the flags of Pantocratoria and Reichskamphen, was escorted through the streets of the Old Quarter of New Rome to the sprawling Imperial Court of Christ Pantocrator palace complex. Other cars followed to take other attendants and advisors. For the duration of the car trip, the discussion remained constrained to procedural matters and general conversation, with the Prince or the Foreign Minister occasionally pointing out some building or landmark in the capital. Eventually, the car and its escort entered the courtyard and came to a stop in front of the inner courtyard of the palace complex.

A troop of the Varangian Guard, tall Scandinavian men dressed in splendid uniforms somewhat reminiscent of Ancient Rome, snapped to attention, offering their salute as the President, DuChamp, Raoul and Prince Constantine proceeded up the vast courtyard towards the entrance of the palace proper. A bronze statue of St Constantine the Great dominated the courtyard, and the cold carved eyes of the emperor stared down at the Greater Prussian delegation as it was lead by the palace heralds bearing the initials "A I" in silver thread stitched into their purple livery. The heralds escorted the party through massive bronze doors into the palace's cavernous "waiting room", where the Foreign Minister and Prince Constantine both made polite farewells and departed their company via a side door.

The antechamber had a gently-domed ceiling, decorated with a Byzantine-style icon of Christ as Pantocrator (Almighty), looking down on the delegation with haunting eyes. The stylistic clashes for which the Imperial Court of Christ Pantocrator is so well known started immediately beneath the dome, the oldest part of the palace (since this waiting room over which the icon watched was the original great hall), as huge marble pillars stand in the corners of the room. To the trained eye, it was clear that the pillars served no structural purpose, being added in the 17th century. On the wall to the delegation's left was a huge painting labelled "Le Martyre de Constantine XI", depicting the final moments of the battle between the defenders of Constantinople and the Ottoman Turks. Into each of the tiles on the floor were carved the initials "L & T", interwoven to form one letter with a T's top and an L's bottom, commemorating the 1810 marriage of Louis XVII, titular King of France, and the Empress Theodora II Comnenus.

At the end of the room were two massive bronze doors, with three Varangians standing in front of each door. Flanking the doorway stood two marble statues, each dressed in imperial gowns of ancient Rome. One depicted the Roman Emperor Augustus, and the other was the Pantocratorian Emperor Constantine XVIII Comnenus (in the middle of whose reign in the early 17th century the statues were installed, along with the pillars). The doors at the other side of the chamber swung open, revealing a glimpse of the great hall behind them.

The great hall dwarfed the entrance chamber, with huge marble pillars stretching from the floor all the way to the ornately decorated ceiling, spanning more than three stories in height (evidenced by the two levels of balconies which ran along both sides of the hall). Underneath the balconies on each side stood dozens of members of the Imperial court. In the centre of the chamber was an imposing throne structure on a platform of its own, and seated on that throne was the Emperor.

A silver halo framed the Emperor's face, seeming to glow, reflecting sunlight which was carefully directed upon it by mirrors in the ceiling, invisible from where Leibnitz and DuChamp stood. Despite its initial supernatural appearance, closer inspection would reveal that the halo was a highly polished silver disk, suspended by heavy wiring which distributed its weight to the Emperor's shoulders. The word "Iσαπόστολος" (Isapostolos - Equal to the Apostles) was written in gold upon the disk in an artful Greek script. Seated upon the Emperor's head, nestled in his grey hair was a crown of gold and silver olive leaves, once again reminiscent of ancient Rome. His face was severe and his gaze was approximately forward, although it gave no appearance of being focussed upon anybody or anything. His neatly tended beard contributed to an air of imperious authority. A purple-lined ermine cloak hung over his shoulders, framing a white dress uniform (of indeterminant service branch) liberally decorated with a variety of medals and a purple sash. The smell of incense filled the air, wafting up to the ceiling of the cavernous hall.

A flurry of trumpets announced the arrival of the delegation from Reichskamphen to the Emperor and the court. The heralds who had escorted Leibnitz and DuChamp this far stood aside after announcing, in loud voices: "His Excellency the President of Reichskamphen, Monsieur Nathaniel Gerhardt von Leibnitz, and Secrety Richard DuChamp."

"Approchez!" nodded a herald standing nearby the Emperor, beckoning the visitors to approach the throne and the waiting figure of Emperor Andreus, whose penetrating gaze now fell at last upon the visitors.

Kant Tower

It was a bad night outside. It was cold, and pouring rain obscured the view from every window in the tower. Yet inside it, the young Dr. Olaf Magnusson was at work, despite the late night. Formally speaking, he was looking at investments to make money for the Confederate Bank – and informally, he was looking for ways to restore Reichskamphen to her former glory.

He knew that the nation was in bad shape – and he also knew that in its fundamentals, Reichskamphen was strong, for she rested on the Protestant faith and the hard-working nature of the locals. The Reichkamphians were known for their punctuality and their capability of hard work. As such, the Confederate Bank could make money if it invested in the manufacturing sector in this country – and in turn, those investments could rebuild the ailing industries of Reichkamphen.

But before anything could be done, there would be a need for charity work of sorts – and the CSS alliance was already footing the bill for that. The Confederate Emergency Fund (which everybody knew was run by the Allaneans) was working to build new infrastructure around the country – an airport near the capital, several hundred miles worth of road, and so forth. It would be up to Olaf to predict whichcompanies would flourish when the country finally got back on track.

And thus he handled business for both the bank itself – establishing a line of loans and credit for local banks – and for Kazansky Heavy Industries, the President's corporation, purchasing multiple factories across Reichkamphen that produced train cars, washing machines, and – in one particular case – a semi-abandoned complex of military factories that used to supply trucks for the Imperial Guard and now were homes for bums and drunkards.

He issued dozens of papers, orders, and memos to his growing staff as he juggled his CBC and KHI hats, and his computer's keyboard went on ticking through the late November night.

OOC: Other responses coming shortly. Finals over!

* Somewhere outside of Reichsburg *

The men stood tall at attention. He looked at them through the tinted windows.

“Time for the show.”

He breathed deeply. Someday he would get used to this, he thought…if he lived that long. The door opened and he stepped out onto the dry dust.

“Your Emminence.” The captain of the regiment stepped forward, saluting. Atleast he looked like the captain. He was wearing more decorations than anyone else. Maybe he was higher than a Captain.

Guillaume Richarde Lefebvre de Centreville III stepped out of the mud covered black Range Rover. The men stood like towering oak trees lining a dirt road. Their uniforms were soiled and tattered, but something about them seemed brand new. Perhaps it was the faces. On the order of the officer, the men presented arms; a mismatched jumble of Dersconi standard issue rifles and weapons gleaned from various other places such as raided Imperial Guard armories.

“God Save the King!” Guillaume Richarde offered, after a moment of hesitation.

“God Save the King!” the men returned.

He processed down the row of men, reviewing them individually. His eyes remained fixed squarely on chests and rifles of the men as he passed. It was only natural as his diminutive figure dictated that these things happened to be at eye level. “Reichsburg Royal Militia” the insignias on their chest all read alike; perhaps the only thing alike about this rag tag unit. One man stood particularly tall. His chest glimmered with decorations. He sported two campaign medals; one official (Reichskamphian Civil War: issued by the Czar after the fact to soldiers on both sides) the other unofficial (March on Derscon: Issued by what was assumed to be the estate of Marechal Brune to all solidiers under his command during the epic campaign that began with a bloody revolt in New Geneva and nearly deposed the Czar). He also proudly wore five purple hearts, the reason for one of which was apparent by a long vertical scar trailing down the side of his face. It almost looked to be the red path of a tear as it traced its way from the corner of his eye and down his cheek. As Guillaume’s eyes met the steely gaze of the man’s seemingly inhuman gray eyes…something in him snapped. His bravery was gone. He quickly hurried through the rest of the review and made his way inside escorted by the officer and two armed men from the column.

“Get it together…get it together…”

At the end of the hall were a set of large wooden French doors. Beside them stood two more men in the same uniforms. They came to attention, saluted, and crisply swung the doors open. With a flourish; all artifice and very little true hope…Guillaume Richarde…the once and future Duke of Centreville (sahn-truh-vee-yuh) entered the room. Before him stood yet more military men, only these were noticeably older. A large wooden circular table sat in the center of the drab white room and the men sat around it talking somewhat secretly amongst themselves. As the Duke passed some of them to reach the only empty chair…his chair…he noticed several new regimental insignia. “Royal Militia of Kamphstadt”, “Imperial Army of Kaiserstadt”, “Sola Fide Division”, “Pax Maria Brigade”. The first two he had anticipated. They were typical names that the militia units had chosen after they restored order upon the collapse of the Dersconi infrastructure a few years ago. The last two, though, were far more storied names.

“Gentleman,” He took on an imperious air as he ceremonially took his seat. “I have been extremely disturbed by the reports I have been receiving in New Geneva. The next time you encounter any troops from the Levantine divison…you withdraw…and you better damn well do it as quick as you can. The rulers of Jerusalem would not appoint a fool to command an expeditionary force. These people came at my request. It is because they are here that the sh*t has a much, much smaller chance of hitting the proverbial fan.”

“But, Your Eminence, we did not engage them.” An older man at the far end of the table spoke up.

“Name and rank soldier.”

“Colonel Ignatius Malave, Pax Maria Brigade.”

“Were your men involved with this as well?”

“Our men are involved with most things, your Eminence.”

Guillaume Richarde opted to let that comment pass. “While you may not have engaged; you were seen. Picture yourself as a Sergeant with the Levantine Army in a strange country you don’t know anything about, sent to maintain order…and you see twenty-five soldiers armed to the teeth standing around a main battle tank…what would be your first response?”

“It’s a wonder you didn’t get killed.” Shouted a man with a grey beard, apparently from the Army of Kaiserstadt.

“That’s enough. Where do we stand in our preparations for the 12th?”

“On schedule, Your Eminence.”

“Thank you Colonel von Stockhausen your men in Kampfstadt will have to be the most prepared of all. Unless the port and the docks stand firm…” Guillaume Richarde trailed off. “Please present your orders of Battle, if you have not already done so, to the offices of the Royal Army or present them in person to me now. The President has announced the formation of the First Army…and you gentlemen will be it. But I swear to God…if you pull this crap any more, I will have all of your heads. Law and Order is as of now only a concept, not a reality. Don’t think I can’t do it.”

Guillaume stood up immediately. “It’s over.” He thought to himself, briskly walking to the door. Within moments he was speeding away in the Range Rover in which he had arrived. Mark Levinson, the Deputy Foreign Minister who never left Guillaume’s side, leaned in and whispered softly into his ear so as to avoid the ears of the driver. “When did the President order the formation of the First Army?”

“He didn’t.”

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

OOC: Derscon

“Quite Dramatic, your attire my friend.” Rev. Graves commented. “Let us make our way.”

The two men climbed into the waiting car. After they had driven for a few moments, Rev. Graves broke the silence. “I think that it is quite obvious to you that this visit of yours has very little to do with religion…and very much so at the same time.”

Rev. Graves reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Pulling one out with his lips, he quickly lit it and took a drag. Exhaling smoke from his mouth and nostrils he began again. “Our faith is based on logic…Christianity is the only religion (Atheism and Agnosticism included) that has developed a systematic theology that is necessary to the proper Aristotelian or indeed naturally logical understanding of our world. Logic and learning are returning to Reichskamphen…to the Empire. While oppressive governments may prove tyrannical…chaos is a more powerful tyrant. Law and order are returning. While I can’t tell you all that I know…I can tell you this.”

Graves handed him a folded slip of paper. Upon it was written a short quotation from scripture, “For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given, and the government shall be upon his shoulders.”

“Driver. To New Geneva…the Cathedral.”

TO: Queen Katherine Alexandra Dallas of Jeruselem
FROM: Colonel Samantha D'Harcourt of King of Jerusalem's Personal Guard

Hi Kate! This place Reichskamphen is a mess. It's hard to tell who's actually part of the Government of Reichskamphen and who's just another armed idiot. We nearly shot at some of local troops here. Considering everyone seems to armed around here, seeing troops with a armed tank isn't something you'd want to see when guarding a government facility. Good thing our troops aren't trigger happy. We figured, the tank was government one. We did have the tank covered in case it decided to fire on us. Them new portable missile launchers were trained on it.I think it's just down to a lack of coordination. They should know where the troops from Jeruselem are and we should know where the local troops are. But it's been hard work.

There's not too many women I can talk to around here apart from the girls in the Jerusalem army here. Not much shopping to either even if you had money to spend. Some clowns decided to annoy us with a bit of random gunfire, but our snipers shut them up. The guys think my boobs stick out too much. They make great cushions in case I fall on my face. These new magazines for our rifles are funky, can double as a machine gun tripod although they can be heavy if fully loaded.

Otherwise not much to report on! Good thing you aren't here, it's not the safest place around. Say, send me more games for my Wii - there's not a lot to do so I need a little more entertainment here. I wouldn't mind a copy of Call of Duty X. Actually the game is bit like this place, and I'm sure it'll help me survive here. I'd get something from you from here but I can't find anything cool to buy you as yet. Maybe I should head to some of local antique stores.

Your friend
Sam

Blazhei smirked at the comment. "It's an old and coloured uniform for an old and coloured man, Reverend." Of course, Blazhei looked no older than the young Reverend Graves, but all people of Reichskamphen who actually visit and know of Derscon understand that their northern neighbours were a different breed altogether. Undoubtedly, some probably still considered them all devil worshippers, a reputation hardly dispelled by Tsar Xavier's escapades.

In the car, he glanced over at Graves as he lit up, hiding his disapproval. Ultimately, though, a little second-hand smoke was hardly a major blow, considering all he had been through in the past hundred or so years, so there wasn't any need to address it.

Blazhei Voikinov listened closely to the minister's cryptic talk, sifting through it to respond. "Law and Order. Heh." He sighed. "Prussia has produced some of the most benevolent yet conservative monarchs the world has ever seen. Never indulgent and always just. So rare is it to find this match." He turned away from the window, gazing into Graves with his purple eyes. "But I have seen many tyrants use that phrase merely to impose their will and power upon an unwanting populace. Not only Emperor Allistaire, but Tsar Xavier, and many others in history." He smiled, and turned back to staring out the window.

"The chaos that consumed this great nation is unforgivable, and with God's Will - which I am sure it is - Reichskamphen will see glory again." He turned back once more after the prodding from Reverend Graves, to see the scripture, and everything clicked into place. He smiled.

"Pray, then, that he is indeed a wonderful councellor, and a prince of peace."

“Law and Order, my dear Blazhei…are no such thing when administered by evil men. Though darkness may wear a mask…it is always apparent that just behind the thin layer of rubber is the very face of death itself.”

The limousine suddenly came to a stop in front of a large train. The side was emblazoned with a heraldic crest. It wasn’t Imperial or anything that would have been familiar to Blazhei, but it was clearly something of aristocratic provenance rather than that of the remnants of the irreligious and mostly socialist Domitian government that still held sway in some of the larger parts of the country.

The two men traveled by train for three hours before the speeding hulk of metal came to a screeching stop. Blazhei might have noticed that strangely, the train neither passed any stations nor stopped to refuel. Rev. Graves and he were the only two men aboard and the train was only headed to one place. Even during the heady days where the New Geneva Cathedral came into a being, rising tall like a flower blooming in the desert, the Church couldn’t afford private trains.

After the train came to a stop, the two men boarded a small non-descript car and drove two more hours through the countryside. “Not quite as bad as you had expected?” Graves asked with a bit of a proud snort.

The windows weren’t terribly clean, but as Blazhei looked out through them he saw acres upon acres of farmland stretching into the distance, tickling the horizon and then disappearing. Like great metal dragons, modern farm equipment the size of large houses rolled neatly down the rows of crops…in this case hemp…leaving behind nothing but the rich mahogany earth upon which the tall plants once stood. This equipment was top of the line and there were douzains of them tending the fields within their view. This was certainly something no farmer in a third world backwater could afford. Someone was clearly not merely injecting money into Reichskamphen…it was being practically dumped in hand over fist. Far beyond the fields stood an imposing 16th Century Chateau.

The car turned left down the long dirt road leading up to the house. A few men were planting oak trees along the side of the road. They were small saplings, their rootballs wrapped in burlap. As they drove further, they noticed several more crews of men planting oaks in the shadow of gigantic holes where it seemed that at one time other great oaks had once stood; now ripped out by some passing storm…manmade or otherwise.
The house itself seemed to be in fairly good condition as the car pulled up to the front steps. As the exception of a few stray bullet marks from what seemed to be .50 caliber machine gun and some dark swirling patterns on the white limestone façade that seemed to indicate that something horrible had happened here. Something very horrible indeed.

Rev. Graves had never seen this place before either. Every time it had been in a different place; no place easier to get to than the last. He gripped the carved limestone railing to ascend the monolithic staircase.

His eyes looked up.

There were carved acanthus leaves around the top of the door embracing a large crest which was nearly illegible; chipped away by bullets. “N” Graves whispered to himself as a smile crept onto his face. “Vive l’Empereur.”

Within a few moments the crews planting oaks and cleaning had been replaced by smartly dressed men carry assault weapons, the straps of the rifles denting the pads of their suit coats. “I see we’ve upgraded our uniforms then?” Graves asked, lighting up another cigarette.

The doors opened.

A man with a shaved head and mirrored Prada sunglasses appeared in the opening. “Right this way gentlemen. And may I suggest Reverend that you put out that Goddamn cigarette.”

Blazhei and Rev. Graves walked through the door. No sooner had than they passed into the grand entrance they were met by 15 men standing in a straight line; some in suits and others in military uniforms.

“Rev. Graves, I thank God that you have returned. The Empire has missed you all. Oh…Col. Marcus Harrington Military Governor of New Thessalonika.”

“Wonderful to meet you Col. Harringon. I’m so glad that you’ve opted to join our little meetings. Gentlemen, I would like to introduce you to Blazhei Voikinov…he was one of my fathers very close associates. You can all thank God for him because it is through him or people that he has put us in contact with over the years that the Domitians haven’t wiped us out completely. Let us retire to some place a bit more secluded.”

-----
“Now, Blazhei let me start by introducing you to our committee. I am of course Rev. Peter Graves Jr. former President of the Royal Government of Reichskamphen in Exhile and the Political commander of the Sola Fide division of the Imperial Guard in Exhile. I am also the Moderator of the Presbyterian Church NS and senior Pastor of the Imperial Cathedral.”

“Senator Dominic Gibbons,” a man with white hair said as he struggled to stand, “Senior Senator from the State of Kamphstadt, Chairman of the Senate appropriations committee.”

“Dominic, I think I can handle the introductions.” Rev. Graves took a deep drag of his cigarette. The man with the shaved head stared holes through him.

“This man giving me the look of death is Marechal Kotalik. The last Marechal created before the Empire collapsed. A Dersconi like you.”

“Blazhei and I have met on a few occasions.” The man with the shaved head piped up. “Embassy dinners and such…when there was an Embassy.”

But there is one person you are here to meet more than anyone else. “Marechal Alexandre Brune.” The heads of all assembled turned as the diminuitive old man was wheeled into the room. The men turned and whispered furtively to one another. For most, this was the first time they learned that Marechal Brune had survived.

“Gentlemen…please be seating. Dr. Graves…this is my meeting now.”

The Reverend duely sat.

“Welcome to my Chateau. You are all here because in the coming days you will be instrumental to the success of our movement. On December the 12th, every trace of the last two and a half decades of Domitian government will be removed. And I pray to God that it will be done without firing a shot.”

“How can this be done?” Senator Gibbons demanded.

“Marechal Kotalik retains control of one of the largest armed forces in either Derscon or Reichskamphen. For those of you who don’t know or remember…he was the commander of the Dersconi Occupation force for the last year of the Occupation. The remnants of that Army still stand in good order just north of the border. They will…”

“There will be no more Dersconi Armies on our soil!” Col. Harrington stood up, his face bright red.

“That is not your place to decide Colonel. Stand down. Besides, If you will recall it was Marechal Kotalik and his troops that prevented full anarchy and chaos from spreading to Reichskamphen. When order disintegrated in Derscon and the civilian government here faltered, it was Marechal Kotalik who held the line and kept our systems in place. His army keeps order in the province across the border and on countless occasions has prevented incursions by militias into our Kingdom.”

“Not to mention,” Marechal Kotalik added, “We have been funneling money to the Monarchist resistance for years. Derscon is lost, but your success here means a chance of restoring the Empire and perhaps restoring Derscon one day.”

“Everyone shut up and let me finish.” Marechal Brune stood up slowly. “Kotalik’s Army will march on New Geneva while some of our Militia men will secure the approaches and prevent any escapes. Then Sola Fide along with my men will March down the Via Victoria and seize the Government by force in a bloodless coup. All Domitian officials will be incarcerated and replaced by loyal officials that we have already hand picked. The military part of this only concerns myself, the other Marechal, and the two other military people in the room. The other eleven of you will hit your stride the day after the coup when we set up a government in a matter of days. This is what you are especially here to discuss, Rev. Graves.”

* Pantocratoria *

“I wonder if he ever met our Napoleon IV…I fancy they would have gotten along classically.” President Leibnitz whispered through clenched teeth. “Maybe our decision to all but hand him our throne wasn’t a terrible one.”

Richard was not amused.

“Your Majesty. All of Reichskamphen salutes you.” President Leibnitz knelt upon one knee, and averted his eyes downward

“Richard Goddamit!” Leibnitz whispered, furiously when DuChamp did not kneel immediately. “Now.”

Richard took to one knee as well. “Your Majesty.”

Richard could only remember the last year of Napoleon IV’s reign. He was 9 at the time. He became a career soldier at the age of 18 under the reign of Emperor Joseph-Napoleon. During Marechal Brune’s invasion of Derscon, he attained the rank of Colonel when half of his division of the Imperial Marines was slaughtered covering the Dersconi retreat from the first initial disastrous battles of the war. He was shortly given command of his unit, which he utilized throughout the war to wear down Brune’s rear guard, pick off stragglers, and cut supply lines. Brune’s isolation and desperation that drove him into the fortress where he and his men met their end was due in large part to the brilliant campaigning of Richard DuChamp. Czar Xavier himself presided over his promotion ceremony when he had the title of Marechal de l’Empire conferred upon him. It turned out that only one more man after him would ever bear that title under the auspices of a Greater Prussian Monarch. Somewhere between there and here…his taste for the institution of the monarchy had considerably soured. Yet somehow amid this pomp and circumstance, the likes of which he hadn’t seen since Joseph-Napoleon, he felt more at home than he had in years

* Secure Phone Line, 5 hours later *

- Is everything on schedule?
- For the most part.
- How are things back home.
- Annoying as usual. Monarchist twits are getting far more uppity than seems necessary.
- They have three fourths of the guns in this country on their side, hired and otherwise. They have plenty of reason to be uppity. Any news from Minnie?
- He hasn’t checked in since yesterday. It appears though that there is a much bigger player on the stage than we anticipated.
- Indeed?
- Marechal Brune
- You’re joking.
- No, he’s alive. God knows how…but he is.
- Do you know where he is?
- We have an idea.
- Eliminate him.

Blazhei glanced over at Kotalik and chuckled. “Ah yes, you were just a wee little second lieutenant at the time. I haven’t seen you since I left for my first journey back when Xavier first took power. General and Marechal now? You’ve done well.”

Voikinov also turned his head when Marechal Brune entered the room. He heard rumours – and supposed them to be true – but it was still a minor jolt none the less. Alas, it was his physical state that was more of a shock. Frankly, Brune looked terrible, but it was always good to see an old friend. Brune and Voikinov had fought side-by-side against Xavier before Friedensberg was burned to the ground, and Blazhei went on his quest.

Brune spoke, and Blazhei was the first to comment upon his completion. “First, Marechal, I would appreciate if you stop treating the words ‘anarchy’ and ‘chaos’ as synonyms. Virtually all of the northern and western states of Derscon are thriving, stable, and prosperous, even without a government. In fact, it is only Greuthungland that is swimming in blood which, interestingly enough, just so happens to be the province the Second Imperial Corps happens to be stationed.

“Second: Marechal Kotalik, you are no Dersconi. How dare you ever say Derscon is LOST! If anything, it has found itself. If I here another word out of your mouth defiling our nation, I will cut you down myself.” Blazhei sighed.

“Third, unfortunately, my help is going to be limited. I can supply military resources to defend strategic areas, but it is unlikely any of the militias will want to fight in any aggressive war. Money is not and will not be a problem. I have gained resources since the collapse of the government, and Prince Tarakh might be willing to contribute some of his own money. We stand to fund the entire thing ourselves. However, looking around the table, and watching Allanea, I don’t see money being the problem.

“Fourth, I would merely like to express the support of the Christian population in Derscon. You are in our thoughts and prayers, and I would like to apologize on behalf of all Christians in Derscon for the actions of the man who pretended to be Tsar.

“And finally, I have only one request of you all. If you have any notions of restoring a government in Derscon, drop them now. Anarchy is working, and the only thing you would do is rally Derscon together to annihilate Reichskamphen, and I don’t think there would be much left to rebuild.”

Tsarhof, Derscon

"Touch! 5-2, red wins the match." Shavar Katazarov, the national karzswyar champion (Dersconi-style fencing with the Karszhak sword, an ancient sword design first known to be amongst the warrior clans of the Holy Tundra, the most unreachable and northern sector of Hrimgardr), took of his helmet and saluted his opponent. "Well, they didn't lie. You're good. That's three times in a row you beat me." Veliky Kynaz Tarakh Alexeitovich Andropov took of his mask and smiled.

"It's all I've been doing, since you beat me that one championship match."

"Well, your majesty, you did take it right back in a re-match." Tarakh grinned.

"Yes, but it still left its scars." Various servants began taking their gear and packing it away as the two made their way to the terrace gardens overlooking the hot spring fountains, where two glasses of Napoleon Reserve were waiting for them. Katazarov raised an eyebrow.

"I thought this stuff was all gone!" Tarakh smirked as he sat down in the chair.

"Hardly. I had the imperial cellars cleared out and moved here before the Kremlin was shut down."

"But still, there's only so much."

"Hah! Not when you have the technology we do. I sent a few barrels off to some of the colonial labs out in the Drakona System, and they figured out how to make it. I have a terraformed moon dedicated to the creation of this stuff. Most of the moon is atmospheric shielding and manipulation for year-long vinyards, and the rest of it involves actually making the stuff, and then aging it with a clever use of nanite technology. It was my father's favourite drink, and I can understand why." Shavar was visibly impressed as he sipped on the drink that, as far as the rest of the world was concerned, no longer existed, having long since having every last drop swallowed up by the Imperial Houses of Derscon and Reichskamphen.

After a few moments of silence, just enjoying the warm breeze, Shavar spoke, although nervously. "So, Tarakh, I have to ask, although it may not be my place-"

"Shavar!" Tarakh interjected, mock insulted. "How long have we been friends now? We went to the same school, for Rachek's sake. You've been my closest confidant for ages. Ask away."

"Heh. Well, I mean, what do you do here? The Crown companies are managed by others, you don't have a nation to rule over anymore, and your younger brother is off God knows where." Tarakh smirked.

"I don't even think He knows anymore." Tarakh sighed. But I bet I do.

"So what do you do?" The Grand Prince shrugged. "Well, whatever. I still keep up with world and national (if you can call it that) affairs, I'm constantly honing my psionic and swordplay skills, and I'm not entirely without an empire. The extra-solar Imperial holdings remain loyal and united as an Empire."

"Are you going to do anything with them?"

"Eh, I might. I was actually thinking about just picking up and moving to Jormungard in the Drakona System, making it the new capital of the Dersconi Empire." Shavar frowned.

"What about Earth? What about Prussia?" Tarakh sighed.

"Prussia will have its Emperor in due time. Tsar Xavier kept Reichskamphen oppressed because he feared a challenger to the throne to take his power. With Derscon out of Reichskamphen, they will find a new heir to the Prussian Throne, and the Fifth Prussian Empire will rise and be strong again, under the leadership of Reichskamphen, where it belongs."

"And of Derscon?"

"What of it? The people do not desire a government, so I have no right to impose one on them. The order is provided otherwise, except for a few hotspots in the far eastern sections, but they will kill each other out and the violence will subside. The Dersconi people do not need a government to impose its will on them, they just took five thousand years to realize it."

"Three thousand of which were ruled by your family, Tarakh."

"Shavar, far more than that, but I suppose that's not history they teach you in school." Katazarov smirked.

"The same one you went to?" The Prince laughed, almost spilling his drink over his black cossack.

"The Kremlin has a...rather interesting library, where you won't find books anywhere else in the entire bloody universe, and some maps on where to find more."

"Understandable. But still. Why don't you claim your rightful title as Tsar?"

"Because, Shavar, a monarch should only rule with the consent of the people. Besides, I don't have the Dragon Sword, so I have no right to the throne."

"Yeah. Where is that thing, anyway?" Tarakh smiled.

"I have no idea, but I bet I'll find out soon enough." Shavar looked over at him inquisitively.

"How so?" Before the prince could answer, a servant came out to the terrace.

"Your majesty, a message for you."

"Summarize it for me."

"Blazhei checked in to confirm that Marechal Brune is indeed alive. He suggests you enter the meditation chamber so as to establish a proper...erm...connection, whatever that means." He chuckled.

"What, so Blazhei doesn't have to do any work? Lazy bastard."

"Precisely, sir. He doesn't want to give anything away."

"There is no reason to spy on them. We're allies, right? Even if Derscon did invade them a few times. Blazhei can spill his guts when he gets back."

"Yes, sir." The servant left, and Shavar turned back to Kynaz Tarakh.

"What? Are you going to send troops?"

"Lord no, but I think there is a Dersconi general who thinks he has the authority to. If there is a general, he answers to me, and I'll be damned if I let one more Dersconi soldier set foot in Reichskamphen in the name of the crown."

"So what are you going to do about it?"

"Absolutely nothing. Not yet, anyway."

"When you do?" Tarakh leaned back and closed his eyes, smiling.

"There won't be much of the General left when I'm done with him."

Brune looked coldly at Voikinov. But recalling his better manners, softened his gaze. Keep your wits...he thought to himself. You're not senile yet. A fine example Voikinov was making of himself. Even though this was no televised diplomatic affair by a long shot...his outbursts greatly disturbed everyone in the room; perhaps with the exception of the military men like Brune who were accustomed to such goings on.

"Blazhei, my friend." He paused. "Before I say anything else...you don't know how wonderful it is to see you. If I could give you a hug I would but..." he pointed to the wheel chair in which he sat. His doctor had finally put is foot down and forbade him from walking except under exceptional circumstances and only then with supervision.

"Secondly, I would ask you to calm down. All men here, yourself included are on the same side. We all come from different angles and have our own desires for the outcomes of various aspects of our mission but we are all united. There are no enemies in this room and we certainly don't want to make one of you, nor do we want you to make any here. So let us allow cooler heads to prevail."

Marechal Brune stood up in a quite belabored fashion. Marechal Kotalik moved quickly to brace him. He was waved away. Count Bernadotte flashed him a disapproving look, which was reciprocally returned.

When he had gained his footing, he began. "Ladies and gentlemen…I’ve got something to say. If any of you need to catch up on your sleep in the meantime I won’t mind…” he chucked. Then he began, gravely serious, “I fought with the Emperor Napoleon IV over five campaigns. One took place before he was even crowned Emperor. My second was the invasion of Esamopia. He had just been coronated and the armies of the Empire were charged with their monarch to liberate Allanean…Imperial Soil that had been unjustly seized years before, and to overthrow a bitter anarcho-communist regime.

I came from the traditional upperclass of Reichskamphen. My family was not terribly religious, nor was I or am I…apologies Reverend Graves. But in this campaign I was put in close working proximity with not only people such as myself, but with Paisleyites and Allanean Libertarian Libertines whose views on everything aside from economics seemed so strange that I could barely fathom where they found their logic.

I was charged with the entire campaign of liberating Allanean soil while the Emperor himself led the invasion of Esamopia’s mainland. Napoleon could tell that these problems were frustrating me and on the eve of the battle, as I was on my way to review the preparations for the Armor Column’s advance and he was preparing to depart by ship to join the Grand Armada, he stopped me and said something that has stuck with me all of my life: ‘Some people call themselves Jacobins, some Paisleyites, some Republicans, some Socialists, some Communists. These are all great rhetorical constructions signifying nothing. Men are men; people are people the world over and people only believe what they see. Socialists are socialists because what they have seen has led their conscience thusly and others are monarchists for the same reason. But no man can see all…all of our decisions are made on incomplete information. So, I as a monarch will even listen to those socialists, those anarchists around me to hear why they thing one thing should be a certain way or another because perhaps their information differs from mine…perhaps they have thought of something I haven’t. And the day that I close my mind to such disparate points of view…I pray that I die because such men are already dead to begin with.’

This is not, then, Blazhei the first change that Derscon has had. It may have found itself now, but circumstances may change as I know for a fact there were times in its past when it had also found itself. When the circumstances…or should I say the people…evolved past the point where that system was right for them, another was sought. And don’t fool yourself: one thing remains the same; everything changes.

I want to be the first to assure you that this committee has no designs on Derscon beyond being of whatever assistance we can. We have enough to worry about of our own accord.

Further, in regards to my words on anarchy and chaos, and tangentially on Marechal Kotalik’s comments…I am too old to mince my words for anyone. I will call a spade a spade and I have my beliefs about anarchy, monarchy, socialism and every other kind of ism there is…and I will deliver them unadulterated no matter what anyone else may think and I demand that of everyone else on this committee as well. I encourage open communication…because it is absolutely essential. No one will be bullied into concensus on any issue, no matter how small. When this happens, bad decisions are made. People don’t voice legitimate concerns for fear of rejection or repercussions and something goes terribly wrong because they didn’t speak up and just towed the line. This is the kind of thinking that led to Napoleon the Great’s campaign in Russia, Hitler’s Campaign in Russia, and I’m sure several other Russian things.

We will respect your opinions of us, our monarchy, or whatever aspect you wish to comment on just as much as we ask you to respect the opinions of everyone gathered and not to place pressure on any group member to conform.”

“Marechal.”

“Yes Marechal?”

Marechal Kotalik stood up. “I have no desire to make enemies, your Eminence.” He looked directly at Blazhei. “Just know that my beliefs on Derscon are my own, and I speak for no one but myself. Yet…I dream of a day when a Czar will return to take his rightful place on the throne of Derscon and Greater Prussia. While I laud what progress has been made…this is my view of an ideal world and I hold it out of love for my country rather than hatred. I feel like a motherless child. The country I grew up in is become something totally different and foreign to me. If Derscon is not lost…then perhaps I am.”

Brune took in Kotalik's impassioned plea. One thing stood out to him, though. Though he had always suspected, he had never had confirmation until now of Kotalik's leanings as regarding the legitimate heir of the Greater Prussian throne. It all made perfect sense. Reichskamphen was weak. Unable to lead. According to the Imperial laws...the Czar of Derscon became the Emperor and that was that. He had been warned about the good Marechal. Kotalik answered to no one but himself and acted as the steward of the remanants of the Imperial Guard division under his command; more a warlord than a Marechal. Starting off with only the paltry two thousand Imperial Guardsmen who did not desert or otherwise obtain discharge upon the collapse of order, his force grew thick with Dersconis who fled the occupied territories of Reichskamphen where they no longer felt safe and shortly thereafter with thousands upon thousands of Reichskamphians: police, soldiers, fire-fighters, and other such governmental officials who had collaborated with the Dersconi occupiers. Though it eventually turned out that the formerly Dersconi-backed Domitian government didn't collapse or revert into an all out civil war, many of these men stayed. Why, Brune could never understand. Atleast, Brune thought, he's on our side for now. Truth be told no one wanted much to do with him, but with a ballooning army of tens of thousands of men under the control of one man just north of the anticipated theatre of action, the chance could not be taken that he might take this opportunity to sweep south. Keep your enemies closer and such...

“Are we quite don with all of this crap?” Senator Gibbons piped up.

Marechal Brune felt his legs about to give way. He slowly sat. “Yes I think so.”
“Blazhei, we don’t need troops. We have those. But everything else you mentioned we will take in spades. Just tell us how we can repay you.”

“Gentlemen, there is someone else you need to meet.” Rev. Graves stood. “This is the Count Bernadotte. He is, in the eyes of many, the most legitimate heir to the throne of Sweden, though his branch was unfairly passed over. He is the only available heir to a Napoleonic throne (you will recall that Bernadotte was crowned King of Sweden by Napoleon the Great) that is qualified for this mission.”

“Is he our King, then?”

Blazhei took Brune's speech in completely and without prejudice. All knew the Dersconi were a passionate people, Blazhei no exception, so he made no apologies for his "outburst." But he also knew Brune and Reichskamphen, and respected both, thus regretted the stern warning at the end of his speech, but what was done was done, and it was but a flash in time.

"Marechal Brune, you more than anyone know I have no qualms with monarchy in and of itself. I have only trouble with those that lust for power that should not be theirs. You are right; things change. But there has not been a legitimate heir to the throne of Derscon since Tsar Alexei, and it is unlikely that there will be one for some time, unless Alexei comes back from the dead. Again.

"However, on a more positive note, if it is money you need, then it is money you shall have. The Xelmark is the most powerful currency in Prussia, and I happen to be swimming in them. In fact, only Tarakh can claim to be much wealthier than I, and I believe he is on your side as well, if in a strange and indirect manner. Oh, and don't worry about repayment. A sound and stable Reichskamphen is in all of our best interests, or we wouldn't be sitting here at this table. It is an investment, not a loan." Blazhei Voikinov sat back down, at least content with the current situation.

That is, until Count Bernadotte was introduced. Blazhei scanned him quietly, and concealed his doubts. This man is to be King? he thought. I've never even heard of him. Perhaps it's time for a new dynasty... He sighed, but kept his thoughts to himself. Now was not the time.

* Kant Tower *

(OOC: ATTN Allanea)

“Dr. Magnusson, the Vice President is here to see you.” Olaf rose from his chair and walked to the door as soon as the voice on his intercom fell silent.

The large oak doors to Dr. Magnusson’s penthouse office swung wide open. Vice Present Dimitri Tamzil was an imposing figure, nearly seven feet tall. Door frames were his enemy.

“Dr. Magnusson…it is so wonderful to see you.” Tamzil reached out his hand which was something akin to the size of a small dinner plate in circumference.

Olaf Magnusson had been in the country now for six months in which time he had been nearly single handedly responsible for Reichkamphen's nearly vertical ascension from poverty. It was almost too good to be true. While New Geneva had remained affluent and erudite even past the collapse of the monarchy, its affluence had now reached new levels and in all of the other major cities, products were filling the shop windows almost as quickly as eager consumers were buying them.

The ports bustled with extremely heavy traffic. The sudden and gigantic infusion of capital from so many sources coupled with aggressively capitalist policies by a strong established government presented an amazing investment opportunity.

When Magnusson set down to build infrastructure, he found that most of what he had assumed would be twisted hulks of charred metal needed either extensive repairs or only moderate refurbishment rather than total replacement. This freed up a great deal of the budget for alternate options.

“Dr. Magnusson, I have a bit of good news for you.” Tamzil informed him as he confidently strode in the door, walking straight past the two guest chairs facing Magnusson’s desk and settling into the Dr.’s own high backed leather office chair. “Pending permission from your government, the Senate has confirmed your appointment as Secretary of the Treasury.”

Magnusson walked over to the large oak cabinet in the side of the wall and withdrew a glimmering Baccarat decanter filled with an amber liquid. “This calls for a drink.” Magnusson poured two glasses and sat one down on the table adjacent to the guest chairs. Looking demandingly at Tamzil, then the glass on the table, he took a sip from his own glass. The Vice President very self consciously assumed his place on the proper side of the desk; he needed Magnusson and certainly not the other way around.

“The President and I are interested in allocating as much money as humanly possible to offer government backed small business loans. We want to keep this train rolling…”

MATER Computerised Command Complex
Command and Control Division, Imperial High Command
A secret underground location, somewhere in Pantocratoria

MATER III (Militaire Automatisé Tactique Évaluation et Réponse) is a purpose-built supercomputer, which effectively serves as the command and control mechanism through which the Imperial High Command controls Pantocratoria's military. It, or she as Mater is sometimes called (since its primary interface is speech-based, with a cold, vaguely female voice), is the only source of the Imperial High Command's information, and the only channel through which it issues orders. Her specifications are top secret, as are the algorithms which power her decision matrix.

MATER had been processing the various reports the Imperial Foreign Intelligence Service had compiled in recent times on Reichskamphen. They were sparing indeed - ever since the virtual collapse of Greater Prussia, Reichskamphen had been reclassified from being a potential threat state to mostly harmless. The IFIS reports were, therefore, largely based on information in the public domain and analysis derived therefrom. MATER had already presented to the Imperial High Command the available intelligence overviews about Reichskamphen's current situation, and about Nathaniel Gerhardt von Leibnitz and Richard DuChamp, back when the first overtures had been made to Pantocratoria.

On the basis of the IFIS reports alone, MATER found little logic in their motivations behind coming to Pantocratoria. An analysis of their biographies suggested that neither von Leibnitz nor DuChamp were irrational men, however, and so MATER had drawn the only logical conclusion - the overtures to Pantocratoria were necessary to counterbalance the threat posed by another political group to the political ambitions of von Leibnitz and DuChamp's faction. MATER had then re-analysed the IFIS reports to put together a likely picture of von Leibnitz and DuChamp's political opposition.

The most alarming report, in MATER's view, was the re-establishment of the Imperial Cathedral and the Presbyterian Church NS. Years ago, MATER had classified the Presbyterian Church NS as a hate group implacably opposed to Pantocratoria's national interest. This classification had been based on IFIS assessments of PCNS and upon MATER's own determinations about what constituted the Pantocratorian national interest. Although MATER had nothing to do with the arrest, or extradition proceedings of Reverend Peter Graves, MATER had authorised the use of maximum force in the pursuit of the terrorists who attacked the Palais de la Cour Criminelle and "rescued" Graves from the hearing. MATER regarded the re-emergence of the Presbyterian Church NS under the leadership of the younger Reverend Graves as an undesirable development, but made no assumptions that the younger Graves would be as virulent as the elder. The younger Reverend Graves and his organisation was therefore not classified as a threat to Pantocratoria, but MATER regarded it as an alternative political power base in Reichskamphen which might now or in the future pose a threat to the political ambitions of President von Leibnitz.

MATER noted a perfunctory sentence in a lone IFIS report which noted the presence in New Geneva of an obscure nobleman, second-in-line to the throne of an obscure country called "Sweden" which almost nobody would have heard of if it weren't for the fact that some of the Varangian Guard was recruited from it. The genealogy databases listed this obscure nobleman's ancestry, and MATER therefore understood the potential significance of Count Bernadotte. The IFIS hadn't explained Bernadotte's presence or even noted it as potentially of concern. MATER sent an email to the Director-General of IFIS to advise that the analyst responsible for Reichskamphen be reassigned - Buonapartes were of obvious significance to Greater Prussia. Perhaps Bernadotte was visiting political enemies of von Leibnitz, and perhaps those enemies intended to transform a Swedish irrelevancy into a Napoleon V.

There was of course always the matter of the military, and the military situation on New Geneva was confused to say the least. It had initially been assumed by IFIS that most military formations deployed in or around New Geneva were loyal primarily to Derscon. Recent developments had led the assessment of that to change, and by and large, there were no significant signs that the military was operating independently of von Leibnitz's government. Nevertheless, the number of formations deployed in New Geneva was unusual by world standards, even if it seemed normal by those of Greater Prussia. MATER decided that while the military, or a political faction with control over a number of divisions in New Geneva, was well placed to orchestrate a military coup of von Leibnitz's government, there was no evidence available to suggest that such a coup was being planned.

MATER began to brief the Imperial High Command. The conversation did not move beyond the conversation trees she had anticipated. The High Command was always so predictable - a finite set of rational actors with a finite set of quantified motivations which made it easier to predict than a given arbitrary group of people. MATER then called the Director-General of IFIS, and instructed IFIS to greatly expand its Greater Prussian operations. Anarchy was an ally of infiltration, and MATER made it clear that she (speaking for the Imperial High Command, of course) expected and required a number of field agents inserted into New Geneva. It would be necessary to monitor the PCNS, the various military formations, and as far as was possible, Count Bernadotte.



The Imperial Court of Christ Pantocrator
Old Quarter, New Rome, Pantocratoria

If the Emperor noticed DuChamp's hesitation, he did not give any sign. Instead he moved a hand serenely to indicate his brother, Prince Basil, standing beside him on one side, and another hand to indicator his daughter, Princess Zoë, standing beside him on the other. Monsieur wore a military uniform not dissimilar to the Emperor's, although it was less garishly decorated, and his face, though clean-shaven, very much resembled a younger version of the monarch. Princess Zoë took after her late mother, although her eyes and demeanour both marked her as her father's daughter (in less formal circumstances, her august expression would give way to a lighter one - perhaps her father's would too if he were ever in less formal circumstances). She wore an elaborate gown in the New Rome court fashion, with its characteristic elongated sleeves, corset and bell-shaped skirt which reached the floor, embroidered with pearls in patterns of fleur-de-lys and double-headed eagles.

"Messieurs, We present Our brother, Monsieur le Prince Basil, and Our youngest daughter, Mademoiselle la Princesse Zoë." the Emperor said.

"Your Excellencies." the pair said. Basil bowed from the neck politely, and Zoë curtsied deeply.

"We note with pleasure the re-emergence of responsible government in Reichskamphen, and it is Our sincerest desire that it will be rendered permanent in the interests of restoring stability and prosperity." the Emperor began. "We desire very much to do all that is practical in the pursuit of that interest, and We trust that Your Excellencies will, in Our interview this afternoon, advise Us what actions We may best take in the shared interests of Reichskamphen and Pantocratoria."

The statement was a formality, of course. The Emperor did not expect foreign envoys to state their business in the full public gaze - the time for that would be this afternoon in the scheduled meeting with the Imperial Chancellor and Foreign Minister.

OOC: If you would prefer to advance time to that interview, we can skip over the assumed court ceremonial etc and move straight to that.

“It’s astonishing that this place is still intact.” Guillaume Richarde swept his finger across the now dustless marble countertops of the Gendarmerie Imperiale. Intricate mosaics dotted the floor and elegant frescos swept grandly across the domed ceilings. During the Dersconi occupation and the years of Domitian government, all but half of the first floor of this monstrous structure had been abandoned. The Dersconi backed police only used enough of the building for a proper police station. It was nothing short of a miracle that in all the years of the occupation they never found any of the subterranean expanses of what was now being called The Palace of Justice…or if they did they never let on. The records of the last Empire both electronic and otherwise had been hastily stuffed into these medieval catacombs upon which the Palace stood. Stashed among the records were countless valuables; priceless works of art, tons of gold bouillon, and even the Crown Jewels of Emperor Napoleon IV and of the old Reichskamphian. The fact that these things hadn’t disappeared seemed to indicate that the Dersconis were none the wiser of the tunnels’ existence.

“So what’s the news today?” Guillaume asked, nonchalantly pacing around the circular office.

“We have received as of yet unconfirmed reports that Marechal Brune is alive and in Reichskamphen.” Barked the man sitting at the intricately carved desk in the center of the room. He lifted his legs up and placed his crossed legs upon the surface of the desk. The patent leather gleamed in the few tatters of sunlight that crept threw the early dawn clouds and into the three story tall windows of the office.

“This…” Guillaume picked up a ceremonial sword from its hanger on the wall. He released it from his scabbard. “This I have heard General von Bilder.”

The man was taken aback. “We just got this information the moment before you walked in, Sir…you couldn’t possibly have…”

“Further displaying your incompetence as Director of Military Intelligence will not improve your lot.” He pointed the blade at the man, staring down the length. ‘Well balanced’ he thought. “Finish the Report.”

“The individual state militias have coalesced into one faction and…”

“Yes, under my direction, and they now serve at the discretion of the President.”

“There appear to be preparations underfoot north of the city for large scale military deployment.”

“See…this is what I pay you for Erich.”

“Marechal Kotalik’s men have left their winter quarters and the first advanced pickets just arrived north of New Geneva today and are setting up a camp large enough to quarter the whole Army.”

“He is not a Marechal, nor even a General.” Guillaume Richarde corrected the old soldier. “He is a warlord, a butcher. He ordered the execution of nearly 5000 nobles and former employees of the crown when he served as Military Governor. He turned Fort Carson” he gestured out the window to the old Imperial Guard base which was once again bustling with activity, “Into a gigantic torture chamber.”

“Sir, these statements do not mesh with the facts available to the agency.” Von Bilder removed his feet from the desk. “Even after the collapse of Dersconi rule…this information hasn’t come out. Are you sure that…”

“I’m far more sure than I’d rather be.” He unbuttoned sleeve, and raising it to his shoulder revealed a patchwork of scars from razor blades, knives, cigarette burns, and other things that couldn’t be quite identified.

“I’m sorry sir.”

“The information about this will not come out, atleast as long as I live. Our President and Vice President, half the Cabinet, and almost all of the Senate were deeply involved with the Government of Senator Domitius’ and information like that can bring this whole thing crashing down. I am willing to forgive in order to move forward.”

“Kotalik’s Army, Exellency?”

“Go on.”

“We estimate his strength at about 25,000 men, thus, about 7,000 under arms. One of our informants in a village just over the border reported a reconnaissance patrol passing his village and crossing the border into Reichskamphen. We have yet to ascertain the wearabouts of this patrol, but we hope to have them located soon.”

“Most troubling.”

“Sir, our city is garrisoned with 15,000 men under arms and we have 10,000 more a half day’s march from here. I think this is a minor nuisance.”

“How many of those men would turn tail in an instant. How many would openly fight for whomever opposes us? His propoganda machine has made Kotalik out to be some kind of Monarchist War Hero. With Napoleonic sentiment running fairly high here…what is to say we are not especially prone to having the entire garrison defect.”

“Sir, before you say anymore…may I speak freely” Von Bilder stood from his desk.

“Yes.”

“Is my agency to work for or against the re-establishment of the Monarchy? I will follow my orders as directed by you, yet I have no clue what it is that you want.”

“Order.”

“Order, sir?” Erich walked over to a small box perched upon his book shelf and gingerly picked it up. “Order by rule of the crown, or order as dispensed by the Senate?”

He opened the lid to reveal a single laurel leaf cast in solid gold. A note was glued to the top of the lid.

“To: Mayor Gerhardt Volckner
From: Emperor Joseph-Napoleon

Gerhardt,

This is my coronation gift to you, a leaf from my crown. Whatever may happen, I am entrusting the protection of this to you and to your family. When the time is right, I hope you will entrust it to God.

Blessings and Peace,

Joseph-Napoleon


“What is this?” Guillaume Richard edged towards Von Bilder, not wanting to seem to eager.

“A gift that the Emperor Jospeh Napoleon gave to my Grandfather many decades ago. A leaf from his crown. It was passed down to my mother when he passed on, and she passed it in turn to me when she died. I have no idea what to do with it, other than let it sit here.”

“When the time is right, I hope you will entrust it to God.”

“These are my personal items! Have you been rambling through my things you perfidious…”

“I have one too.”

Thankyou for tuning in, this is GPNN the Greater Prussian News Network. We will be rejoining ‘This is the Day: with Andrea Zimmerman’ after this.

Interim President Nathaniel Gerhardt Leibnitz and Defense Secretary DuChamp are in Pantocratoria today meeting with the Emperor and the Imperial Family. While Press Secretary Marcus Macquarrie has indicated that these talks are purely of a diplomatic nature in regards to reconstruction and reestablishment, sources close to both men indicate that the future of the Monarchy in Reichskamphen is of the utmost concern in the ongoing deliberations.

Guillaume Richarde Lefebvre de Centreville III, formerly Foreign Minister, was today appointed Arch Chancellor by the Senate Transition Committee in a 12-3 vote with all but the 3 radical left Domitian Republicans voting in favor. This position effectively combines the posts of Foreign Minister and Minister of the Interior to create a figure in the Executive Branch just below the Vice President.

Also, Earlier this morning, Army Chief of Staff Gen. Edouard Rieck held a brief press conference on the threat now posed to New Geneva by Marechal Kotalik’s resurgent militia.

“While there is no need to worry, we are raising the alert level to code orange. We are currently tracking the Marechal’s movements and are well prepared to counter him with overwhelming force should he venture south of the border.”

Tomorrow will also be the 45th anniversary of the assassination of Emperor Napoleon IV. Memorial Services will be held in the Imperial Cathedral at Noon.

Now, back to “This is the Day”

“Welcome back.” The middle aged woman sat curtly in her chair. She wore a bob haircut with thin blonde strips cutting through the dark brown mass that was the rest of her hair. Her very conservative pantsuit seemed to indicate the same thing as even the rocks cried out; this woman meant business.

“So for the past five weeks our resident Domitianista, Joan, and I have been debating over the Monarchy. And it looks like Joan was right…though I am want to admit to such failures in my judgment.”

“Well, happens to the best of us Andrea.” The lithe blonde woman sitting at the desk beside Andrea casually flung her bouncing curls over her shoulder.

“See...to my mind, Leibnitz and DuChamp going to visit the Emperor of Pantocratoria would be no different than digging up Robespierre and Marat and sending them as ambassadors. Of all of Senator Domitius’s thugs and henchmen…they have the most blood on their hands.”

“You know full well that those are only accusations and have never been proven.” Fire reigned in her bright blue eyes. They narrowed as the gazed on Andrea. “Senator Domitius advocated relocating the nobles and can’t be held accountable if the Dersconis decided to kill them.”

“Whatever. Not at issue.” Andrea flung her hands in the air. Her rings glinted as they caught the stage lights. “The point is that three fourths of our interim government are holdovers from the Domitian years. Hell, our Vice President is the man’s grandson. Give me one good reason why any of them have any vested interest in restoring the Monarchy…”

“Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“Of course…but something about this just isn’t right.”

“I think President Leibnitz has tried to make this a moderate government by appointing former exhiles to top level positions…like Arch Chancellor de Centreville.”

“That’s one man, Joan.” Andrea picked up her pen and clicked it a few times. She noticed what she was doing and quickly put it down. “and he has no history in Reichskamphian politics. As he’s only been back from exhile for two months, you’d expect him to be a Monarchist. Domitius had his father put to death.”

“Now Andrea…”

“Sorry, the Dersconis. But at any rate, in all of his speeches he sounds more like a moderate Republican than anything else. The only real monarchists are low level functionaries that they trot out to make themselves look good.”

Joan ran her fingers though her hair. “Who do you think should be king?”

“That is the national question, now that it seems there will be one for certain.” She tented her fingers in front of her mouth contemplatively. “If we can’t find a Napoleonic heir…” she moved her hands back into her lap. “Then we have to decide which part of our heritage is more legitimate. Napoleon was succeeded by the Bourbons and so it should be acceptable to crown a Bourbon as the first King of Reichskamphen was Napoleon II. However, this land was given to Napoleon II as a birthday present from the Austrian Emperor…which means a case can be made for searching for a Habsburg heir.”

“That told me nothing.”

“We are both a French and a German people…but above all we are Napoleonic people. We should offer the crown to Pantocratoria. We will graft in a new branch…a new tree…which will be stronger than the old. It is our best chance to establish a new stronger dynasty.”

Tsarhof

Tarakh choked on his drink when Andrea mentioned the crown going to Pantocratoria. What?! He clicked off the television and facepalmed. Those bluebloods are too worried about their empty rituals and decaying bloodlines than the strength of an Empire. It would be one thing if the ruling families of Reichskamphen and Pantocratoria were gods or god-like, as the Andropovs were. But they weren't. They suffered the same defects as the monarchs of old did - trapped both by genetic decay and ritualism.

His brother, Kynaz Sanin, back from his adventures, shrugged. "You knew this was a possibility, Tarakh."

"I didn't think it would actually happen." He sighed. "But, it could just be speculation on the part of an announcer. I don't think they would hand the crown over to the nation that sold out Reverend Graves. At least, I don't think they would be that stupid." Sanin chuckled.

"Tarakh, I think they would give the crown to Lucifer himself if he happened to be next in line."

"Probably right. But I don't think Brune is that stupid, nor cares as much about rituals as the rest of the fools to our south." He thought for a moment, then smiled.

"Perhaps you should pay a visit to Kotalik and Voikinov, then stop by and say hello to Razladanov for me. I'll go down and talk with Brune...and then pay a visit to our old family friend in Allanea."

Later that day...

The Emperor received President Leibnitz, Secretary DuChamp, Chancellor Drapeur and Minister Raoul in the palace library, a long hall of the approximate dimensions of a ballroom, with upper and lower balconies extending about ten yards all along the edge of the room. Marble banisters lined six staircases on each of the long walls between the library's three levels. Bookcases lined the walls and extended out in orderly rows, but the vast bulk of the floor space was taken up with tables and chairs for reading and quiet discussion. The ceiling was decorated with huge rococo paintings arranged into panels framed in gold and silver leaf. The centre panel's painting was entitled "The Omniscient Christ" and depicted Christ as the all-knowing God, somehow comfortable and royal simultaneously, at home in the library. The panels in each corner depicted one of the Four Evangelists, each writing their respective Gospel, with each painting incorporating the traditional devices associated with each Gospel author. Underneath the all-knowing gaze of the centre painting, down on the ground floor, was a large table of porphyr lined with white marble, surrounded by four indoor fountains (also in white marble), each a sculpture depicting a humour. The sound of the fountains, whilst not over-powering, carried throughout the library so as to drown out the noise of distant conversations. This had the effect that if one were to talk in a normal conversational tone at the marble table, someone seated at another table or standing in the balconies above would not be able to hear.

The meeting took place at that very table. The ground floor was deserted of courtiers, cleared of all except the Varangian Guard, pages and servants. Courtiers moved about the balconies above, keen to see and be seen, but unable to hear any substance of the discussions occurring around the table. The Emperor was seated in throne of silver, with a high-backed chair, and purple cushions. Seated across from him in an impressive gold-leaf chair (if not quite a throne) on red cushioning was President Leibnitz. On the Emperor's right hand side, in more ordinary seating, were Dr Thibault Drapeur, the Imperial Chancellor, and Mr Demetrios Raoul, the Foreign Minister. Across from them, on the President's right hand side, was Secretary DuChamp. The Emperor, who had changed from the clothes he wore earlier into more typical New Rome court fashion, initiated the discussion.

"I understand that the situation in New Geneva is improving but still in a state of flux." the Emperor began, dropping the use of the Imperial 'We' for this meeting, as it was no longer a formal reception and now a business discussion. "I hope you appreciate that Pantocratoria sincerely desires to be of assistance in assuring the stability of responsible and reasonable government in Reichskamphen. Your Excellencies should not be bashful nor feel it necessary to be indirect for fear of being impolite, but rather, you should feel free in stating your purpose and desires openly."

"We are open to any reasonable request." Drapeur added.

Leibnitz felt the lump in his throat like a jagged lump of coal. He looked into the Emperor's austere eyes. He knew those eyes. Somewhere he had seen them before.

"Thankyou for seeing us, Majesty." he averted his eyes to the floor. It had been a long time since he had been in the presence of real aristocracy. "Things in New Geneva itself are completely stable from a basic economic standpoint and in regards to security and organization. The issue is spreading these gains to the surrounding country. All of the country is currently directly under the control of my government in New Geneva with no sign of disorder or rebellion. However we must take steps to ensure that political affairs of the general populace do not make themselves the sandgrain that seeds a pearl of civil-war."

Now was the time. The Rubicon...not a river, but a person sat in front of him. Behind him his past. Socialism. Anarchy. The stern face of Senator Domitius haunting his every move, scolding him in his dreams and ridiculing the trappings of Monarchy that now were being built up around him. "You are not the one." Domitius always told him. Every night he heard it, like the Serpent of Eden whispering with his flickering forked tongue into his ears. Every morning he woke up and lived it. Perhaps this phantom of the long dead man was right. "I never will live to see the end" he often thought.

"Lacta alea esto." he thought.

"Your majesty, Secretary Duchamp and I have come to you for two reasons. The first and most immediate is to petition for your monetary and/or substantive aid in the reconstruction of the Kingdom from years of Athiestic Socialistic...and most lately Anarchistic hell."

The color drained from Secretary Duchamp's face. He had known. He had known. But he couldn't do anything. He had just hoped that something might happen...some Deus ex Machina to remove them both at the last second. Here they were.

"Most importantly," the President continuted, "though with less immediacy, the government and people of Reichskamphen would like to begin discussions towards offering the crown of the Triune Kingdom of Reichskamphen to your Majesty, in order that he may bestow it upon a fitting member of the blood line."



That is where he had seen those eyes...

Drapeur and Raoul exchanged glances at the description of the Domitian government as atheistic and socialistic. The terms meant different things everywhere, and they understood it in the context Leibnitz intended it, to describe Domitius and his period. Nevertheless, to the leader and deputy leader of the Pantocratorian Socialist Alliance, both of whom were agnostic, the words naturally had a less sinister connotation. Raoul looked taken back by the subsequent offer of the throne, although in truth all the briefings he had been given had suggested it was likely, and the act was for show. Drapeur didn't bother with such deception, instead perceiving DuChamp's discomfort. Ordinarily priding himself on being able to read the faces of men, Drapeur found it easier to detect DuChamp's hesitation because he shared the man's doubts.

"If I may, Sire," Raoul begin with a deferential glance towards the Emperor. "I feel it would be desirable to clarify His Excellency's offer. Monsieur le Président, would it be correct to say that you are offering His Majesty the throne of Reichskamphen, to be bestowed upon a dynast of the August House of Bourbon-Comnenus-Palaeologus? That monarch would then take residence in Reichskamphen, which would continue to be governed by its own government?"

The Emperor's eyes were, perhaps, harder to read than DuChamp's facial discolouration. His gaze rarely betrayed a personal emotion, too used to conveying feelings intended for the outside world, a mask. For the moment he said nothing, waiting for Raoul's clarification to be confirmed or refuted with a more accurate statement of affairs. He looked as if nothing surprised him about the offer, but then, the Emperor always contrived to look as if nothing surprised him.

'Get over it'. DuChamp thought to himself, but in Gerhardt’s direction as he listened to him speak. Unlike Leibnitz, DuChamp had actually read the Foreign Service briefing on the men he was about to meet. He would have never uttered that quip about socialism in their presence. But then again, he wouldn't anyway. He had built his career...his life...around bringing order and peace to Reichskamphen through Socialism. He found a ready ally and mentor in Senator Domitius. 'He is probably spinning like a jet turbine in his grave.' DuChamp realized as he looked at their elegant surroundings, the noble monarch in front of him, and that bumbling incompetancy called a President that was once Domitius's right hand man; his Secretary of State for nearly eight years.

'Et tu Brute?' he could picture the old man's face in his mind’s eye. Chalky. Pallid. Deep in the heart of the unforgiving earth, enclosed tightly in the simple pine box he demanded and received. No one knew where he was buried after the State Funeral. Perhaps for the best. Oliver Cromwell had it bad enough for everyone.

Richard licked the corners of his mouth slightly.

“Monsieur le Ministre, Nous voudrions explorer plusieurs options differentes. Cela est un.”

President Leibnitz looked quizzically at the Secretary out of the corner of his eye. “Yes,” he agreed with DuChamp “This is one of the situations we would like to consider. The Monarch, though, must be in residence in Reichskamphen and will have a certain level of responsibility in accordance with his position as head of state under any eventual arrangement.”

“Ideally,” Gerhardt continued, “your dynast will serve in much the same capacity as a President in a moderately weak executive branch. He will have power to introduce and veto legislation, as well as set the foreign policy (should he so choose) from an executive standpoint. He will also serve as Commander in Chief of the Armies and be given the right to issue Executive Orders that fall within Constitutional guidelines.”

“Domestic policy,” Richard unfurled a small handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his now glistening forehead, “Is best left in the hands of the Senate, though your designate may find opportunities to influence it in other ways.”

“We should also keep in mind that any designate must be compatible with our nation’s outlook.” Gerhardt also dabbed his brow. It was very hot in here for some reason. “We are no more the puritanical sabre wielding Greater Prussian Empire of yesteryear. Our people, though now suffering a temporary setback, are much more urbane and sophisticated than even one generation hence.”

“President Leibnitz, Vice President Tamzil, and I have strove to bring together a moderate government that is a reflection of all of the voices that makeup our little political patch work quilt.”
Richard noticed now that he was profusely sweating beneath his suit coat. The back of his shirt practically clung to him. Thankfully this was hidden by his double-breasted jacket. Everyone else but Leibnitz seemed untroubled by the heat.

“Your Majesty. Could we have two glasses of ice water?”

The Emperor regarded Leibnitz's sweating brow, an uncommon sight in the middle of winter, especially in a room as large as the library, which the fireplaces struggled to heat. His expression didn't change in any way to draw attention to Leibnitz's discomfort. Raoul turned to the servants waiting a discreet distance away from the table, and gestured them towards the table. He didn't seem to notice Leibnitz's sweating, but did think it was strange to order ice water at this time of year. Then, he had never regarded Greater Prussians as being particularly normal.

"Ice water." Raoul murmured to the servants, starting a flurry of activity which ended with glasses of ice water being offered to all who wanted it.

"When you say that any monarch designate must be compatible with Reichskamphen's outlook, Monsieur le Président," the Emperor began. "I must enquire as to what you would regard to be compatible. I would not, for instance, ask a member of the Imperial Family, or any descendant of my most Christian predecessors, to convert to Presbyterianism, or any other sect or creed against their conscience. What would constitute compatibility?"

Drapeur didn't add anything at this point. The dynastic matter, he reflected, was properly left to the Emperor alone to consider. He was quietly concerned about the constitutional details of a new Reichskamphian monarchy. He was concerned that a king vested with too much power might be more of a hindrance for stability than a help, and that a Pantocratorian king who ruled as well as reigned in Reichskamphen might, in the long term, prove unacceptable to the Reichskamphian establishment and even to its people. Pantocratoria was unlikely to be able to remain aloof and uninvolved in such a scenario. All of these concerns could, however, be addressed as the detail was discussed, but now was not, in Drapeur's judgement, that time.

The two men greedily gulped down the glasses offered to them. For the moment it seemed the heat had subsided.

“There are currently no laws regarding succession to the throne of Reichskamphen aside from those which we choose to impose.” The President stated definitively.

“A Catholic monarch would be unable to attain to the throne of the Greater Prussian Empire…but as there is no Greater Prussian Empire…this shouldn’t be an issue.” DuChamp added.

“In terms of compatibility,” The President elided into DuChamp’s statement “We are seeking someone with a bit more of a traditional bent, that would bring the more conservative and courtly values of the Monarchy back to our Kingdom yet who is modern enough to understand that we have new laws regarding religion, social issues, and other such sticking points that will forbid a completely conservative stance.”

Richard felt a small tickle in the back of his throat. Nothing. He coughed lightly, but played it off as though he was merely clearing his throat. “Our government is filled with Socialists, Quasi-socialists and social liberals of all types. We are seeking to revive the monarchy to anchor our nation, our loyal opposition, and provide a foil to the highly unbalanced political status quo.”

The President also cleared his throat. He took another sip of water, draining the few remaining droplets lingering in the bottom of the glass. “Ultimately though, these things are a matter of discussion…of give and take…rather than mandates. We would seek to know definitively though, before we tender the crown, who it is that will be taking it. We shall then approve this choice from our end and bequeath the throne to your Majesty. Does this sound to be within reason?”

OOC: Going to be unavailable until Monday. Merry Christmas!

"It is not unreasonable, Monsieur le Président." the Emperor replied. "However, I should not like to advance any names without discussing the matter with potential candidates first. I should ask, so that I know with whom I should discuss this affair, the broadest criteria... You are seeking a Bourbon monarch. In France it was the custom that succession only be traced through the male line, whereas in Pantocratorian custom succession is traced through the females after the males. Are you seeking a Prince of the Blood of the Royal House of France, which would exclude those of my house descended through female lines? Or simply any descendent of my predecessors, be they a Prince of the Blood of France or not? Are you necessarily seeking a king, or would a queen do just as well?"

Leibnitz listened carefully as the Emperor spoke.

"Yes, your Majesty, we seek a Bourbon Monarch." He replied, stating the obvious. "We would prefer a Prince of the Blood for obvious symbolic reasons. We will also consider a Queen as well though this may complicate things."

DuChamp pulled his phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen unflinchingly. He leaned over and whispered into the President's ear. "We are being urgently recalled."

Gerhardt nodded.

"Your Majesty, I am afraid we're going to have to leave it there as we have urgent matters to attend to." DuChamp rose. The President followed suit.

"May we request an escort to the Airport?" Leibnitz inquired.

The Emperor almost blinked in surprise at DuChamp producing a telephone from his person, and the subsequent getting up to leave. Raoul and Drapeur's eyes went wide in shock - they had never witnessed this sort of behaviour in the Emperor's presence before. Raoul, especially, was not a delicate flower, but even he thought such an abrupt departure was rude. Nevertheless, having urgent matters to attend to at home was not inconsistent with the intelligence reports Raoul had read about Reichskamphen. If the men had to leave suddenly, he had no doubt they had legitimate cause.

"I shall see to an escort, Monsieur le Président." Drapeur cleared his throat. He stood, turned to the Emperor and bowed from the neck. "Sire, by your gracious leave."

The Emperor nodded his assent. He did not rise from his seat, but turned to the President and Secretary DuChamp.

"Gentlemen, you shall hear from us shortly. God speed on your voyage. Aurevoir." the Emperor said farewell.

President Leibnitz bowed deeply, almost beseechingly. "Your Majesty, please forgive our bad decorum. May I assure you that this is most aberrant and will not be a matter of habit."

DuChamp looked cooly at the pair and lowered his head at the neck, averting his eyes for a moment. "Le protocole surtout." he finally uttered before taking his leave.

When the two had finally made their leave of the Pantocratorian escorts and were safely within their own airplane DuChamp produced his phone and displayed the screen to the President. "It can't be..." Leibnitz stammered.

"Quite." DuChamp said with a smug sense of superiority. He promptly replaced the telephone in his breast pocket. "I have already ordered General Barthaume to cordon off the area. Generals Mitrik and Stiegl are awaiting your orders."

"Intercept."

The dust clouds swirled into the air. It was a thick rust colored plume that sloshed violently through the crisp winter air. After a while, a few of the larger tendrils that the earth had brought forth into the sky had fallen still again, dissipating into the forest’s tightly woven mesh of tree branches and scrub. Others took flight, the northerly wind bearing them on its back so that three cities were doused in a burnt sienna haze. The haze didn’t travel as far north as New Geneva, but it was visible for miles around.

From the top floor of the spire of the Imperial Cathedral, 500 stories into the air, the dust looked like some amorphous beast, lurching and lumbering on unceasingly towards the city, its mouth agape swallowing whole villages, convoys, and army groups as it passed. For a moment, the clouds undulated so that Rev. Graves almost thought he saw a pair of gargantuan eye sockets staring back at him. No, they weren’t eyes at all. Merely black caverns, deep ruts in the skull where eyes should have been. He squinted vainly to search the face for some emotion, some small breath of kindness. The ruts widened and intensified almost seeming to concentrate their gaze on the 500th story of the tower before they were finally subsumed into the perpetually moving mass.

Graves shook his head and exasperatedly wiped his face downward with the palm of his hand.

“We all knew this day was coming, Gravey.” A thick raspy voice taunted him from the shadows. “You knew it too.”

Graves reached into his pocket and produced a pack of Stossel Bolds. His face unconsciously contorted at the mockery of his name…his father’s name. He pulled back the gold leaf accented lid and pulled out a cigarette. Last one. He crumpled the package with his hand and tossed it haphazardly towards the wastebin beside his desk. It hit the rim and made a crinkling noise when it hit the parque flooring below.

“I wouldn’t light that if I were you.”

His teeth clenched down, grinding angrily, tobacco leaves broke from the masticated cigarette and proliferated themselves throughout his mouth. He gained his composure and began spitting them out little by little, occasionally picking at his tongue with his fingers to grab a few insistent hangers on.

There it was again. There were those eyes.

There was a resounding and frantic banging on the two, ten foot tall oak French doors leading into the office of the Arch Chancellor. Guillaume Richarde Lefebvre de Centreville III bolted up. He had fallen asleep at his desk again.

“Enter dammit!”

Mark Levinson hurled himself through the doors. He was a meek and small statured man of about five feet and four inches. His jet black hair was combed backwards to obscure an inobscurable bald spot on the crown of his head. Just three days hence, Levinson had been the Deputy Foreign Minister under Guillaume, but with the creation of the position of Arch Chancellor and Centreville’s appointment to it, he was promoted to Foreign Minister. In reality though, this represented no real change in his lot, as the traditional responsibilities of both the Foreign Minister and the Secretary of the Interior rested on Guillaume Richarde and Levinson served once again as his dutiful aide.

“Eminence, Generals Steigl and Mitrik are marching out of the city with half of the Garrison!”

“Why?” the Arch Chancellor leaned back in his chair unperturbed, scratching his chin. He needed to shave, he thought to himself.

“I’m not sure, but they were moving in an awful hurry.”

Guillaume picked up the telephone and dialed four numbers. “Erich. This is Guillaume. What the hell is going on with the Garrison?” He listened intently for a few moments until suddenly his eyes widened to the size of saucers. “Erich, the time to move is now. I know, I know. Do it.” He hung up the phone.

“Mark, there is an entire armored division moving up the Via Victoria from the south towards the city. This must be what Marechal Brune was up to. He must have gotten wind of our project…we are pulling the trigger now.”

“But our men wont be ready until…”

“We have no choice. Close the gates to the city and tell the Generals that now is the time the decide with whom they stand. ”

The provisional government of President Nathaniel Gerhardt von Leibnitz marked its first anniversary quietly, with the President and the Secretary of War on official duties in Pantocratoria. It was clear though, that when the sun rose upon the following day, that the quiet was that of the calm before the storm rather than an omen of continued peace.

Upon the establishment of the government one year ago, a terribly unpopular but very necessary Levee en Masse was dictated in the form of an executive order from the desk of the new President. The standing army of Reichskamphen at the time was very small, yet effective. They were crack troops trained by the Dersconis and armed with Dersconi weapons. The officer corps were Domitian appointments almost to the man and the Army as it was then had a great deal of interest, though not loyalty per say, in ensuring that Domitianism didn’t come to a bloody revolutionary end.

The new crop of officers and troops were entirely different. Two million men came from the gutters of the cities, left their plows and firesides, and cast their lot in the military. The officers were a hodgepodge of veterans and returned émigrés whose Royalist tendencies were no secret. This would not have been particularly dangerous for any moderate Domitian Republican government had there been the presence of a strong leader, or a sense of national unity, or any national goals to speak of aside from extricating themselves from the status of a third world shit-hole on the double.
This lacking, the soldiers of the army found their direction, leadership, and political beliefs from their hierarchy and their generals. The army became increasingly politicized and heavy streams of divisional transfers were seen of men with Domitian sympathies from units with a more Royalist bent and vice versa.

This left the army clearly stratified into two, sometimes three opposing factions with Generals wielding their armies as political tools for their own advancement or that of their cause. And which cause that was could shift at the drop of a hat. While there were a few stalwarts of both the Domitian and Monarchist bents, most Generals would readily throw their lot in with the side that offered them the best opportunities and the best chance of success.

* 20 Miles South of New Geneva *

“Of all the times to wish for snow.” Marechal Brune muttered as he wrapped a scarf over his mouth and nose and adjusted the goggles over his eyes. If only something would dispense with this dust.

The radio in the Marechal’s ear clicked. “Marechal, the second and third Panzer battalions have encountered a military blockade three miles north of your position.”

“All stop. Do not fire unless fired upon.” Alexandre Brune pressed the button the side of the earpiece to end transmission. That transmission was out in the open. He could only hope that someone intercepeted it. “Break formation, and double time. For God’s sake get me to the blockade.”

The treads of the Nakil 1A2 squealed and then lumbered forward. The Marechal’s tank was marked with a large fluttering Imperial Standard which the wind held aloft as the vehicle drove on the left shoulder of the dusty country road and outpaced the rest of the column. Within 15 minutes, the dirt road ended and merged into the Via Victoria, the 10 lane Expressway that began at the port of Kamphstadt in the south, ran through the old capitol of Reichsburg and ended in New Geneva, near the Dersconi border.

The line of armor stretched before him almost as far as his eye could see. So far, there was no blockade in sight. Yet, when his now more rapidly moving tank turned the wide corner towards New Geneva it was laid out plainly before him. “For once, I’m not outnumbered.” The old man exclaimed as he viewed what seemed to be a comparably sized force blocking his advance. Despite this, he knew that his division couldn’t bear a battle of more than a few hours, maybe a day or so at best. It was difficult enough to secretly assemble the troops and vehicles, it would have been nearly impossible to retain the extensive number of support troops needed to maintain an offensive and have the government remain none the wiser.

A moment later, Brune’s tank came to a screeching halt in front of the menacing barrels of several tanks, artillery batteries, and infantry units. He pulled himself out of the hatch of his tank with lightning rapidity and jumped to the ground below. His stride was powerful, quick, and confident. Beneath his dress uniform he now wore a discreet cybernetic exo-skeleton to assist his ailing body.

Across the way, behind the blockading row of tanks, a man of about fifty years of age stood watching the Marechal. “General Mitrik.” Another man of nearly the same age called out to him, striding in his direction.

“Yes General Steigl?”

“General Mitrik, perhaps we should inform Herr Marechal of the law of the land.”

“Perhaps we must.” He picked up a small mouth piece, and dialed a few numbers. The loudspeakers rigged to every government vehicle activated. “This is General Johann Mitrik of the Army of the Republic of Reichskamphen. You are gathered in violation of the Constitution and are hereby ordered to surrender your weapons, disband, and return to your homes.”

Silence.

Mitrik craned his head to see Marechal Brune standing out in the front of his formation with someone else, another elderly man sporting a powdered wig, a green Marechal’s uniform, and the chaine of the Legion d’Honneur.

Brune had hoped the government troops wouldn’t have moved this quickly. He sweated profusely. “Here goes.” He exclaimed to Bernadotte who stood beside him.
Brune tapped his earpiece and engaged the loudspeakers of his own vehicles.
“I am Alexandre Brune, Marechal de l’Empire, and commander of the Aiglon Division of the Imperial Guard of Greater Prussia. I hereby offer my services and those of my men, to le patrie, the nation of Reichskamphen and to the heir to the throne of Reichskamphen and the Greater Prussian Empire, Alexander-Napoleon Bonaparte nee Bernadotte.”

Bernadotte spoke up, swallowing the lump in his throat and hiding his overpowering fear. “You know who first spoke the words I am about to say, and you know who carried the day. I say unto you all, as Napoleon the Great did before me: If there be any among you that would slay your Emperor…let him do it now.”

“Gerry.” Richard prodded the President who was staring anxiously out the window. They were over the middle of the ocean. Land wouldn’t be visible for miles. Yet, he looked on praying that the next time he blinked his eyes the coastline would be before him.

“What is it?” Leibnitz asked pointedly.

“I have a bit more complete of a report for you.”

“Go on, Dick.”

“Generals Steigl and Mitrik are in position and have intercepted Marechal Brune’s force, which is much larger than anticipated. They are equally matched, as of present.”

“Send in reinforcements from Fort Carson!” Leibnitz shouted angrily.

“That’s just it, sir. Fort Carson isn’t responding. I believe that General Mintz has either defected to Brune or is remaining neutral.”

“What the hell do you mean neutral!?” Leibnitz flew hot with rage, his eyes glowed with the aching fire of a betrayed man. “He is a general in the Republic’s Army, he cannot remain neutral! He must fight for the State.”

“Well he isn’t. Further, on the orders of the Arch Chancellor, the gates to New Geneva have been closed, and Martial law has been declared. The remaining troops there are under his direct command and have forcefully ended the current session of the Senate.”

“Is anyone with us?” Leibnitz sank deeper into his chair. Suddenly his eyes glimmered with hope. “We have 500,000 trainees in Kamphstadt from the Levee en Masse. They aren’t finished yet, but they will march.”

“Kamphstadt has closed its gates. General Stockhausen is unreachable. I believe he is with Brune. Gerry…I am going to order the plane to turn around and head back to Pantocratoria. Perhaps they will take us in.”

“You will do no such thing.”

Leibnitz rose from his chair, unfastening his seat belt. He stuck his hand into the air, one finger pointed skyward. “If there is to be a monarchist revolt….then by God, I’ll mount my horse and lead it.”

“Gerry. Sit down. You have no audience here.”

Within no more than five minutes, a message from the Presidential plane winged its way onto every military frequency, and every media outlet.

“I, President Nathaniel Gerhardt Leibnitz, acting under the authority entrusted to me by the people of Reichskamphen and the provisional constitution of the Republic do hereby dissolve, in toto, the provisional government and all of its bodies, appointed or elected. I do also declare, according to the power invested in me, Andreus Bourbon-Comnenus-Palaeologus, Emperor of Pantocratoria to be the rightful and lawful heir to the throne of Reichskamphen and that his reign begins as these words are spoken. I now form a transitional government, in the name of His Majesty the King consisting of myself as President, Guillaume Richarde Lefebvre de Centreville as Vice President, and Marechal Alexandre Brune, our beloved hero, as Arch Chancellor and Secretary of War. God Save the King!”

Leibnitz ended the transmission. He turned to look at DuChamp’s face, his mouth agape. “To the one whom all have betrayed, you yet betray the only one who stood loyal.” Richard finally stammered after a tense silence.

“The Monarchists will want your head, if you stay Dick. I’m doing you a favor. Go home, live your life in peace with Ed, and I will make sure that you are provided for for the rest of your life.”

Richard stared out the window in silence. Who could know what effect this proclamation would have…if any. The strong possibility remained that when their plane landed, they would both be escorted off in chains.

Outside New Geneva

Blazhei Voikinov made the decision to stay with Marechal Brune and personally help with the war effort. With him were about a thousand Knights Templar, which snuck across the border in various places with the help of bribery money to the former Dersconi MSS agents that filled the Reichskamphen Border Guard, placed there back when Derscon ruled the nation.

The light infantry Knights were technically a private militia, but were all trained by ex-Dersconi Special Forces, and made up the elite of the IGUPO, some among its ranks actually being special forces soldiers from before the fall of the government. All of them now, though, donned Brune's uniform as to hide their Dersconi identity. After all, most everyone still believed that the Republicans had the support of the Dersconi Imperial Family.

When the standoff happened, Blazhei ordered the Knights to slip out unnoticed and scout the enemy positions so as to take out as many commanding officers, command vehicles, etc, as possible should violence erupt (which is what usually happens when two opposing armies meet). But with both new radio transmissions, he awoke from his battletrance in a cold sweat. Two monarchs, both proclaimed to be the rightful heirs. So wha- His thoughts were interrupted by a ring from his secure phone. Who the hell could this be?
___________________________________________

Tsarhof, Derscon

The prince brothers sat together in the command centre of the palace with a bottle of vodka and a bowl of popcorn, watching the standoff outside New Geneva on the display screens, getting the feed from the Horus Network still in employ of the Imperial Family. The various radio channels intercepted by Horus played over the speakers, with subtitles being produced on smaller screens to the side by the various quantum computers that served as the brain to the entire complex.

Sanin shot back a glass of vodka and pointed at the small dots leading Brune's army. "Center Screen, zoom and identify." Both brothers watched as the center screen zoomed in to find Brune and Bernadotte, displayed with theatre-like quality, holding the lead of the "rebel" army. Tarakh frowned. Blazhei must still be with him. Sanin grinned.

"Tarakh, weren't you still supporting the Republic? How much money did you funnel into them?" He grunted.

"Too much, it seems."

"You still gonna support them?" The older prince smirked.

"That all depends on Brune's performance here. I trust Blazhei, and I rather like Brune, but the Republic is rather nice." They continued watching as Bernadotte addressed the armies - and the nations. He read the subtitles on the smaller display screen:

“You know who first spoke the words I am about to say, and you know who carried the day. I say unto you all, as Napoleon the Great did before me: If there be any among you that would slay your Emperor…let him do it now.”

Tarakh allowed a smile to creep onto his face. Sanin arched his eyebrows. "Bold." Tarakh only nodded in response.

What happened next was rather unexpected. When the display showed Leibnitz and DuChamp's plane approaching Reichskamphen, the princes waited for some sort of monarchist planes to intercept them. Instead, they heard the radio broadcast:

“I, President Nathaniel Gerhardt Leibnitz, acting under the authority entrusted to me by the people of Reichskamphen and the provisional constitution of the Republic do hereby dissolve, in toto, the provisional government and all of its bodies, appointed or elected. I do also declare, according to the power invested in me, Andreus Bourbon-Comnenus-Palaeologus, Emperor of Pantocratoria to be the rightful and lawful heir to the throne of Reichskamphen and that his reign begins as these words are spoken. I now form a transitional government, in the name of His Majesty the King consisting of myself as President, Guillaume Richarde Lefebvre de Centreville as Vice President, and Marechal Alexandre Brune, our beloved hero, as Arch Chancellor and Secretary of War. God Save the King!”

Tarakh sighed. "This is going to get ugly." He stood up, walking over to the door.

"What?" HE could only stare at Tarakh's calm and friendly smile.

"Just relax, and follow me."

And so, in about thirty minutes, twenty thousand of the Praesillei Dei, the genetically engineered supersoldiers that made up the Andropov family's personal army, four contingents of Aumanii Shock Troopers, and a sizable amount of air support dashed to the border of Derscon and Reichskamphen, with the Andropov brothers leading the charge. Unfortunately for just about everyone else, no one had any idea what the two Andropov brothers were up to, only that a wave of destruction was heading south.

About fifteen minutes from the border, Tarakh turned to Sanin. "Get me Blazhei."

“This is your last warning.” General Mitrik bellowed.

The only response was the taunting of the opposing force.

“Open fire, kill them both.” The man said with finality, clicking a button on his mouthpiece and slamming it into its cradle.

The wind howled. It made a hollow sound as at screeched across the cold steel barrels of the cannons. For a moment it seemed as if all the world stood plainly still. Men from all sides glanced around, wondering from whence the deluge would pour. The government troops all eyed one another, questioning who would then follow these horrific orders.

“Fine then.” Mitrik barked. “If you won’t…” He drew his pistol and emptied his clip towards the two men before a single bullet splattered his brains on the asphault below. General Steigl stood above his lifeless, yet twitching corpse.

“God Save the Emperor.”

The soldiers of the blockade stood down. There was a scramble towards the two men who now lay limp on the road. It almost seemed as if a human pyramid formed around them.

A lone hand jutted up from among the tangle of limbs. Another reached out to grab it. Marechal Brune stood up slowly thanking God for his new exo-skeleton.

“Where is Bernadotte!?”

A solider burst through the door of the 500th floor office in the Imperial Cathedral. He held a paper tightly clenched in his fist. The silence was palpable. He regretted now, not knocking. A hand reached from the shadows and grabbed the paper from the soldiers hand. With a grumble from the darkness, the soldier hurriedly exited the room, leaving the door ajar.

The crumpled report then flew from the shadows and bounced off of the window where Rev. Graves peered out over the endless landscape below. "The Andropovs are sending some kind of force this way. It's huge." the raspy voice intoned in the darkness.

Graves could almost make out the jutting lines of the man's face as he sat reclined on the Louis XIV fainting couch. "What will you do then?" He enquired.

"We cannot know upon whose behalf they are intervening. But we better find out, and make sure that we are on that side."

"The Dersconi's aren't the only Army in the country. What if it would be more expeditious to actually side with Brune as he expects us to do, rather than pursue our own course?" Graves needled at his insecurities. He knew that he couldn't abide doubt. He could sense the fear in the strong man's voice.

"There is a reason we both vowed to end Brune's little masquerade to begin with. He cannot be allowed to take power. But if the Dersconis march through...the whole issue is moot." The man reached his hand into the light. The few rays of sun the peeked through the clouds bounced brilliantly off several glittering rings that adorned his rather rough looking hand. "It will be far easier to wrest the government from that decrepit man than it would be to deliver it from the hands of the Dersconis. We will err on the side of caution. Let Guillaume-Richarde have his little charade here, let Brune lead his pathetic charge...I will handle the Dersconis or march back with them. Either way, I will stand watch over New Geneva by nightfall."

"Perhaps you shall, Marechal Kotalik." Graves once again turned his attention to the window. He could hear the old soldier barking orders into the telephone on his desk.

"Abort the mission." Kotalik commanded, with beads of sweat dripping down his shaved head. "There is to be no action against New Geneva. All forces move north to intercept the Andropovs. Do not engage unless fired upon. We must determine thier disposition!" The phone crashed down on its cradle. "Stay here Gravey!" he extended a semi-threatening finger to the minister. "I'm going to the front. Let's see what these Andropovs are really made of."

With that, the Marechal escaped the city by making use of the same secret tunnels which had concealed his entrance into the city the very night before. Soon, he would be at the front to test the mettle of the man who had once been his sovreign, and may yet be again.

Command Shuttle, North of New Geneva

"Sir, movement. Looks like Kotalik's troops." Tarakh nodded.

"Scatter." When the order was given, the Praesillei Dei activated the reflective camoflauge on their battle armour, dispersed in all directions, and stayed perfectly still, disappearing to all but the command shuttle displays, and Tarakh's own telepathic senses.

Once the air support also dispersed, the command shuttle let down, and the imperial battle entourage disembarked. Sanin stayed on the shuttle as it lifted off and hovered off in the distance but on the ground, ten Aumanii Shock Troopers, ten Praesillei Dei, and ten of the Praetorian Guard stood around Veliky Kynaz Tarakh Andropov, dressed in the same jet black battle armour his father wore, carrying nothing but the Gaia Blade. The rest of his twenty thousand troops were nowhere to be seen.

Tarakh calmly and confidently approached Kotalik's battle lines, his cape floating behind him, generating a whirlwind of dust that reflected the sunlight so as to give the grand prince a divine look. The Shock Troopers hung back behind him, with two Praetorian on either side, and the rest mingling with the ten Praesillei Dei accompanying him at the front.

The Grand Prince smiled as he walked up to Marshal Kotalik. "Ah! Marshal Kotalik, we finally meet. My brother was full of praise for you." He looked around for show. "You've done well." Kotalik scowled.

"Why are you here?" Tarakh gave a mock expression of sadness to the marshal's gruffness.

"Such poor treatment to a member of the Imperial Family. I'm hurt." Tarakh scanned the faces and emotions of Kotalik's troops, understanding their fear...not of him, but of the Marshal. He smirked as he continued. "But, if we must cut to the chase, I'm here to fix things, since neither you nor the damned Reichskampheneren can do it yourselves." Tarakh then closed his eyes and raised his arms into the air. The winds began to change rapidly, picking up more and more speed, and behind the monarch, a dust storm began to form. Kotalik glared, in both fear and anger.

"What are you doing?!" Tarakh finally opened his eyes to expose their phosphorescent crimson glow, and dropped his arms, and ten thousand of the Praesillei Dei deactivated their reflective camoflauge and simultaneously jumped up, aiming their weapons at Kotalik's men, who found themselves surrounded.

"Look, Kotalik. These ten thousand super soldiers are tanks in their own right, and carry the engineering and weaponry to prove it. I have ten thousand more scattered about, possibly hiding among your own formations, undetected. I also have overwhelming air support to back me up. If I so gave the order, you would all be dead in under ten minutes.

"But I don't want that." He shook his head to emphasise the point. Tarakh had to speak louder now, as the summoned storm continued to grow in intensity. "Which would you prefer: a nation as glorious as Reichskamphen to fall into the hands of the Pantocratorian blue-blooded faggots, trapped in their empty rituals and protocols? Or in the hands of a strong and capable man like Marechal Brune? No matter your answer to this question, your faith will not be rewarded by spilling blood on this empty and meaningless battlefield.

"Kotalik, you may be a knight with your intrigue and devious skill, but ultimately you are still a chesspiece; played, manipulated, and potentially sacrificed for the greater good of the chessmaster." A fencepost flew by them, impaling itself entirely in the ground as the winds picked up to gale speed, but still the storm seemed stationary.

"So I offer you this one chance, Kotalik, to save you and your men. Derscon must wait for its glory, it needs time to relax. But Reichskamphen's time is now." Tarakh extended his hand to the Marechal. "Rise above the board and become the master, not the piece. But decide quickly," Tarakh added, smirking. "The storm grows."

Imperial Court of Christ Pantocrator, New Rome

"Quite..." the Emperor finally said, having hitherto held his tongue after hearing the transmission Leibnitz had made just moments earlier.

"That's not all." Drapeur said, having just conferred with a tall man wearing the resplendent uniform of an Air Marshal of the Imperial Air Service. "I understand Derscon has begun its inevitable interference. A significant military force, according to IFIS reports under the command of Tarakh Andropov, has marched to the border of Reichskamphen and Derscon."

"Metahuman filth." piped up a voice rarely heard in such conversations for the past few years from the salon door. It was the Emperor's sister, Princess Irene. "They were always going to interfere, despite the fact that their miserable backwater of frozen mud is in total anarchy."

"Mademoiselle." Drapeur said through gritted teeth, bowing politely to the former Chancellor.

"Chancellor." Irene acknowledged Drapeur in the most cursory fashion. She turned to her brother and bowed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Majesty, may I congratulate you on being proclaimed King of Reichskamphen?"

"You may not." the Emperor growled. He looked to Drapeur and the Marshal. "Gentlemen, the time approaches when we shall have to decide whether we are actually involved or whether to abandon Leibnitz and his phantom crown. The idea that, at this point, we could sit back, keep our fingers crossed, and then take the crown if our allies should happen to prevail, is a nonsense. We would offer very little to such an ally, and a crown gotten so cheaply would be lost just as cheaply."

"Before we decide that we're involved, Sire..." Drapeur began. He dreaded the idea that Pantocratoria would become militarily involved in Greater Prussia, a region which seemed to be a never-ending warzone. "We should be aware of the potential cost to the nation, and ask whether the potential benefit warrants that cost. There is surely little benefit to Pantocratoria or its people, and the potential price of involving ourselves with troops on the ground would be tens of thousands of lives."

"That assumes, Majesty, that we even have the capacity to pay that price." Air Marshal Manasses added. "Unless we can fly troops into bases under the government's control, we should have to build our own logistics chain to support our own ground operations."

"I am sure, Monsieur le Maréchal, that we have the capacity to send a rather large number of aircraft. I wonder whether the additional air support wouldn't tip the balance in Leibnitz's favour..." Irene wondered out loud.

"Even if we did..." Drapeur glared at Irene, and then at Manasses, not wanting to present the Emperor with options other than those which he, as Imperial Chancellor and the head of the Emperor's Government, saw fit to present him. "Would the price be worth paying? To place a member of Your Majesty's house on the throne of a country only just on the road to recovery from ruin? A country which shares a border with a nation of unhinged genetically modified lunatics? How would that benefit our own country exactly?"

There was silence for several seconds, which seemed to stretch into hours. The Emperor reclined in his chair, and regarded the Chancellor with an uncritical but still probing gaze. His thoughts were entirely his own. Finally, the Emperor spoke.

"Reichskamphen is a nation with a history, Chancellor." the Emperor observed. "A dangerous history. It has been allied with the very worst threats to international peace of my reign. Often times it has led them. This may be the only time we have the chance, however slim, to install a reasonable government in Reichskamphen which will see that, as that nation recovers, it becomes a power for good in the world, rather than a tool of animals like the Andropovs or Kazanskys of the world. This is not, nor has it ever been, about dynastic ambition. A crown offered in the fashion Leibnitz has offered it is, in many ways, anathema to the gloire of the August House of Bourbon. The idea that a legislature can make a monarch affronts Our Imperial dignity most severely. Nevertheless, I feel obliged to mortify that dignity, to affront my own pride and House, to follow in the example of my ancestor..." the Emperor indicated to the portrait of Louis XIV of France hanging on the wall of the office. "...who, in his wisdom, accepted a similar offer of the Spanish throne in order to free France of the Habsburg pincer. And I am very well aware of the price France paid for that mistake, and I am loathe for Pantocratoria to pay such a price, but Chancellor, do you honestly believe that if an Andropov puppet, or another Buonaparté, himself the puppet of a mass murderer in a marshal's uniform, assumed the throne of Reichskamphen, that Reichskamphen would become a force for international peace?"

"No, Sire." Drapeur replied, inclining his head slightly. "However, I do not honestly believe that putting a distant relative of Your Majesty on that throne would, in the end, have any other outcome. Brune and his supporters will be back, even if they're vanquished today. The Andropovs aren't going away. Even if Leibnitz prevails... whatever government is subsequently established would not be long for this world, I'm quite sure."

"Be that as it may, it seems to me that if we sit back and do nothing, then whatever great evils are visited on the world out of Greater Prussia in the future will be sins of our own omission." the Emperor replied. "I should like to speak to the people of Reichskamphen, except that I have no intention of keeping its crown for myself, and I think such a message as needs be delivered would be better delivered by the future king, not me."

"Sire..." Drapeur began, resolved that if a particular course of action was about to be committed to, he would retain as much control over its execution as possible. "With your permission, I will depart to convene an emergency meeting of the Cabinet. I will make clear to my colleagues Your Majesty's intention."

"Chancellor, if you would be so kind." the Emperor nodded. He turned to the herald standing beside Irene. "See to it that the Princes of the Blood of the House of France are brought to me here as soon as possible. And I do not mean as soon as it is convenient for their highnesses, I mean as soon as they can be brought here. Chancellor, Monsieur le Maréchal, Mademoiselle, that will be all, thank you."

The Chancellor, Air Marshal Manasses, and Princess Irene all left the office in their respective orders of precedence. As soon as Drapeur and Manasses were out of Irene's earshot, walking through the drawing rooms which led to the Sun King Room in the palace, Drapeur began barking orders to Manasses.

"Have IDIS investigate every member of the House of Bourbon who is not a member of the Imperial Family." Drapeur told Manasses. "I want the very best information available for the Emperor on all the potential candidates for the throne of Reichskamphen."

"Yes, Chancellor." Manasses nodded. "Shall I have the High Command report its different deployment scenarios to this evening's Cabinet meeting?"

"Yes, do that." Drapeur nodded. "Make sure to include casualty estimates. Mission costs too. I want options from IFIS too. I want to know what our freedom of action is in all of Greater Prussia, every mission profile..."

* Marechal Brune’s Headquarters, South of New Geneva *

Brune sat his bicorne hat down on the bare wooden picnic table before him. It had been hastily snatched from a farmers back yard and set up under the red and white striped, Napoleonic looking campaign tent in which the Marechal’s staff were now meeting. Brune was not unaware of the effects symbolism could have on the outcome of this struggle. Fluttering in the breeze outside of his tent were two standards, both adorned with gold-plated, bronze French Imperial Eagles. One standard read, in gold embroidered lettering, “l’Empereur Alexandre-Napoleon au 1er Division de la Garde Imperiale” and the other was Marechal Brune’s personal standard, an exact replica of the white flag with red diagonal stripe and three bees that Napoleon the Great used as his own personal standard in his return from Elba in 1815 when he faced down the Army that Louis XVIII had sent to destroy him.

“Monsieur le Marechal,” General Steigl bowed his head at the neck “the 3rd Division of the Army of the Interior is at your disposal.”

“Danke, Herr General.” Brune looked up at the rather lanky man who stood before him. Leaning back now in his chair he pronounced with an aristocratic air “Your division is hereby consecrated as the 2nd Division of His Majesty, Alexandre-Napoleon’s Imperial Guard.”

“God Save the Emperor.” The man meekly replied. He couldn’t help but glance at his hands where a few crimson traces remained beneath his fingernails. Traces of his betrayal that couldn’t simply be washed away. ‘What the hell was I thinking…’ he thought to himself, he hoped not out loud. He had cast his lot, though. To turn back now was suicide.

A tent flap was suddenly pushed aside. A man in a trim black suit walked through the opening. His collar was spread and unbuttoned, tieless, his Prada sunglasses glinted in the light. “I’ve just gotten off the phone with New Geneva.” He said, removing his glasses.

“Well, Edward…what is it?” the Marechal inquired.

“Centreville it seems has seized power in the city. He has closed the gates and forcibly dissolved the Senate. Further, his declaration of Martial law places him in sole command of the military forces within the city. There seems to be no great movement of any pro-Republican faction.”

“Is Centreville working with you, Ed?”

“No, Marechal.”

“He isn’t working with me either. Never could ascertain his disposition, and didn’t want to risk it.” The old man picked up his bicorne once more and placed it upon his head, tilting it slightly askew. “This may BE the pro-Republican movement.”

A moment later, Leibnitz’s Hail Mary proclamation sputtered across the radio at headquarters.

“Leibnitz ordered the government dissolved. It is dissolved.” Brune remarked in a rather somber tone. “Leibnitz also appointed Centreville as Vice President.”

“Monsieur le Marechal,” all eyes focused intently upon General Steigl who had heretofore been silent. “You were also appointed to a post by the President…I mean Mr. Leibnitz. If you are not working with him, perhaps the Arch Chancellor is not either.”

“It is possible, Alexandre, that Guillaume is rising up in support of us!” Edward Graff exclaimed.

“It is equally possible that he has his own candidate for the monarch in mind…” Count Bernadotte’s breathy and weak voice startled all present if only for the sharp contrast it represented to the highly raised voices in the General Staff’s tent. He limped in on crutches, a gauze bandage around his head and leg. “Or he could have another Republic in mind. We cannot be sure.”

“It is best that you get back to bed.” Edward moved to escort the Count out of the tent. “You’ve been shot twice and are lucky to be alive at all. If the bullet was only two inches to the left, you would have been killed, not merely nicked.”

“Let me go Edward.” He shook off Graff and proceeded to sit in an empty chair next to the Marechal. “If I am to be the Emperor, it is high time I act like one.”

“Let me do the acting for now, Monsieur le Vicomte” Brune spat out in a somewhat scolding tone. “Edward, call Secretary DuChamp and then give me the phone.”

A moment later, Brune held the telephone to his ear. Two rings. “Edward, you need to do someth…” Brune then cut off the voice on the other end.

“This is Marechal Brune. Am I speaking with Richard DuChamp? Good. Kindly present the phone to President Leibnitz.”

All eyes focused on the 95 year old Marechal. His eyes shone with a youth and vigor that some 25 year olds may never see. “One man has already died in this struggle of ours. One more has been wounded. Let us both make sure that his is the last blood to be spilled over the crown. The Arch Chancellor seems to have raised his hand against le Patrie, against us both. It is high time we sit down, all of us…you, I, and Guillaume…to sort this out peacefully. I will not raise my hand against your person, and I am even willing to discuss the validity of your decree. But we have to meet.”
“Okay.”

The following proclamation was sent to Leibnitz to have published and broadcast as he saw fit in Reichskamphen. The Emperor made it clear to Leibnitz that its publication or no was entirely within his discretion.

A Royal Proclamation
http://www.alternatenationstates.net/images/france.png

We, Andreus, King of Reichskamphen, in the name of peace and of the well-being of the people of Reichskamphen, hereby call on the rebels south of New Geneva against Our Government, led by His Excellency President Nathaniel Gerhardt von Leibnitz and His Excellency Vice-President Guillaume de Centreville, to lay down their arms. In exchange for the cessation of the hostile insurrection against Our Government, and for the pledged fealty of those taken in arms against Us, we offer a free and unconditional pardon for all crimes of a political nature committed by those rebels, including Marshal Brune and Herr Alexander Bernadotte.

In Our mercy, there will be no reprisal against any rebel who repents and swears loyalty to Us, Our Government, and Our heirs and successors under the law of the Kingdom of Reichskamphen, providing that repentance comes before any more violence is done.

For the sake of peace and the nation,

ANDREUS REX
King of Reichskamphen, France and Navarre, Pantocratorian Emperor et al, Sovereign of the Servants of Peace

Marechal Kotalik looked on unflinchingly at the awe-inspiring display of supernatural power. When the winds had calmed, he saw his men, visibly shaken. No, this would not stand. He redirected his gaze at Tarakh. His eyes began to glow a dull and opaque crimson. The soldier threw his arms into the air.

Every tree, every massive oak within sight was ripped out of the ground by its roots and hurled into the air. Sprays of dirt and rock fell all around them and some splinters of broken wood scattered across the road on which they stood. Slowly bringing his arms back down to his side, the trees seemed to just as slowly levitate downwards towards their original places and eventually settle there, much the worse for wear, when his fingertips reached his side.

“Tarakh…there is a reason I was appointed to the command of Reichskamphen in the first place. Do you think they would entrust a mere mortal to such a responsibility? So now that we have both burnished our credentials…let us chat.”

The Marechal, not at all in typical dress for one who would be presumed to be an advocate of the Monarchy, wore a charcoal, pinstripe suit with a perfectly knotted necktie. Over that, his knee length black leather greatcoat flapped in the stiffening breeze. He ran his hand unconsciously over his shaved head before replacing his mirrored sunglasses.

“Sufficed to say Tarakh, we are on the same side. Just what side that is, however, remains to be seen. I had assumed that the younger Graves would wield the same influence as his father. Yet, in all this mess he has done nothing. In the end, either Leibnitz or Brune could prove the most beneficial to our ends, and if I know Brune…I have a feeling we won’t have to make the choice. These things will be decided for us before we have the chance to act. My intent is to wait…right here on this very spot…until news is heard. Should that news not be as desired…then I will act decisively as I hope you would.”

----

“We have to make this quick. We have to get back into the city before they know we’re gone.” Guillaume Richarde sputtered as he reached for the car door handle.

“ Remind me again why we did all this if we are just going to prop up Leibnitz again?” Foreign Minister Levinson demanded, also exiting the car.

“Because Brune is an idiot. If he had pressed on to New Geneva, he could have been there within the half hour and there would have been no allegiance in doubt. With Leibnitz and DuChamp back safely in the country there is a much bigger questionmark hanging in the air than I am willing to deal with. In the very least, the old Domitian military units will stay neutral if not openly side with them. This is more than we are prepared to deal with. They are crack, battle hardened troops and we have green recruits, with the exception of Brune’s small force if he even decided to side with us in the first place.”

The two men awkwardly hurried into the small concrete bunker that lay before them. Beside the bare metal door to the inner chamber stood two soldiers in resplendent Imperial Guard uniforms as well as the personal standard of the Marechal and the standards of the 1st and 2nd Imperial Guard Divisions. The two soldiers saluted, shouting “God Save the Emperor!” and opened wide the doors.

Before them sat the who’s who of their great national tragedy. Some were expected, others were a bit more surprising. On one side of the table sat the more familiar cast of characters, Marechal Brune, the presumptive Emperor Alexandre-Napoleon, and Rev. Peter Graves Jr. Yet also beside them sat Senator Edward Graff, husband of Richard DuChamp, assumed to be solidly Republican in his stance. More shocking than anything else though was the tall and rather imposing figure of the now former vice President, Dimitri Tamzil, the grandson of Sen. Domitius himself, and almost the entire retinue of former Domitian Generals who’s disposition had been so much in doubt.

On the other side of the table sat President Leibnitz and DuChamp who were joined by several recently repatriated émigré Generals who would have been assumed to have Monarchist leanings. Perhaps they did. Some already saw Leibnitz as the potential saviour of the Monarchy despite his radical past and his declaration for the Pantocratorian Emperor must certainly have satisfied some of these stalwarts.

Here, Guillaume Richarde Lefebvre de Centreville, Arch Chancellor of the Republic, faced the decision anew. Nothing bound him to sit on either side. He could choose freely. Yet he knew in his heart of hearts that a Bonaparte Emperor would be the worst possible thing for a Reichskamphen, for a Greater Prussia just now clawing itself back onto the world stage. Even if he showed none of the aggression and intolerance of his predecessors, the name enough would form coalitions against le Patrie…something that no one needed. He sat on the right hand on President Leibnitz. After a moment of hesitation, so too did Levinson.

Marechal Brune began. “Now that we are all here, and we all know the score…let’s begin with your decree, President Leibnitz. Count Bernadotte and I are both willing to accept this under a few conditions…”

Bernadotte looked on at Brune his mouth agape. “We most certainly will no…” Brune kicked him violently under the table, but did not avert his gaze from the President.

“These conditions are as follows:
1. The re-establishment of the Greater Prussian Throne, which will of course be offered to Emperor Andreus.
2. The reworking of your last minute decree to reflect a consular form of government with all consuls having more or less equal power and authority. You will of course be First Consul, I Third, and Monsieur le Vicomte de Centreville will be Second.”
The Marechal tented his fingers and leaned forward. “I would also ask that Count Bernadotte be declared a Prince Imperial, though without right of succession, and be given a domain and stipend in accord with such a position for the duration of his life. You must also decree Marechal Kotalik to be an outlaw and enemy of the state, to be captured dead or alive. His influence here must come to an end.”

----

Two hours later, a press conference was called before the Senatorial Palace. Before the microphone stood a rather downcast Count Alexandre Bernadotte; mastered used and defeated in all things. Behind him stood the new order; Leibnitz, Centreville, and Brune.

People of Reichskamphen, and of the Greater Prussian Empire…as the head of the Houses Bonaparte and Bernadotte I do hereby re-establish the Greater Prussian Empire and all the glories, splendors, and traditions related thereto. I do also assert my divine right as the head of the Houses Bonaparte and Bernadotte to the crown of Reichskamphen and the Greater Prussian Empire.

As a matter of course, it must be then observed, that the action I am about to undertake I do not do as representative of the Senate, or of the People, or of any government not established in my name. I take this action in my capacity as the Emperor of Greater Prussia who reigns by the Grace of God.

I do now abdicate the throne of Greater Prussia and of Reichskamphen in favor of Emperor Andreus Bourbon-Comenus-Paeleologus, divinely ordained to reign, and by the Grace of God as Emperor of Greater Prussia, King of Reichskamphen, King of France and Navarre, Emperor of Pantocratoria, et. al. God Save the Emperor!” The dejected and broken man took leave of the microphone, and quite unexpectedly, the stage as well. The silence was thick, unctuous, and quite palpable. The crowds and the press stood in shock.

Marechal Brune took the podium. “Our great national trials are at an end.” The sentence was a veritable cannon volley against the anarchy and destruction and darkness of the past. “Emperor Napoleon the Great brought an end to the bloody and violent revolution of his day. He found the Crown of France laying on the ground and he picked it up with a sword. In our day we have experienced bloodshed and death and destruction at the hands of many foes who will go here unnamed and the Emperor’s line no longer has the power to stop it. The last Bonaparte Emperor, Alexandre-Napoleon Bonaparte nee Bernadotte will also go down in history as being among the noblest of men, though not for the strength of his sword or the power of his will…but for the sharpness of his mind and the noblesse of his actions. He recognized that le Patrie needs solidarity and strength, something that cannot be provided any longer by the blood of the Bonapartes which has been spilled and diluted beyond recovery. He recognized that this is the quintessentially Napoleonic thing to do, to put an end to disorder and impose peace. Moreover, this represents an event in history far more significant than Reichskamphen or Greater Prussia being at peace. This represents a reconciliation of ancient grudges, of hatreds deep seeded and not easily killed. The differences between the Auguste House of Bourbon and the House of Bonaparte have come to a end. The differences between the revolution and its progeny and le Ancien Regime have come to an end. The Bourbon Monarch Andreus has been given whatever gravitas and power the Revolution or our Emperor ever possessed…the divided crown is once again subsumed into one glorious monarchy. Andreus is now heir to every claim the House of Bonaparte has upon Greater Prussia, upon France, upon Europe, upon the World whether or not he views them as legitimate…they are his.

I hereby pledge my fealty and those of the Armies of the Kingdom and the Empire to His Majesty Emperor Andreus. Long may he reign!” Beside him, a gigantic Imperial Guard standard was unfurled. Atop it sat the customary Napoleonic Eagle, but below it, embroidered alongside the symbols of the French Empire were several Fleur-de-lis. In the very centre, the golden lettering now read. “l’Empereur Andreus au 1er Armee de la Garde Imperiale”

Almost as an afterthought, Leibnitz approached the podium. “We have all settled our differences in peace, and in the name of Emperor Andreus do form a consular government with myself as First Consul, Vicomte Guillaume Richarde Lefebvre de Centreville as Second, and Marechal de l’Empire Alexandre Brune as Third and Commander of the Imperial Armed Forces.”

He paused. There had been quite a great deal of speaking. “We will now take questions from the press.” He glanced about him, taking notice of the posters of Emperor Andreus' decree which had been posted about the city, indeed the country, and broadcast upon all available media at the Monarch's request.

Tarakh smiled at Kotalik's prideful boast. I know you more than you think, dear Marshal. "I see, good Marshal, that Xavier trained you well." Tarakh continued to allow the dust storm to grow, reducing a great amount of visibility. The Prince smirked at the mention of being on the same side, playing with the Gaia Blade seemingly unconsciously.

"Well, Marshal, I would agree with that. Waiting is the best option." Tarakh continued to play with his sword, twirling it around as if from boredom, but his mind raced. Why would Kotalik want to WAIT. I know that power. It's not Andropov...Ah, yes; one of the Minor Houses. Brash, aggressive. Perhaps he is but a rook.

So Tarakh stood beside Kotalik waiting, slipping into a sort of meditative trance with the rhythmic motions of the sword.

And finally, the announcement came. Just before it finished, Tarakh made a quick but subtle motion, slipping out of his rythym and brought the sword down on Kotalik, cutting him in half. How's that for decisive? "Too Brash, Kotalik. This is why you never rose to be a Great House."

The other ten thousand Praesillei Dei deactivated their reflective camoflauge on their suits, and Kotalik's troops found them surrounded both inside and out. Tarakh turned to them, using subtle telepathic manipulations in his voice to force their passive but complete attention, standing on top of a tank so all could see. "Men of the Guard! You submitted to your fear of this butcher in the hopes he would restore your king! But this warlord wanted nothing more than his own power. He cared not for you or Reichskamphen!

"But I do. I remember my father, Tsar Alexei, your former Emperor, and how be brought stability to an Empire after the greatest emperor of them all, Napoleon IV, was brutally assassinated by the very people whom you now ally yourselves to! I speak as my father, not of my brother." Tarakh stopped to regain his breath and re-wet his dry throat, letting the dramatic pause surround the troops.

"Xavier was a cruel master, and I am ashamed to call him my brother. But every dark cloud has a silver lining. The hell Reichskamphen has been put through ultimately made men like yourselves stronger. You understand the glory of Reichskamphen and Prussia, and your eyes project the burning passion all feel for le Patrie.

"But once more, your leaders have betrayed you! Instead of the power and respect of the Bonapartes, they opt for the indulgencies and excesses of the Bourbons, that vile dynasty that cares of nothing but their own decadencies." Tarakh scanned the eyes of all of the soldiers, and pulled his right hand out from his cape, revealing a wrapped piece of fabric. With a snap of his arm, the collapsable flagpole extended, and the flag unfurled to reveal a replica of Napoleon IV's battle flag.

"I do not ask for your allegiance to me, to Derscon, to anyone. I ask for your allegiance to yourselves, to Reichskamphen, to THIS flag!" he shouted, raising the battle flag above his head. Tarakh paused once more, bringing his voice and pitch lower than the shouting from before.

"We are brothers. Despite our differences, we have lived together in harmony for centuries. Are we to let tyrants from both of our noble Houses destroy us? Can we allow the present to destroy our past, and our future?" The Dersconi Prince jumped down from the tank, and walked amongst the soldiers, now completely captivated by his charisma.

"It may be hard for you to accept a Dersconi Prince speaking about the glories of Reichskamphen, when it was a pretender Tsar that brought about this in the first place. But I know of a time when my father, Alexei, and my Emperor, Napoleon IV, together, ruled the greatest empire ever to come across the face of the earth." He stopped once more, letting his piercing gaze flow through every soldier there.

"The bloodline lives on in more ways than one. So shall you fight for Pantocratorian subjugation? Or shall you fight for the glory of Reichskamphen?"

Valdagr, Derscon

Allaneans claim to be the freest people in the world entire. They look down upon Pantocratorians, Menelmacari, even Dersconi and others for having cultures that they regard as less free as their own. But the Allanean culture has weaknesses that patriots don't like to talk about. One of them is that the Allaneans are fond of taking up various charismatic leaders and putting them up on pedestals. Alexander Kazansky. Javivalentira. Miriel nos Feanor. The examples are many, some evil, some good.

Among those first hero-men to be idolized by Allaneans was Emperor Napoleon Sanglant, the Savior of Allanea. It was for him that the title 'King of Allanea' was created – not vested with actual power, but an honorary title, bestowed upon those who, by their leadership, had saved the nation from certain ruin. Currently, a member of the Menelmacari Imperial Family had held the title after taking over the leadership of the country during the Great Pilonese Treason.

But Allaneans are grateful people. They remember the good done to them.

And so, even now, from various corners of Allanea – but especially from the homeland, in North-East Haven, and the Mainland itself, volunteers and grizzled veterans began to filter towards anarchic Derscon. There were no formal announcements, and there were no press releases. But through the grapevine that veterans, military enthusiasts, and other such people share, the news went through: Greater Prussia needed men, again.

And so they were here. They took over the hotels of the city, booking rooms everywhere, from the lousiest huts to the most expensive suites. One of these hotels was the Hotel Imperial in the city center – and today, the owner would look in amazement as his guests formed a tight square in the front yard of the baroque building.

“Battalion! TEN-HUT!”

Six hundred men snapped their R9D rifles (http://www.forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=11693723&postcount=691) to attention, heavy bayonet gleaming in the sunlight. Their uniforms had not been produced in Allanea – rather, they were Aequatian uniforms of the Salines (http://i191.photobucket.com/albums/z317/Aequatio/Camouflage/Woodland_Salines_UBDU_ca1982.png) pattern. On the sleeves of these uniforms were brand new patches with an ancient symbol – a blood-red hand on a black shield. The mark of the Allanean Volunteer Force – once upon a time, the private army of the Prussian Emperors.

Pacing in front of the lines was a gray-haired man, his face criss-crossed with horrible battle-scars.

“Volunteers!” - he barked - “Do you read the news?”

There was a pause.

“DO YOU READ THEM?”

“SIR YES SIR!” - barked the battalion at once. The hotel windows shook.

“That's good! So you know things in the Empire suck right now! Mightily suck! And you know what that means?”

“SIR, YES SIR!” - one of the older soldiers replied.

“And what does it mean, Volunteer Johnson?”

“That the Empire needs us, SIR!”

“That is indeed the correct answer, Johnson! Now listen up, everybody! I will be frank with you. The Greater Prussian Empire is a rotting pile of shit right now! It stinks more than a Doomani slavemaster's soul! The entire place is a mess, with various factions vying for control. Now, I don't know about this nonsense about Pantocratorians being in charge of the Empire. I think it's the single worst idea since World Communism. But you know what? I think I'd probably fight under Pantrocratorian command before I allow a nutcase like Kotalik take over. “

There was a hum of assent from the crowd.

“Now, you know that they say Kotalik has a huge army. They say he has maybe five hundred thousand troops under his command. We have twenty thousand troops in this city and others, all Freemen loyal to the Empire. We have two hundred and fifty rounds for every rifle for combat issue – that's ten rounds for every soldier Kotalik has. You know what? I think Kotalik is fucked. What do you say, guys?”

“URRAH!” - the scream of six hundred throats made the hotel rooms shake.

“Good men! You're my kind of men! You're the Empire's kind of men! Now tell me, what are you going to do when you see them traitors in Kotalik's clique?”

“KILL THEM, SIR!”

“How will you kill them?”

“WITH OUR RIFLES, SIR!”

“And when you kill so many people you run out of rifle ammo, what will you do?”

“STAB THEM WITH THE BAYONET, SMASH THEM WITH THE STOCK!”

“Very well!We have Nakil tanks, we have Lyran personnel carriers, we have some serious fucking gear! We're going to run the Kotalik vermin into the ground! LONG LIVE THE EMPEROR!”

“URRRAAH! LONG LIVE THE EMPEROR!”

“VOLUNTEERS! TO – YOUR- VEHICLES!”

Hours later, the hotels in the city were empty. The AVF troops rode out towards the Reichskamphian border. They did not yet know the fate of Kotalik's faithful.

"The men and I shall do as you command, Czar Tarakh..." a rather diminutive man approached. He was also outfitted in a suit, overcoat, and appeared to have shaved his head in Kotalik's fashion. If he were shorter than average, he could almost have been a mini-me. "I am General Pietro Stanislav, second in command of the Armies of the North."

The men for their part seemed either enthused enough, or cowed enough that they would do as Tarakh requested.

"I await your orders."

Tarakh looked down at the General, suppressing a chuckle. What is this, a dinner party? The Prince touched the Gaia Blade to General Stanislav's shoulder. "First off, the shaved head thing needs to go. I'm commanding monarchists, not neo-nazis." Tarakh's command shuttle landed, with Sanin and four Praetorian Guards rushing out. In the younger prince's hand he carried a small box. When he approached, he spoke low so only his brother could hear.

"Tarakh, there are about twenty thousand AVF forces on their way here to counter Kotalik's men. They do not know of what conspired here." The Veliky Kynaz couldn't hold back a grin, and motioned the General over.

"Pietro, here are your orders," he said, handing him the box. "Accompanying that, grow some hair and find a real uniform. Take your men and execute these orders immediately. You have some lions on your tail, and it would be best if you're not caught by them." He turned back to his brother.

"Sanin, take the Praesillei Dei back to Derscon. Pretend to be discreet, but don't be. Let people know we're withdrawing, but act like you don't want anyone to know."

"Where are you going?" Tarakh didn't look back at his brother as he began taking off his armor.

"New Geneva." Sanin shrugged, grabbed his brother's armor, and moved back to the command shuttle to return to Derscon. Tarakh grabbed the Gaia Blade and moved with Kotalik's - well, his, now - army until New Geneva was close, where he broke off and made his way into the city through the tunnels Brune told him about. While he was walking, one thing couldn't leave his mind. Why did he call me Tsar?

Imperial Air Service Transport Double-Headed Eagle
Somewhere over the Atlantic

The Emperor reclined in a comfortable chair of purple leather, a strange compromise half-way between an informal throne and an airline seat. He sat at the head of a table in his personal suite in the converted airliner which had served both the Emperor and the Imperial Chancellor on official visits since early last year. The Emperor's suite (which was always left vacant if the Chancellor was using the aircraft) was decorated with a selection of his favourite paintings, and was appointed with furniture which seemed a strange mix between palace and plane. The table, for instance, was made of fine French-polished Pantocratorian oak, but the edge of the tabletop itself was lined with soft padding to stop an injury in case of turbulence.

Seated around that table were the Princes of the Blood of the House of France, who were not themselves part of the Imperial Family. These were the descendants of Prince Louis, the second Duke of Diogenia, the only son of Prince Louis-Charles Manuel Constantine Capet, the youngest son of Emperor Manuel IX. The Emperor and the Princes of the Blood who were considered members of the Pantocratorian Imperial Family, on the other hand, were descended from Emperor Constantine XXII, himself the second son of Manuel IX. The eldest of Manuel IX's three sons predeceased the Emperor. While the princes seated around the table with the Emperor where therefore not close relatives, they all shared the blood of Emperor Manuel IX, and through him Emperor Louis I/King Louis XVII of France. There were a handful of Princesses of the Blood, descended in the same male line from Manuel IX, but the Emperor had decided to exclude them from his considerations after consideration of his brief meeting with von Leibnitz, in the interests of the stability of Reichskamphen.

The eldest of the Princes of the Blood was His Highness Philippe Capet, a tall, thin man in his late forties with an aristocratic bearing, but a somewhat unfortunate hooked nose. He was married to Mme Isabelle des Muntaignes-Votos MP, a United Christian Front politician also of aristocratic bearing, the daughter of Monsieur le Comte des Muntaignes-Votos. Seated next to Philippe was his son, His Highness Louis-André Capet, a boy soon to turn fourteen. He shared his father's build and bearing, but fortunately not his conceited nose. His daughter Marie-Thérèse was at home with her mother.

The other Prince of the Blood of the House of France was His Highness Colonel Louis-Isaac Capet, the younger brother of Philippe, in his mid-forties, similarly built (with perhaps slightly broader shoulders), with a less pronounced version of the same hooked nose. At the Emperor's request he was not dressed in the uniform of the Imperial Army Legions, but he did bear the badge of the Knight Grand Cross of the Order of Saint Louis on his left breast. He had no children, although he too was married, and his wife also had a political connection, being the daughter of the (United Christian Front) Lord Mayor of New Rome.

The Emperor and the three princes were on their way, in secret, to Knootoss, where the Emperor had invited the Consuls of Reichskamphen to meet with him at an anonymous location in Eindhoven. The Imperial Foreign Intelligence Service had advised the Emperor that New Geneva was not yet secure due to its proximity with the Derscon border, where there had been excessive troop activity in recent times. This displeased the Emperor, but he wasn't about to fall into the hands of another group with strange ideas about who should rule Reichskamphen. At the same time, the Emperor didn't want to call the three Consuls far away from Reichskamphen to meet with him in Pantocratoria - if something went wrong, like it did during Leibnitz's visit to New Rome, their capacity to deal with it would be complicated by distance. Eindhoven, Knootoss was very close to Reichskamphen, and it was regarded that any potential adversary who intended to interfere with the meeting would hesitate about commencing operations in a neutral, but powerful, third party nation.

The Emperor had only ever personally met Consul von Leibnitz, and consequently, von Leibnitz was the only Consul the Emperor felt he could trust. Nevertheless von Leibnitz had received no special communication or treatment - all the consuls received the same invitation to the meeting. Consul de Centreville was an unknown factor to the Emperor, and the IFIS reports on him had been indecisive. Consul Brune had done the most to earn mistrust, and yet, the Emperor hoped that his role in the negotiations and settlement demonstrated a commitment to pragmatism which could form the basis of a working relationship. The location of the meeting had been kept, on the Pantocratorian side, top secret. If anybody interfered, they could only have found out about the meeting from one of the consuls...

The reaction to the Pantocratorian resolution of the national troubles was received with mixed opinions nationally. The main opponents of this were stalwart Bonapartists and members of the House of Bonaparte itself.

Napoleon IV, lacking a sufficient familial lineage to ensure the monarchy couldn’t be usurped simply by killing two men, had passed the Imperial Act of Adoption which formally adopted certain individuals and families into the House Bonaparte. Some were granted the right to stand in line for succession, others were merely granted voting rights in the event that succession was in dispute. While foreign members of the house such as the Imperial Family of Derscon, and the King and Queen of Jerusalem remained largely extant, the domestic branch had all but collapsed leaving only two men in Reichskamphen, Marechal Brune who won his place by his own deeds and Guillaume Richarde who inherited it from his father, Guillaume Richarde Lefebvre de Centreville II, Foreign Minister to Emperors Napoleon IV and Joseph-Napoleon.

The now dethroned Alexandre-Napoleon did not figure among the members of the Imperial family past, present, adopted or no. It was widely rumored that a secretive last minute vote of the remaining members of the house had served to adopt him formally and accord him the crown. This was made all the more strange by the fact that two members of the adopted house with succession rights were widely known to be alive: Tarakh, the heir to the now vacant Dersconi throne, and Marechal Brune himself who thrice refused the crown throughout his life, and seemed ill inclined to take it at any price.

With the great luminaries of Bonapartism openly siding with and supporting the Bourbon monarchy, the threat of a widespread Bonapartist uprising with popular support did not seem likely. On the whole, the citizens seemed to have adopted a hopeful “wait and see” attitude towards the ascendancy of Andreus.

The real threat to any Pantocratorian regime in Reichskamphen would come from the radical left, who had more or less ruled the country with an iron first for the last three decades and were ill inclined to let a Monarch usurp their place. There had developed a great national sympathy, if not always agreement, with the left wing coalitions. It had to be remembered that Reichskamphen had not seen a conservative government not to mention a monarchy for a very long time. There would be a number of people, influential or no, who would jump at the first chance to restore Republican government and the possibility was very real that among these people could be Generals who commanded the loyalty of their troops.

The Emperor needed to make, and the Consuls intended to advise him thusly, sweeping conciliatory gestures to all parties. These gestures would need to be substantive as well as symbolic in order to solidify his long term power base and to win the respect and loyalty of those from whom he needed it.

The Consuls hastily made their way to Knootoss, entrusting their duties to surrogates. Leibnitz appointed Senator Edward Graff, Guillaume Richarde tapped his deputy Mark Levinson, and Brune opted for the dubiously loyal yet highly competent General Steigl.
Accompanying the consuls on this trip once again was Richard du Champ, now a private citizen. He served as an unofficial advisor to the consulate. He would attend the meeting should he be asked by Emperor Andreus, but he would not himself ask to attend; rather he would dutifully wait outside in a receiving room.

Within an hour or so of their arrival in Knootoss, the men had arrived at their predetermined location, taking all necessary precautions for their security and that of their new Monarch.

OOC: No need for me to post a long arrival, we’ll just get on with it ☺

A secret location in Eindhoven, Knootoss
The venue for the meeting was most unlikely as compared to the opulent surrounds of imperial palaces in Reichskamphen or Pantocratoria. It was a grey, ugly office block which was minimally occupied at best. The meeting took place on an unoccupied level of the building, secured by plain-clothed members of the Emperor's Varangian Guard. The Emperor himself stood at a window looking out over a sea of grey blandness, the industrial graveyard that was this part of Knootoss, as the Consuls were shown into the room. The room was a conference room and had been well furnished for the discussions, which made an immediate contrast to the rest of the building floor, which had been stripped of its furniture by debt collectors when its last occupants went bankrupt. Seated around the conference table were two men in their forties and one boy the consuls had likely never seen before, certainly not in person and likely not really even in the press, as they were not particularly prominent in Pantocratorian public life. They were, however, descendants of a Pantocratorian Emperor, Manuel IX, as illustrated by a family tree which hung on the conference room wall for the triumvirate's information.

"Your Majesty," began the herald who showed the Consuls into the room. The Emperor turned. "Their Excellencies the Consuls of Reichskamphen, Messieurs von Leibnitz, de Centreville, and Brune."

After the usual exchange of courtesies, during which the Emperor introduced the three Princes of the Blood, everyone was seated and discussions began in earnest. Richard du Champ was invited to join the discussions at the discretion of the consuls, as an advisor to the consuls, not as a decision maker. Nobody wanted to inadvertently insult Leibnitz, Centreville or Brune by implying that Richard du Champ, holding no office, was their equal in the discussions. The Emperor began.

"Your Excellencies," he said. "When I was first approached, prior to the political settlement in which you all share, by the then President von Leibnitz, I was asked to identify a member of my house who could take the throne of Reichskamphen. The crown was only to be given to me to be bestowed accordingly. I appreciate things have changed since that time, and I will naturally be guided first and foremost by the advice Your Excellencies tender, but without advice to the contrary, I am still inclined to bestow the crown of Reichskamphen upon a member of my house rather than hold it myself."

"Permit me to explain." the Emperor continued, wishing to make himself understood before the Consuls responded. "As the Emperor of Pantocratoria, I have obligations which will require me to abide in Pantocratoria most of the time. I am also perceived, correctly, as a foreigner to Reichskamphen. I speak four languages and am a citizen of no nation, and now sovereign of two, but for all that I will never be perceived to be an international monarch, equally of Reichskamphen as I am of Pantocratoria. It is my sincerest desire that the people of Reichskamphen see the King of Reichskamphen as belonging to them, not a foreign power. It is my opinion, as yet uninformed by you gentlemen, that a foreign monarchy will struggle to command the loyalty of the people of Reichskamphen. I want to create a monarchy which will, over time, become a source of national unity... something to bring people together not divide them."

"I have also considered that a member of the Pantocratorian Imperial Family would still be extremely strongly associated with Pantocratoria." the Emperor said. "As such, members of my house who are also members of the Imperial Family, id est my children and siblings, are unsuitable monarchs for Reichskamphen. Of course, there are members of the House of Bourbon-Comnenus-Palaelogus who are not members of the Imperial Family. Their Highnesses are the Princes of the Blood of the Royal House of France. There are princesses too, and descendants of princesses, but I was previously cautioned that a queen would complicate matters. Your Excellencies, advise me. Would it be best, as I suspect, for another monarch to be found? If so, what time frame would be most appropriate?"

Brune was the first to speak in response. He had chosen to retain the use of his exoskeleton for this meeting, and one could perhaps notice the evidence of his wearing it in the few unusual ridges that the folds of his uniform fell over and accentuated. His attire was quite different from the last time he had stood before the public. Gone was his military uniform, sword, decorations, and anything hinting that this man was once the right arm of Napoleon IV and perhaps the greatest military mind in Greater Prussian history. This day, he wore a burgundy greatcoat with a bit of gold embroidery around the cuffs, a ruffled cravat, and white breeches. Atop his head was perched a tidy and unpretentious powdered wig with a burgundy ribbon around the ponytail. He had consciously decided that from this day on, his military uniform would be relegated to the farthest reaches of his upstairs closet. He had a civilian role to play and this he wished to convey to
his new Monarch in every way possible. This was not to say that he would be unwilling to lead an army army in the name of his Sovereign should the situation necessitate it, only that his reality had drastically changed.

“Your Majesty,” he began in a courtly and restrained tone, “before I address the questions you have raised to our collective attentions, let me preface this discussion with my brief perspective on the realities and the possibilities before us. These details, and our views on how to handle them will ultimately dictate the question of succession and the role that Your Majesty will need to play in maintaining this, your newest realm.”

If Leibnitz were able, he would have rolled his eyes a full three hundred sixty degrees, pupils in the back of the eye socket and back around. Yet, his face mirrored that of his new head of state; serene. It had to be so. After sharing the consulate for only a few days, all gathered were aware of Brune’s tendency to lecture without end.

“First, let us examine the situation from a military perspective. Intelligence leads us to believe that resistance to your Majesty’s rule will be severe in nature, but limited in scope. Marechal Kotalik, thankfully seems to have either been killed or has disappeared from the scene. Either way, we are far better off. Nevertheless, his deputy has moved his force south and is blocking the Southwestern passages to New Geneva. He has as of yet taken no action and declared no intentions, but his posturing leads us to believe he will take aggressive action against Your Majesty’s Government and people should a fortuitous situation arise for him. We have heard from well placed individuals that he is recruiting with great success the more radical elements of the Domitian party to his standards and has amassed an additional moderately sized force of new conscripts. Our intelligence indicates though that his formations are being harassed by assailants
of unknown origin, but we are becoming more certain by the day that they are Allanean nationals. For now, this force is fighting Your Majesty’s battles, but should this force collapse, their future actions would be hard to predict.

Our own armed forces are largely a source of concern as evidenced by their recent division over our recent national dillema. The Armies are largely politicized and accord loyalty more to the Generals under which they serve than le Grande Patrie.”

“Politically,” Guillaume Richarde raised his voice into the mix, “there are a great deal of unanswered questions as to loyalty and dispositions that may necessitate drastic action in order for them to be properly rectified. However, it is imperative that your Majesty be seen as a mediator between the factions rather than a judicial authority passing sentence. Most key figures with known Bonapartist allegiances and sympathies have openly, and it seems genuinely, accepted your Majesty as their rightful Emperor and King. This does not mean that Your Majesty does not have a great deal to prove to them, it simply means that you will not face their open opposition. The biggest threat comes from the left wing Domitian remnants whose ire is being exploited, as Monsieur le Marechal has just informed you, by antagonistic persons and factions. A great number of people in the Kingdom have deep seeded Domitian sympathies, even professed Monarchists and
Moderates. One must remember that Reichskamphen is no longer the religious and conservative country that it was once famed and reviled for being. Thirty years of Domitianism has largely wiped that reality away.”

Brune listened, nodding unconsciously. He had perhaps underestimated his new colleague’s ability to discern reality relative to his own. “Anything you would like to add, Monsieur le Premier Consul?”

Leibnitz had fervently hoped that he would fall deathly ill just before the scheduled meeting. He dreaded having to see the face of the man to whom he owed his life, and everything else for that matter. Guilt wracked the poor man, who had lost no small amount of sleep thinking about the radical way he had blindsided his new patron with his announcement and thrust the governance of an entire country into his arms without so much as a ‘please’. The Emperor would hear his apologies, but in front of the two new Consuls was not the place.

“I would like to remind Your Majesty about the nature of your newest realm.” Leibnitz leaned back in his chair. “For whatever disgust we both have had for the governance of Reichskamphen and Greater Prussia over the past half century, whatever strife and untimely destruction may have rained from the heavens upon the Empire and no matter how small it has become, you must be aware that Reichskamphen is still one of the largest nations in the world and now that she has returned to nearly 80% of her economic capacity, this is no small backwater nation you are handling. This is a mighty serpent, that though now dossile and charmed could yet turn and strike should it be mishandled. Now that the crowns of Greater Prussia and Reichskamphen sit upon your head, you can either choose to harness this force or dismantle it. Yet, as Talleyrand warned his Emperor after Austerlitz, if you choose to unmake the Greater Prussian Empire, not even you will be able
to restore it again.”

Brune spoke up, “The advice we then have for your Majesty is as follows: demobilize 80% of the strength of the Armies of Reichskamphen, and move the Capitol of Reichskamphen and Greater Prussia away from New Geneva which has become untenable for any long period of time. Placing Your Majesty’s seat of power in the old Royal Capitol of Reichsburg, far to the south of New Geneva, should provide a much safer environment from which your Majesty or your designate can effectively govern. These are actions that must be taken now before succession is even at issue.”

“Secondly,” Brune continued “your Majesty would be wise to acknowledge the importance of the kingdom of Reichskamphen by selecting a designate whom the people would be familiar with. Annointing someone in your immediately family, while it may be seen as Imperious by some factions, these are the factions that will be opposed to you no matter whom you choose. You are best to rally your base by naming someone of significance as soon as military stability has returned. I would advise though, that your Majesty keep the crown of the Greater Prussian Empire for himself. This would provide sufficient oversight to ensure that any of Reichskamphen’s political dependents or erstwhile satellites do not intervene as well allowing your Majesty to reassert his authority should the newly named Monarch prove unsuitable.”

He paused, realizing the amount of information that had just been gushed upon his sovereign was perhaps delivered a bit too quickly. “I am anxious to hear your thoughts and discuss with your Majesty other possible courses of actions and eventualities.”

Leibnitz piped up, “We are ready to receive our marching orders, so to speak.”

The Emperor nodded thoughtfully and considered all that Brune and Leibnitz had said. Brune's last point had provoked the hint of an arched eyebrow in the monarch, who was very conscious that the three Princes of the Blood were still in the room.

"I have nothing to prove to anybody." the Emperor said first in his reply. "I mean that in several ways. Most importantly, as I will not remain the King of Reichskamphen longer than is necessary, I wish the future king to be perceived as a true unifying force, for Bonapartists, Domitians and everyone else. The new king should be the one who wins the love of the people and the loyalty of the factions, for any love or loyalty I might win may not transfer in full with the crown when I set it aside. Furthermore, as you say, Reichskamphen is among the largest nations of the world. The burden of its governance is a weight you gentlemen all know very well, and it is a burden which would be impossible to share with a comparable weight, in Pantocratoria, and that would be without the additional difficulties in Reichskamphen. I cannot possibly hope to be as effective a king to Your Excellencies and the people of Reichskamphen as a king whose entire responsibility and life's work will be the task in this nation you have set before me. For these reasons, I desire to see the crown of Reichskamphen settled as soon as practical. Let us come back to the matter of the succession in a moment and deal first with the pressing issues."

"Your Excellencies advise that securing the Government is so urgent it cannot wait." the Emperor observed. "I accept that advice completely. New Geneva's proximity to Derscon and other difficulties makes it an impractical capital. I agree wholeheartedly that the capital should be moved to Reichsburg as soon as possible. Your Excellencies should take such steps as are necessary in establishing the machinery of the Government in Reichsburg. While moving it to its new location, the opportunity to ensure that the civil service is suitably politically neutral, loyal and dependable presents itself. Any appointments made by the Domitians which were perhaps the product of political affiliation and support rather than merit, for instance, can now be undone. As you move the capital then, cleanse the civil service of anybody other than those bureaucrats who can be relied upon to deliver independent advice of the highest quality. I am sure generous retirement packages can be found for men and women who you don't want to see moved to Reichsburg."

"As for the army," said the Emperor. "My only concern in following Your Excellency's advice, Monsieur le Consul, is that standing down 80% of the army will mean that I will have potentially alienated dozens upon dozens of highly-trained formations. When I stand them down, will they simply go home? Or will they rally to the closest banner raised against the Government?"

DuChamp turned to the Marechal, “Your Emminence, if I may have permission to speak?” his outward demeanor completely concealed the disgust he felt for his new position within the proverbial pecking order.

“Ask your Emperor, we are all here by his permission.”

When Andreus had serenely nodded his consent DuChamp began to speak softly, “Your Majesty may wish to look to the example of Rome, and their policy of never quartering native legions in their home territories. Your Majesty could order the deployment of 80% of the standing military to be posted on duties abroad. These are, after all, your soldiers. If you are able to find a place where they will do little harm and engage them in construction activities or something to occupy them, this could give you breathing room to implement your policies without a military threat. Should circumstances necessitate more troops than our Pantocratorian motherland can provide, we can then recall these troops provided that we take efforts to reshuffle the decks if you, ensuring that whole armies no longer become uniform in their political ambitions.”

The Marechal nodded his assent. “The integration of a Pantocratorian contingent of troops into these units may also assist in their taming, not to mention the need that Reichskamphen will have of an army from the Homeland to garrison the new capitol at the very least to ensure that your designate does not become entrapped by complete reliance on native contingents. This would simply be poor policy.”

Guillaume Richarde, having been somewhat silent until now, piped up “Might I suggest that your Majesty instill in the citizens of Reichskamphen and her dependencies a sense of direction. The Greater Prussian Empire has been reestablished and you are the Greater Prussian Emperor until the crown is passed. What was once a tool for destruction and despotism can now be, in your hands, a tool for peace and unity.”

“I agree with my colleagues,” Leibnitz interjected, “but beyond putting the nation to work on a few substantive goals and on the road towards reconciliation, you must make symbolic gestures. May I suggest that Your Majesty commissions artists to redesign the dress uniforms of the armed forces and the civil services. The Greater Prussian heraldry will need to be stripped of its Napoleonic nature. We need new flags, crests, royal orders and awards, titles…the whole edifice must be complete.”

“Under my instructions,” Brune interrupted, “the Roman Catholic Cathedral of Reichsburg is being renovated and restored. It is slated to be complete within 9 months. We must have a sacre for both the Greater Prussian Emperor and the King of Reichskamphen. You must understand the lengths to which the Senate has gone to profer this crown to you. We have removed the requirement of Protestant faith from the crown of the Empire with you or your designate in mind. We must make the Bourbon Monarchy permanent and quickly. Empower us to act, and we will make it happen.”

Winter deepened. With the return of Leibnitz also came a host of other functionaries from Pantocratoria. The elite political and diplomatic classes referred now to Pantocratoria as “The Homeland” or “le Patrie” in their public appearances and communiqués. Some of them must certainly have meant it sincerely, but the words were too common in usage to be that commonly true. The coming of the snows of January saw a thaw in the somewhat cynical sentiments of le peuple for their new monarch; this much is manifestly sure.

There remained though, a bit of uncertainty in the air. It became rumored to the point of credulity that Andreus had no desire to retain the crowns of either the Empire or Reichskamphen, but rather wished to pass them down to distant relatives. Of course, official sources never spoke to these rumors, but their silence was deafening. A group of 500 prominent CEO’s, politicians, and nobles wrote an eloquently worded petition to their monarch to retain the Imperial crown if no other.

While economically, Reichskamphen was resurgent and the reestablishment of the Greater Prussian Empire saw some return of the prestige of her crown, the grip of her government on affairs outside of New Geneva and Reichsburg remained tenuous at best. Under the tutelage of Pantocratorian advisors, the internal workings of the government were reordered to greater reflect the Pantocratorian model rather than the model of the previous empire. In truth, thanks to the depoliticization of the civil service, there were few actors on the stage with any power who wished to do anything but tow the line, let alone look backwards on the example of Napoleonic governance.

This was a double edged sword. While the civil service was loyal to a fault to the new government, it was equally bereft of imagination and initiative. They functioned as cogs in a machine, doing as they were bid and no more.

The new Royal government settled into its posh digs in Reichsburg. On the highest hill overlooking the city sat a constant reminder of the nature of the beast; the ruins of centuries old Palais Royal. Reichskamphen was no easy serpent to tame and often bit its tamer (who incidentally had yet to set foot on its soil).

He opened his eyes.

Tiny ice crystals glued his hand to the cold steel of a flintlock musket. He could still feel a few drops of blood coursing through his veins, but mostly it was the cold that coursed through him like a snake coiling its slippery scales around an unsuspecting victim before the fatal constrictions that would finish him off.

“At ease, soldier.” He heard a voice from behind him.

He turned.

Several men stood behind him, their beards thick with ice. Upon their heads sat tall bearskin bonnets and at their side, muskets. The voice came again in an accented, Italianate French “At ease monsieur le Marechal.”

The row of soldiers slowly swug aside like a rusty gate, displaying a long dead sense of choreographed military precision. When, like chess pieces, they had been moved they brought into view a stooped man, huddled in his garmets.

“l’Empereur!” he gasped breathlessly, dropping his freezing musket which somewhat unwillingly released its own deathgrip on its holder.

“Bernadotte…quit stammering and come with me. We have much to discuss, Alexandre-Napoleon.”

In the far distance could be seen a red and white striped campaign tent, the warm glow of a fire, or perhaps just a few candles emanated from the slightly open entrance flap which rustled in the stiffening breeze. It was still a far march away. Bernadotte stepped inside the square of Imperial Guard, Napoleon’s old grumbles, les grognards, and marched silently with a sense that at this unique moment, his destiny and the storied past of his family had finally met in a harmonious union.

The Emperor said nothing more as the trudged their way through the falling snow. His eyes were steeled forwards, never glancing away. Bernadotte searched his face vainly for some emotion, some betrayal of his inner feelings. He even tried to conspicuously look upon Napoleon’s face in the hope that he would then turn and speak. He had no intention of addressing Napoleon le Grand unless spoken to. The silence endured.

A few moments later, the square broke around the two men and Bernadotte followed the huddled man into the tent. He stopped for just a moment to watch as the faithful soldiers formed a square around their master’s tent. It was not quite solidified when he ducked his head under the red and white tarp to look upon the sight of the Emperor of the French warming his hand in front of a candle. In the corner of the tent sat a collection of twigs and kindling that the half frozen soldiers of the Grande Armee had offered willingly to their officers for l’Empereur. They knew how he suffered so from the cold. In defeat, in what Bernadotte could only imagine to be the desolate and unforgiving steppes of Russia, the men still loved their Emperor and would be the only ones who would remain true while other fair weather associates made their bed with the Bourbons. Even Waterloo could not forever shake the bond these men had with the guarantor of their rights,
the keeper of the peace, the heir to the very crown of Charlemagne if only he had wished to take it.

“I’m dreaming.” Bernadotte muttered with more than a hint of disenchantment. Realizing he was trapped in a dream, he tried to wake up. He could sense himself, in a strange detached fashion, laying in his bed. He could feel his eyes as he tried to force them open…but he would not wake.

“Alexandre you are dreaming…but then again you are not.” The Emperor’s voice finally sounded from the other side of the tent. His fiery eyes turned towards the Count. His aquiline nose seemed a bit rosy and chapped from the cold, but he looked no less the roman statue that all men knew he was and at the same time only became after his death. “It is a strange turn of affairs that finds the glory of my family and my name entrapped in the affairs of little German province turned Empire. Far more strange is that its hope now rests with the offspring of Belle Jambe Bernadotte, the most traitorous Marechal my sword ever made.” Napoleon opened a small wooden chest at his feet and removed a brown glass bottle from which he poured two mugs of what seemed to be icy cold cognac. “Perhaps more entertaining than anything else is that you are no Bernadotte at all, let alone an Alexandre-Napoleon. You, my boy,” though Alexandre at the age of 75
was no boy, “are the product of your mother’s lustful affair with a common shop keeper.”

“How dare you!” Alexandre threw his mug of cognac on the ground. “My father was…”

“A shop keeper…” Napoleon interrupted. “Sit down and listen. I am not finished.” The monarch scolded. Bernadotte complied, though the embers of resentment were plain in his gaze.

“I believe in the rewarding of merit, without distinction of birth. My father was little better than a shop keeper and the same can be said of nearly every man I crowned. When I met with Frederick William and Tsar Alexander…which was but a few years ago at the time you are seeing me now…I told a story to them all, and the words that began it were ‘When I was a second lieutenant in the Artillery.’” The Emperor paused and let the silence give the sentiments more weight. “This was perhaps one of the most unique scenes in history…for none of these men had ever known anything but privelege and deference. There were times when I didn’t know from whence I would find my next meal. It is that hunger that allowed me to be greater than them all…and if you find it…it will allow you to recover my work, my legacy from the Bourbon pigs which seek to extinguish it forever.”

“But sire,” Bernadotte spoke softly, “I have abdicated the crown. There is no more that can be done.”

“It was never yours to give away, my boy, and never will be.” The eagle eyed man smiled coyly “For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given, and the government shall be upon his shoulder.”

Finally, the import of that phrase struck him in its fullness. He had heard Reverend Graves say it often, but simply assumed that his scripture quotation had referred to him and his ability to become Alexandre-Napoleon.

“But how can their be an heir…your family sire…” he cast his eyes downward “Your family has been wiped out. Your very name is being effaced from the history of our world. There is no dark horse…there are no surprises…every single man and woman is verifiably deceased.”

“Do not underestimate the ability of true greatness to find its own way into the world.” The voice was different, deeper, and came from outside the waving tent flap. A man stepped in from the snow and the darkness. “Man’s contrivances and strivings can do little to halt the forward march of destiny. The words that are written in the stars will always find a way to impose themselves on the inconstant and shapeless world below. This is the way of eternity.”

Bernadotte new this face. He had never seen it in person, but in newsreel clips, or on statues or paintings. “Napoleon the Fourth, King of Reichskamphen and Allanea, King of Burgundy, Protector of the Free Cities Alliance, Emperor of Greater Prussia and all the Greater Prussians.” a soldier announced the man’s presence and quickly excused himself.

“You are not the first Greater Prussian I have visited, Alexandre.” Napoleon the Great smiled. He always loved astonishing the simple minded. “In the hour of the Empire’s greatest need, I came to my heir and gave him counsel.”

“Just as we have both visited Joseph-Napoleon” Napoleon IV said in a paternal tone, “And just as we are visiting you now.”

“What should I do, my...” Alexandre struggled to find the right address. “My Emperors?”

“Serve your King, Andreus.” Napoleon IV instructued. “He is a fair man, and a good man and the time is not yet at hand. Prepare though, for the day when you will be called to be the Steward of the Throne, to give voice to an heir that for some time will not have a voice of his own. When the fullness of destiny has arrived, we will visit you again.”

“What of Brune, of Leibnitz and the others?”

“You must tell Marechal Brune everything you have heard and seen,” Napoleon the Great nearly shouted, “and instruct him to keep it in the strictest confidence. Leibnitz and the others are but pawns of fate and time will see them disposed of as needed.”

“Brune will call me crazy…and he has betrayed your memory for the Bourbons.”

“Brune is doing what he thinks best for le Patrie. We cannot fault him.” Napoleon the Great insisted. Napoleon IV squinted his nose a bit in apparent disagreement, but he remained silent and let his elder speak. “You must treat the Bourbons with deference and respect. They are your monarchs. And when the time comes that another Bonaparte will sit upon the throne of the Empire…the Bourbons must be made our greatest ally for of all the families that once reigned, only they have remained true to their greatness.”

Napoleon the Fourth added with a knowing smirk, “Tell Brune that Angelina never loved me. It was always to him that she remained true. Whatever I did…he was always the better man.” He took a deep breath, a sign really. “Tell Brune this, and he will know you speak the truth.”
He opened his eyes.

The curtains ruffled in the cold night air. Someone had left the window open.

“Of course.” Bernadotte thought to himself. “The cold air…Russia…a dream.” Shivering he got out of bed to close the shutters. As he reached out to grab the latch he noticed the cuffs of a blue uniform with flat brass buttons. He looked down upon himself to see the same rag stuffed boots and shell jacket that he had worn but a moment before in the Emperor's tent.

He fainted.

While the consuls had made a number of good points about the reliability or otherwise of the politicised Reichskamphian military, the Emperor was very much opposed to the integration of Pantocratorian Imperial Army Legions contingents into any Greater Prussian formations. He had a number of reasons for this refusal, beyond the simple matter of maintaining the clear separation of Greater Prussia from Pantocratoria. He had no desire for Pantocratorian troops to set foot in Reichskamphen, where they could be seen as foreign occupiers. Nor did he have any desire to deploy Pantocratorian soldiers to a foreign country contrary to the will of the Pantocratorian Goverment, and he regarded it as unlikely that the Pantocratorian Government would support such a deployment.

The Emperor compromised between the advice of Consul Brune and Consul de Centreville. Rather than decommission 80% of the army, the Emperor instructed his consuls to see to the creation of a voluntary redundancy package which would be offered to all serving members of the army, officers and non-commissioned alike. The VR package would see any officer or NCO who retired paid eighteen months of their regular salary, tax free, and left them eligible for any army pension schemes or veteran's benefits that were standard in Reichskamphen now, or would be introduced in the future. This package would generously reward retirement for any soldier who wished to leave the service, which the Emperor reasoned was preferably to forcing soldiers to retire and thus possibly fostering resentment.

The Emperor commissioned Consul von Leibnitz to see to the creation of a humanitarian assistance project for the armed forces. He pointed to the deployment of Pantocratorian troops in Marlund to assist the new democratic government there build infrastructure and distribute aid as an example of the sort of worthy mission would could keep Reichskamphen's military busy abroad without depleting its strength.

Further, the Emperor asked the consuls to commit with him to a timeframe whereby the completion of the Cathedral of Reichsburg, the issue of the crowns (of Reichskamphen and the Greater Prussian Empire) would be resolved. To this end he asked the Consuls to establish an advisory committee of leading citizens drawn from every political group. The Emperor made it clear that he didn't want blind partisans on this committee, however, he wanted patriots who were representative of the broader community. He also made it clear that he wanted the advisory committee sworn to secrecy about its proceedings, and therefore, the consuls should only select men and women whom they regarded as trustworthy. When the committee was organised, the Emperor would come to Reichskamphen to meet with the consuls again in person, and then to convene the committee's first meeting. The purpose of the committee would be to investigate and interview members of the House of Bourbon, and then provide to the Emperor and the three consuls advice about the formation of a Bourbon Royal House of Reichskamphen, succession laws, and "other serious matters along these lines", which was the preferred euphemism for the concept of the Emperor vacating one or both crowns to another member of his house.

After the meeting, the Emperor returned to Pantocratoria and the Consuls to Reichskamphen. Pantocratorian advisors soon seemed to swamp Reichskamphen - although the Pantocratorian Government itself sent very few, the enthusiasm of the new state's political elite for all things Pantocratorian saw many Pantocratorian advisors come as private consultants. The new Reichskamphen civil service, in particular, seemed to shape itself after a Pantocratorian model. This had advantages and drawbacks. The Pantocratorian civil service was independent, professional and dependable. Unfortunately it was also massive, sprawling, and near paralytic. Former Pantocratorian senior civil servants brought into Reichskamphen as consultants simultaneously recognised the problems inherent in Pantocratoria's choking bureaucracy, but in advising their clients how to achieve the system's advantages, knew no other way but the Pantocratorian model.

New Bavaria, Greater Prussia

In the meanwhile, as the Pantocratorians solidified their grip over Reichskamphen, the Allaneans settled in New Bavaria, their new colony in Greater Prussia. Over 400 million people have been evicted from the Haven region but five years ago, but through the kindness of the Dersconi nobility and the leadership of Anghele, the Allaneans were slowly beginning to flourish again.

The Anghele people have transported in millions of portable homes, enough to house three thirds of the people in New Bavaria, and had provided them with affordable automobiles. The same nation had also sent in trillions in development grants to allow for roads and rail systems to be built upon the undeveloped soil of New Bavaria. Targeted tax cuts had made New Bavaria a paradise for businessmen, and very soon, the various factories that were relocated from former Roanoke Island began to re-open on Greater Prussian soil. Even the famous Kriegzimmer factories had been moved, and were now pumping out giant Be-23 cargo aircraft at impressive rates.

Six years have passed since the destruction of San-Nereiana and Roanoke, but Allanea was not yet done as a world power. For even now, the armed forced that have been once tasked to protect San-Nereiana and Roanoke Island had been relocated to New Bavaria. Hundreds of B-22 strategic bombers were now parked on the great peninsula in the north of the new colony. Havenfighters sat on constant alert on bright new runways.

The KHI company – now run by the ever-faithful Pavel – had ordered a new nuclear reactor, the NUR-50000, to be constructed a new Bavaria. It was not limited in its action merely to providing electric power to over thirty million people, but also desalinized water and ran a thermal depolimerization plant on the resultant heat and pressure. Finally, the plutonium produced was used to run something called Operation Brilliant Eagle. What it was, nobody knew, and Pavel kept silent.

Derscon itself became a home for several Allanean expats. Into the anarchic country rode Wilhelm Stossel , flanked by six hundred graduates of the Fieldmarshal's Own Personal Assault Battalion. Strangely, they took on a task that was entirely peaceful – building a community of their own in far Northern Derscon, struggling against the bitter everlasting cold to construct homes upon the Eternal Frost. Shinji Watanabe, the somber ex-general, signed up as a mercenary with the Dersconi Royal Family.

He fell face forward into the dirt.

“Dammit!”

He spit the fine dust out of his mouth. A gnarled chicken feather clung to the wet corner of his lip. He poked at it with his tongue. When his tongue recoiled into his mouth, the feather lodged itself between his bottom teeth and his lip.

“Ack!”

Two men ran past him and the chicken ran over his back. It ran wildly. It ran in vain. He saw one of the men grab the chicken’s neck. He heard the piercing crack when the other man swung the irate foul’s body around in a circle. It had just fallen limp when he pulled himself to his feet and extricated the feather from his mouth.

“I sure as hell hope you know how to take the feathers out, because I know I don’t.”

“We’ll make Maggie do it. If she wants to follow the army, she better make herself useful.”

“If you call this an Army.”

The three men looked up. A throng of thrushes hurled themselves skyward from their perch in a nearby tree. The leaves rustled loudly as the flapping of their wings stirred the air. For a brief moment, he thought he saw a large bird still perched on a high branch. The canopy lifted slightly. “Look! An Eagle!”

The men looked, but it was gone.

It was five miles back to camp. By the time they got there, most of the packing would be done. Felix saw a few discarded gas cans on the side of the road this morning. He told the sargeant and the sargeant figured them to be from a recon vehicle. Some of the locals had seemed oddly apprehensive. They looked at the soldiers with sunken eyes, like some host of inhuman creatures peering out of the shapeless darkness. Like the darkness, their lips fluttered not. They knew something. The whole counsel of nature knew something was amiss. Or perhaps it was they who were the ones amiss?

After a couple miles a flat bed truck picked them up and gave them a lift to their camp atop the hill. A wooden palisade surrounded the thing like some anachronism forged from the hands of a roman legion. They had heard it was a boyscout compound before they had come.

They came in early January. They came with the snows. The grey slush sat compacted upon the roads; harsh treadmarks where the treads of tanks pressed the filthy ice into rows of tightly packed little blocks standing erect upon the flat expanse of powder. It was March now the rows of ice blocks gave way to amorphous prints in the red mud.

“Y’all best be careful.” The driver of the truck told them, glancing down momentarily at the spray of mud droplets arcing across his door and backwards towards the truck bed. “Word says that government troops is ‘bout 5 miles due North.”

Finally someone says something. “You think this is something we wouldn’t have to guess about.” Marcus said to the man holding the dead chicken.

“We all knew.”

They walked inside, the sputtering motor of the truck fading into the distance.

No time to cook the chicken.

The General stood ankle deep in mud, screaming at a man whose head was protruding from the top of a tank. A few men gathered around him, trying to get his attention but he paid them little mind.

All of his hair had fallen out since December. The doctors couldn’t seem to figure out what was wrong, but at any rate he seemed healthy. Perhaps it was the stress of commanding such a momentous force in such perilous straits; the responsibility being forced upon him as it was. The man Tarakh charged with the task of taking charge of Kotalik’s was found hanging from a tree outside of one of their temporary encampments, a rusty pair of scissors in his heart, eyes gauged out and nowhere to be found. General Markhil wasn’t the highest ranking officer, but he was the unanimous choice of the men to ascend to this highest rank.

“General,” Felix reported, still holding the chicken “local said that Brune’s men are 5 miles due north.”

“Brune’s men are 10 miles, east Lieutenant.” He wiped a bit of mud and dust from his long black leather greatcoat, making sure that none had penetrated to his slim black suit beneath. “That’s the AVF. Brune we can handle, but those crazy bastards will gut us in our sleep if they have the chance.”
“Is that why we’re running like girls?” Marcus asked, lighting a cigarette and taking a deep drag.

His face stung.

Seeing his smoldering cigarette on the ground he looked incredulously at Markhil. “You slapped me.”

“Don’t smoke. It’s a filthy habit.”

The three men went their way, assisting the army in its frantic flight. “I remember when Markhil smoked a pack a day…” Felix shrugged his shoulders.

-------

The Consuls all three took their separate planes, bound for Reichskamphen. In due course Leibnitz and Centreville touched down, but Brune informed his compatriots that he had a small matter to attend to and would be absent for a day or two. The plane landed in Northern Reichskamphen where a waiting car stealthily rushed the aging Marechal-turned-Consul to the Dersconi border.

The Holy Tundra
Two Weeks Ago

Deep in the most northern reaches of Hrimgardr, beyond the threshold of the dead zone, where ice storms with a mind of their own prevent unseasoned travel, a great temple structure stood within the mountains and glaciers themselves, hidden from any and all view from land, air, and space, for thousands upon thousands of years.

It was inside this temple complex, kept livable by the heat of the mountains, it's own advanced temperature regulation system, and complex architecture that trapped heat (not only to keep the place livable, but to prevent it from damaging the glaciation around the complex), that in the central training chamber, a young boy fought a crimson-eyed pale warrior clad in a ritualistic battle robe.

The older man moved at near superhuman speeds, but while the child could not, he countered each action flawlessly. Finally, with subtle feint, the soldier moved in to attack the child's open target, but was met with a quick pain in his back. The child had circled under the attack and stabbed the soldier from behind before rolling off to the side, withdrawing the knife.

From behind, a man clapped slowly. “Fantastic!” Both soldier and child turned to see the hidden person walk in from the anteroom. He was the current temple master, dressed in layered and flowing gold, red, and black robes, with a blank mask covering his face, and the hood of the outer robe covering that. The soldier was carried away by two of the medics around – he would be back to normal tomorrow – and the child bowed to the master as thanks for the compliment, full of pride. It was his tenth kill since he started working with knives.

The temple master put his arm around the boy – who, mentally and emotionally, wasn't much of a boy anymore – and walked with him down a hallway to an enormous library containing scrolls, books, and computers detailing and cataloguing everything that the rulers and mystics of the First Empire might have needed or wanted. The computers, though, were updated through the modern times.

They sat down at a table already prepared for them, with a scroll, portable terminal, and a few books laying out on the stone. A few other figures were there, going through archives, studying up on material, reorganizing things, but all left the boy and temple master alone.

The temple master pulled back his hood and layed the mask on the table, exposing his snow-white but full-colored face, deep crimson eyes, and long obsidian hair that fluttered to his waist when he let it go. Vilyam let his curious and hungry eyes meet the temple master's. “So, Rachek, what will you be beating into my head today?” The temple master – Rachek – grinned back at Vilyam, and pulled up the portable terminal, and several holographic figures appeared. “Now, who are these people?” Vilyam looked carefully.

“Caesar Augustus of Rome ... Frederick the Great of Prussia ... Alexei I Andropov of Derscon ... Kaiser Baker of Wanderjar, um... Viktor Leipzig of Greater Prussia ... and Jesus? What's he doing here?” Rachek chuckled.

“And what do they all have in common?” Vilyam looked quizzically at the holodisplay. He could think of plenty of comparisons for all of the leaders, but...Jesus? Why is...oh! His eyes lit up.

“Corrupted ideas.” Rachek nodded.

“Precisely! Now, Jesus is a special example, but I put him in here to demonstrate that this concept you must learn extends with all forms of power, not just State power.” The young boy cocked his head, leaning in, waiting for Rachek to continue. “I see it in your eyes, and your genes; you will be a very charismatic leader, reshaping everything you touch into your own dreams and images, just as all of these leaders have done. This lesson I give you now is not instruction, but a warning:

“Charismatic leaders obtain a great amount of people who follow them unquestioningly. Unfortunately, these followers will amplify mistakes and radicalize doctrines. The followers will build power structures around the charisma of their leader, fueling their jihad with it. These power structures are then taken over by people not quite as noble as the man that bears their name – usually, the man's own followers. The idea that 'power corrupts' is not quite true, because it is incomplete. Power attracts the corruptible.”

Derscon
Current Time

Anarchy was the perfect location to hide in. No one cared if you entered or left, what you bought, where you lived, or anything else. The Allaneans already found this out to great advantage, after their fall in Haven.

So when a non-descript vehicle went across the Dersconi-Reichskamphen border, no one cared.

However, when that vehicle instead moved into one of the most populated cities in southern Derscon, and didn't come out again, someone might have taken notice.

But doubtful.

Leaving the city, amongst the thousands of other travellers, was a dissimilar but non-descript vehicle. However, this car went west, and eventually found itself in Tsarhof, the current residence of the two Andropov brothers.

Tarakh, since returned from New Geneva, greeted him at the front gardens and took him inside. It was a long road ahead.

Hrimgardr

“We'll have to put down here.” The pilot of the VTOL craft nodded, setting the plane down in the clearing Tarakh indicated. The craft was sparsely packed; Only Tarakh, Brune, and two Praetorian Guards sat in the back while the pilot turned off the engines. The copilot looked back.

“Now what?” Tarakh only held up his hand. After a few minutes of eerie silence, they could hear faint rumblings beneath them. As they grew louder, the copilot on the right gripped his seat in fear, and Brune looked confused, but the guards, the pilot, and Tarakh merely had an irritated look on their faces – impatient.

Suddenly, they began to sink, and the two newcomers figured out what it was – an elevator. The Prince turned to Brune. “This landing pad lies about fifty kilometres south of the dead zone. This underground checkpoint will keep the plane from freezing up, and make our travel a bit easier, since we won't have to deal with the icy winds of Hrimgardr.”

When their descent stopped, the ramp opened up and the pilot jumped back to help Marechal Brune out, who was in a wheelchair. It was Tarakh's order – best the limbs be weak than damaged, or the procedure would be far more difficult. The copilot went with a few of the attendants – all very pale from life in the ice deserts – to a barracks, where he would stay for the duration of the trip, while ten robed men approached the craft. They wore some sort of weather suit that exposed only their eyes beneath their cloaks that covered them, giving them an appearance of warrior monks who couldn't decide if it was 1500 AD or 3500 AD. They all had crimson eyes against pale skin.

“My lord, it is good to see you well. We have everything prepared as you requested.” Tarakh nodded to the leader of the group.

“Excellent. We should depart immediately, we have no time to spare.”

Niflheim Castle

The underground trek was not demanding – a trapped icewurm in a closed tunnel took them the way across the technological dead zone, without the winds blasting in their faces. When they reached the other side, they were greeted only by two immense statues and a circle on the ground with strange inscriptions. The party moved into the circle, and Tarakh waved his hand across it, causing the inscriptions to light up. Brune looked at him quizzically. “I thought you said this was a dead zone?” Tarakh smirked in response.

“Who said this was technology?” They were quickly enveloped in a bright white light, and after a few seconds, it dissipated, showing a completely different room, where they were met by people similar to the ones they saw at the landing station.

“My lord, your return will be received with great joy.” He looked suspiciously at Brune, but quickly determined the purpose of their visit. “I will inform the medical staff of your arrival at once. I entrust you know the way.” Tarakh nodded as the Custodian of the Palace disappeared into one of the many passageways.

The Dersconi Prince led them out of the teleportation room into the ajoining room, where they saw two large statues – clearly nobility – looking out across the desert landscape. Tarakh sighed, and explained the room to Brune.

“A chapel – burial chapel, specifically.” The Marechal studied the faces in the stone.

“They look familiar...” The Andropov prince nodded.

“They should. The one on the left is my uncle, Veliky Kynaz Ivan Rekjyavich. The one on the right is the Ridgian King John Antonette. Both died serving the Rachekan Crusade in the hopes of restoring justice to Derscon, and all of the lands the Crown ruled. Both slain by the sword of Xavier. The body of King Antonette was unfortunately never found, but my uncle's was, and he is buried here. This chapel is built to honour all those who died in the shadows in the name of justice and righteousness, as the world beyond the ice desert does not and will never know of what transpired here.” The Andropov prince stood silently for a brief moment, staring up at the statues, before sighing once more, and leading Marechal Brune through the hallways until they arrived at the medical facilities.

Two doctors led the Marechal to one of the strange chambers and layed him inside. Tarakh turned. “You're going to be out for a bit, so I am going to go take care of some other business. You won't notice it, though. When you wake up, you'll be about a quarter century younger. They will also rewrite your genetic code so as to make you age just a little bit slower than normal. Not dramatically so, but enough to keep you around a bit longer. Lord knows we'll need you.”

****

“This is unacceptable.”

“I understand your frustration completely, your majesty. However, Lord Saryudin was very clear in his desire to call a meeting of the Buttatavsraad to discuss the fall of the Third Empire.” Tarakh grunted.

“How many of his Sardivariers were with him?” The Custodian shrugged.

“Six or eight. Six uniformed, anyway.” The Prince couldn't help but smile. It looks like things are going back to the days of the First Empire. The Custodian frowned. “I still keep in touch with my friends in the other Houses. The Atorinnyi and Yutakyr houses both consented to the meeting, but no response has been heard from House Rekjyavich or my own, House Enilanuki.” Tarakh grimaced.

“I thought the First Rachekan Crusade put an end to this rediculous stellar feudalism.” Maraidt Enilanuki sighed.

“Evidentally not, your majesty. Your refusal to take the throne of the Empi – ”

“I did not have Rachavasr!” Tarakh shouted back. “I had no claim!”

“No matter. It seems House Saryudin has been waiting very patiently for this time. You would think, your majesty, that over five thousand years of Andropov rule over the course of three empires would settle matters.” Tarakh nodded.

“Indeed. Once the other Great Houses fell to the sword, only Houses Saryudin and Enilanuki remained. Both capitulated peacefully. Evidentally, only one of them was genuine.” The Custodian, Maraidt, nodded.

“Of course. But you have more pressing concerns. Lord Saryudin is clearly making a move against you. We've been keeping up to date with your...situation...beyond the tundra. Our men inside the House Saryduin indicate that he will be moving to find the favour of the Pantocratorian Emperor in hopes that he will be able to use him to get rid of the Andropov family.”

“Makes sense. The Pantocratorians see us as metahumans because of our lineage, and most of the populace probably views the Andropovs as some sort of satanic puppet – a myth surely fueled by the actions of Xavier. House Saryudin could easily exploit that, play on the religiosity of the Court, as well as their disdain for Derscon.” Maraidt nodded.

“Lord Saryduin's difficulty arises, though, in convincing the Emperor that he actually matters. You and I both know that any and all Dersconi History before the Third Empire, except in the books kept in the four Imperial Libraries, is missing or fabricated.”

“He'll find a way. Renityr is no god, but you don't need to be a god to be good at politics. In fact, the less of one you are, the better.”

******

Three Days Later

Marechal Brune could hear the sound of blades clashing. With his newly young body, he ran down the halls to find the source of the sound, and found it eminating from the Great Hall. When he got there, though, he could only stare in amazement. The two fighters made him feel very old again, but not because his body failed – on the contrary, it was better than the time Brune actually was this age – but because the fighters moved faster than any humans he's ever seen.

Well, except the stranger Dersconi, of which this castle seemed to be full of.

He scanned the crowd, which watched the fight with amusement. Well, at least there's no security breach. One man, though, stood out – he wore robes of black, red and gold, and had a face oddly familiar to him, although he couldn't place it.

Turning back to the fight, he saw it finished, with Veliky Kynaz Tarakh Andropov standing over his opponent...a twelve year old boy. The Prince laughed as he helped the boy up. “You're not there yet, but you'll get there soon.” Brune stared hard into the boy as they made eye contact. Those eyes... Tarakh smiled at Brune.

“Glad to see you're up and about all young again. Meet my father's prodigy. An extraordinary kid, in more ways than one.” The young boy bowed in respect to Marechal Brune as Tarakh made his way over to the Reichskampheneren, walking with him down the hall to the chapel.

“We need to get you home as soon as possible. Things in your home country are remaining tense. If you find yourself in need of Dersconi assistance, Blazhei Voikinov will be staying with Reverend Graves as a Warmaster. Unfortunately, I'm tied up here in Derscon.” He grumbled. “It seems even in anarchy I am surrounded by politics.”

***

Tsarhof, Derscon

The VTOL craft landed from the same place it took off from four days earlier, with the same party disembarking. Tarakh stayed with Brune as he was whisked down to the car that would be the start to Brune's clandestine trip back to Reichskamphen. It wasn't until they got to the car that Tarakh spoke.

“Good luck in Reichskamphen. Oh, and here,” he said, giving him a sealed folder with a familiar seal on the cover. “Some reading material for the trip back.”

Unknown Location

"This is most intriguing..." The "DVA" gold lapel pin on his dark silk Armani suit glittered lightly against the dim light.

"I can take you to the tomb if you so desire. I assure you, the findings are most accurate."

A third voice came from the left side of the table. "How can we be assured that the people will accept this?"

"Because I know these people." All turned to the head of the table, his face obscured by both dim light and cloak, but the light reflected off of two rubies making the eyes of a gold dragon handle of...a cane, perhaps. No one could tell. "Everyone sympathizes with penance. Success stories of reformed criminals turning devout philanthropists are some of the most moving propaganda pieces. Saul to Paul, for example." A short silence fell upon the room, until the man at the other end of the table, lapel pin showing his status, grunted in approval.

"We do have the ability to pull thi-" He was cut off by the church bells from outside ringing. "We may continue with this later. I wouldn't miss Cardinal Fitzgerald's homily for the world."

To:
His Excellency Consul Gerhardt von Leibnitz
His Excellency Consul Guillame Richarde de Centreville
His Excellency Consul Alexandre Brune


Your Excellencies,

It is Our pleasure that the matter of an advisory council be advanced most urgently. We look forward to Your Excellencies completing the matter and convening a council meeting, whereupon such time We shall come to Reichskamphen to meet with Your Excellencies and the advisory council to discuss the various important matters which Your Excellencies know are dear to Our heart.

By Our own hand at the Imperial Court of Christ Pantocrator, New Rome, on the feast day of Saint Modestus, the Evangelist of Austria, in the first year of Our reign,

ANDREUS IMP. PRU. MAG. REX REICHS.
Andreus, By the Grace of God, Emperor of Greater Prussia, King of Reichskamphen, et al

OOC: Done with permission
GREATER PRUSSIAN NEWS NETWORK
BREAKING NEWS! DERSCONI FORCES INVADES CHERRY RIDGE

Good morning, this is Alex Lefebvre with breaking news. You're watching the GPNN.

At about three o' clock local time this morning, an army amassed at about 400,000 Dersconi, Wanderjaran, Ridgian personnel stormed into Cherry Ridge from Derscon, with a band of Ridgian paramilitary forces occupying the former capital.

Since the disappearance of King John Antonette almost a hundred years ago, the nation has been in a state of chaos. Not blessed by the peaceful anarcho-capitalism of their Dersconi neighbours to the north, Cherry Ridge has been effectively ruled by the various mafia families - until now.

Sean Daniel De Vito, current head of "DeVito and Associates," a multi-billion dollar banking industry, and mafia don of the family sharing the name, has recently published verified documents demonstrating his Antonette heritage, and is "claiming the rightful position as leader of Cherry Ridge" with the help of the Dersconi.

The Dersconi soldiers seem to belong to the thought-defunct House Rekjyavich, having been officially merged into House Andropov with the marriage of Princess Siona Rekjyavich and Tsar Ivan Andropov I. The friendship between the last known Rekjyavich, Veliky Kynaz Ivan III, and the late King John Antonette is renowned, and the family's connection to House Andropov creates quite a lot of questions as to the ultimate purpose behind this manoeuvre. The use of Wanderjaran soldiers based in Derscon further complicates things, as Wanderjar has been removed until now from the politics of Prussia since the death of the former Arch-Chancellor, Kaiser Baker, a good friend of the False Tsar Xavier.

It is unlikely that it will be a tough struggle, with many Ridgians hailing Don DeVito as a national hero, but the use of foreign troops may prove to bring undesired consequences.

More breaking news: A meeting of the Buttatavsraad has been confirmed, with the Lords of the seven houses meeting in the Raadhof on the planet Jörmungard in the Drakheimr system, the origin of the Dersconi Empire. Such an assembly has not occured in over two thousand years, and will shape the fate of not only Derscon, but now Cherry Ridge and ultimately, Greater Prussia as a whole.

While the Buttatavsraad proceedings are closed to the public, it is known that the Andropov rival, House Saryudin, collected a sizable following, and may be challenging the five thousand year monopoly on power of the Andropovs. House Saryudin has openly expressed its well wishes and support for Andreus I as Emperor.

It remains to be seen how the Pantocratorian Emperor will react to the events, but whatever happens, GPNN will be there first.

This is Alex Lefebvre and the GPNN, now returning to your regularly scheduled program.

http://www.salem-news.com/gphotos/1182825561.jpg

Wanderjarian World News-
Wanderjarian Military Installation, Derscon


WAR!


Earlier today, a joint Wanderjarian-Dersconi Force numbering some 400,000 troops crossed the border into neighboring Cherry Ridge. The Wanderjarian Force, numbering at fifty thousand, was originally stationed to be a protective force, ensuring the continued freedom of the Dersconi people. This, however, has changed within the past days with increasing tensions between numerous nations and the rise of a new Monarchial Order in Prussia.

Brigadier General von Klink, commander of the Regiment, could not be reached for questions, but the Military Public Affairs Office has issued a statement concerning the Wanderjarian involvement. "It is our aim," stated firmly Commander Johan Aszenmil, "to assist in any way possible our Dersconi Allies in the attaining of their national interests and in the defense of Sacred Germany."

As the Regiment of Wanderjarian troops prepares for combat in support of our brave national allies, the world watches with anticipation. The question must be asked, what will the end of this new conflict be, and what is its ultimate goal? Only time will tell, but while we wait: God support our troops, and God deliver Wanderjar yet another proud victory!

More on this story as it develops.

Marechal Brune…no….Consul Brune strolled down the hall. It felt good to stroll. Much better than it did to roll or hobble. ‘The Dersconis are good for something atleast.’ He thought to himself.

“God Save the Emperor!” two soldiers saluted him as he passed.

“May he live forever.” Brune reflexively spat out.

The halls of new Parliamentary Palace were abuzz with activity. Brune had seen the reign of no less than five Emperors come and go and had played prominent roles in the government or military for four of those five monarchs. Through all of that, he had never seen this type of activity. Functionaries hustled to and fro carrying stacks of papers in their hands. Soldiers, Politicians, Gendarmes, the entire nervecentre of the Greater Prussian Empire had been extracted from the expansive digs in New Geneva and crammed like clowns in a car into the Palace of the former Arch Duke von Reichsburg.

He finally arrived at a large oak framed door at the end of the hall. Two men dressed in the uniforms of the Swiss Guard stood flanking the portal. When Brune reached for the door, one of the men spoke up. “Monsieur le troisieme Consul, may I be of assistance?” Brune looked at him, head cocked in amazement, not quite believing what he was hearing. He turned the knob. The Guard inserted himself politely between the Marechal and the door. “Monsieur le Consul, if you would like to meet with Monsieur le premier Consul Leibnitz, I would be happy to notify the Chamberlain of the Household.”

“The Household?”

“Yes, the Royal Household of Monsieur le Premier Consul, as provided by his Majesty the Emperor.”

“Please fetch the Chamberlain.” Brune said half in disgust.

Within moments, the door was opened and a short man with curly grey hair appeared in the opening. “Entrez-vous, Monsieur le troisieme Consul.” Brune duely entered, but did not see Leibnitz. Instead a large ante room sprawled out before him, decked out in Second Empire furniture. “If Monsieur will please take a seat here for a moment while I notify the Consul. If he will see you now, he will receive you in the study.” He pointed at a door to the side. “I will fetch you.”

The man disappeared for a few moments. ‘If he WILL see me?’ Brune thought to himself, thoroughly revolted. The Emperor Napoleon had an extensive household. Most people also had to follow the proper protocol to see him, but Brune had always simply wandered in when the mood struck him.

“He will see you now.” The Chamberlain reappeared, beckoning Brune to the entrance of the door. Looking through the door, he then realized that this too was not the study but another antechamber. He walked alongside the Chamberlain, who now carried a golden staff. “You shall address him as Monsieur le Premier Consul de la Royaume de Reichskamphen. When he rises, you shall rise. When he sits, you shall sit.”

“I will do as I see fit. Do you have any idea who I am?!”

“Oui, Monsieur le troisieme Consul.” He stated now with no small amount of gravity, “But you must undertand…le protocole surtout.”

“Le protocole indeed…” Brune opened the door himself. The befuddled Chamberlain rushed in beside him, flushed and stammering. He struck his staff twice on the ground. “M-m-m-m-m…Monsieur le Troisieme Consul, Alexandre Brune, Marechal de l’Empire et Commandeur en Chef des Armees Royale.”

“That will be all.” Leibnitz waved off the Chamberlain.

“What the Hell is the meaning of this!!?” Brune railed when the door closed.

“Le protocle surtout, Alexandre. What can I do for you?”

“I am your equal in title, but your superior in age, experience, and in nobility as well. I have commanded our armies in every far flung corner of the earth and saved our land from ruin twice! I have served under four Emperors. That’s four more than you’ve ever known, and you dare to treat me as some mendicant friar coming to your door and asking for alms!? If you value my continued friendship and loyalty, I suggest your protocole finds its exception in me. I will come and go as I please, and you have no say in the matter.”

With the proud Leibnitz now deflated by the venerable Marechal, Brune sat down before his desk.

“Per your email of this morning…” Leibnitz cautiously began. “Contact has been attempted with all former Greater Prussian interstellar holdings.”

“And?”

“Out of thirty territories, some comprised of entire systems, some planets, and some individual tracts of land on individual planets, only two have reported in with any willingness to cooperate.” Leibnitz handed Brune a log of communications between Reichsburg and the territories. “Alexandre, they sat neglected for fourty years.” He sighed in resignation. “Most of them have been swallowed up by their neighbors or joined them willingly as the Empire was no longer able to protect them. There are a few that became independent, and of those, only the remnants of the Greater Prussian military presence on Mercury and the Planet Artemis 12 have expressed any interest in cooperating with a restored Greater Prussia.”

“I was under the impression that there was a total withdrawal from Mercury, and that several cataclysms took place there additionally.” Brune said in an unshakeable deadpan. His eyes looked greedily at the entry in the communications log: Mercury requests Envoy.

“A few units of the Army opted to stay behind in deep subterranean facilities.” Guillaume Richarde announced as he walked in through a hidden door in the wall paneling. “Their numbers have understandably grown over the years and they remain, as best as we can ascertain, deeply rooted in the traditions of the Imperial Guard. According to a freighter captain who delivered supplies there a month ago, the standard of Napoleon IV still flies from nearly every window.”

“Where the hell is his Chamberlain you bloody bastard!?” Brune shouted at Leibnitz.

“Oh, I had to deal with that too, the first time.” Guillaume smiled, “But I found a better way soon afterward.”

Leibnitz sat in his chair, grumbling beneath his breath. “Regardless.” He interrupted, “This subterranean station seems to be the perfect location to deploy the preponderance of our excess manpower. We can revictual them, and build up their infrastructure.”

“We musn’t forget this Artemis 12 either.” Brune looked up from his papers, a sudden twinkle of realization in his eyes.

“Why? It’s not even a planet, really” Leibnitz said with disdain. “It’s just some terra-formed asteroid hurling through deep space.”

Brune furrowed his brow in disgust. “Have you ever heard of the Deep Space Docks?”

“That’s just a myth we made up in the resistance so that people wouldn’t work with the Dersconis” Guillaume Richarde reached into Leibnitz’s liquor cabinet and poured himself two fingers of scotch.

“Monsieur le Consul!” Leibnitz hissed.

“I put it back.” He said with a smile.

“And you will not fetch it again without permission. I am not Napoleon. There will be discipline in this government and you WILL follow all proper protocol.”

Brune laughed heartily. “You hold the pens, Leibnitz. I hold the guns. Who do you think will win?”

“The docks?” Guillaume reminded him.

“Oh. Yes.” Brune crossed his legs and leaned back in the chair with an aire of superiority. “We’ll they are not a myth. I ordered them to be built. Artemis 12 is no asterioid. It is a spacestation. And allow me to solve another mystery of the past. The disappearance of the Greater Prussian Starfleet: after the failure of my crusade in Derscon, the entire fleet vanished. Well they were not destroyed as the Dersconi’s claim. The entire fleet, barring some catastrophe is safely docked at Artemis 12.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this before!?” Leibnitz bellowed.

“I was 97 years old, I forgot it was there. I’m not so old now, thank God.”

The air lay still and silent for but a moment. “Gentlemen.” Leibnitz stood suddenly. “I must take my leave as the Council of Elders and the Council of Ancients are about to convene a meeting downstairs.”

--

A few moments later, Leibnitz strolled into what was once a small private Opera House attached to the Ducal residence. Now, it sat full to the brim, even in the balconies with representatives summoned from all over Reichskamphen and the Empire. The curtains torn down, patriotic bunting now hung in their place. Several glass cases with Greater Prussian and Reichskamphian artifacts lined the far walls. From a rusted Roman helmet, signifying Reichskamphen’s place as just behind the farthest Roman advance into Germania, the farthest outpost of civilization amidst barbarism, to the Golden standards of the Aquilar Empire (Napoleon IV, Joseph-Napoleon II, Alexei Andropov I, Alexandre-Napoleon), one could see the whole history and fates of Reichskamphian arms laid out before their very eyes. At the farthest end of the cases sat the very same standard that Marechal Brune had unveiled upon the abdication of Alexandre-Napoleon nee Bernadotte. In bright
golden embroidery it read “l’Empereur Andreus I au 1er Armee de la Garde Imperiale”.

Pantocratorian flags by their douzains hung from the vaulted baroque ceiling and large swaths of white silk embroidered with the Fleur de Lis draped down from every balcony. Behind the podium, high upon the stage, sat a gigantic marble bust of Emperor Andreus wearing the crown of Laurels.

Leibnitz walked imperiously down the center aisle as the room fell quiet. No one knew quite what to expect. On the left side of the room sat the Council of Elders, representing 250 of the most influential Businessmen, Politicians, Soldiers, and Diplomats. Not all were strictly from Reichskamphen. Some hailed from former vassal states, long since lost but hoping to reunite with a reinvigorated Greater Prussia. Some interested individuals from former member states of the Empire such as Derscon and Cherry Ridge were physically present, while others such as Tarakh Andropov, who was named to the council upon Brune’s insistence, sat ex-officio.

Glancing to his right side, he saw a much more colorful spectacle; the Council of Ancients. This most prestigious body was composed exclusively of Imperial Nobility. Nearly 90% of the sitting members had only returned to the country within the last year. Unlike the eclectic and disorganized Council of Elders, the Ancients had already organized themselves with great panache and appointed their leader and moderator, referred to as the First Minister of the Council. He sat in a lower chair to the right hand of Leibnitz’s podium on the stage. The corresponding chair to the left was obviously vacant for want of concensus.

Leibnitz nimbly mounted the stage and manned his podium. He looked at the man next to him. Alexandre-Napoleon nee Bernadotte looked back. He had good reason to believe that the Emperor of a moment would never again leave his solitude as he had been locked away from the world for so long after his public humiliation. “Monsieur le Premier Consul.” Bernadotte lowered his gaze respectfully. “Shall we?”

Leibnitz banged his gavel thrice. “Having all, previous to this moment, sworn oaths of office for our various positions in the council as well as having sworn eternal loyalty to Emperor Andreus and the Empire of Pantocratoria, I hereby call into session the first joint meeting of the Council of Elders and the Council of Ancients.” There was a bit of the requisite shuffling of feet and papers and clearing of throats before Leibnitz began anew. “Gentlemen, we meet here in the name of and by the authority of our King and Emperor. Let us never forget that it is his quick hand that averted civil strife and his graciousness that snatched our nation from the path to ruin.”

He picked up a glass of water sitting below the podium and took a quick sip. It suddenly struck him as the cool water bathed his throat that were it not for the Grace of God, and the Grace of Andreus, he would have taken his last sip of water and last breath of air long ago. Perhaps it would have then been Brune standing where he was, ushering in the second Aquilar Empire…or his own military dictatorship. After all, from what little he knew of this “Alexandre-Napoleon”, it seemed fairly obvious that he had none of the qualities of his more capable and famous namesakes. If the government had cohered it would have been only due to the Marechal and in spite of rather than because of Alexandre.

“We have been charged with evaluating all possible claimants to the Royal Throne of Reichskamphen and the Imperial Throne of Greater Prussia. Within the space of three months we must decide this question as the new Imperial Cathedral is within weeks of completion.”

“Monsieur le Premier Consul.” A soft voice came from behind him. It was the Swedish faux-naparte.

“The Chair recognizes Monsieur le Premier Ministre Bernadotte.”

The old man rose slowly. “Members of the Councils, you will find before you all velum packets containing the information on every Pantocratorian Prince of the Blood that stands in consideration. Before this meeting, the Council of Ancients voted 243 to 7 to propose a new consideration before this august body as well as to put forth two new nominees to be considered. When weighing the merits of each individual combinations of princes, whether one shall have both crowns or how the power shall be partitioned, we ask that you weigh this scenario among them. We must insist that the name of Emperor Andreus the First of Greater Prussia be added into consideration for the permanent retention of the Imperial Crown. We further ask that you consider the possibility of retaining a native Reichskamphian sovreign under the watchful eye of his Majesty the Emperor Andreus. To that end, we nominate Marechal de l’Empire et Troisieme Consul Alexandre Brune,
properly titled le Prince de Axacal.”

“Monsieur le Premier Ministre.” Leibnitz finally spoke up after the utter shock of his suggestion had worn off slightly. “According to the power entrusted in me and to the bylaws of the Council, I accept your nomination of the Emperor Andreus and his name will dutifully be added into consideration. I must, however, reject the ‘Prince de Axacal’ due to overriding concerns of dynastic legitimacy.”

There was an immediate uproar from the left side of the room. The nobles who one would have thought to be more perturbed by this, simply sat in quiet dignity. It was their custom.

“Monsieur le Premier Consul.” A man stood up in the back row of the Council of Elders.

“The Chair recognizes the gentleman in the back.” He squinted to see.

“According to the bylaws of the Council,” Oh God, Leibnitz thought, it’s Richard. “I am hereby demanding an open floor vote on the addition of the Prince de Axacal to consideration.”

“It is your right.” The Consul held the gavel firmly in his hands, then lifting it into the air, he brought it down on the wooden podium with tremendous force. “A floor vote on this issue is hereby scheduled to occur in this same location, four months from today.”

“You can’t!” DuChamp shouted. “You said we only had three months.”

“I am aware.”

“How dare you.”

“According to the bylaws of the council, the chair retains the right to schedule all required votes as he sees fit. You will get your say. In four months.”

http://www.blackfive.net/photos/uncategorized/opvolc1.jpg <--- A Royal Marine Major coordinates his Company in the assault of the area around the highway junction

Wanderjarian Armed Forces News

Afrikaner Forces Advance!

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/multimedia/archive/00134/TTH15120jft62CC_134627a.jpg <--- Royal Marines under fire

Within the opening hours of the new Ridgian Conflict, a Brigade from 92 Commando (Royal Marines), attached to the Wanderjarian Expeditionary Force, have seized control of a major highway junction leading deeper into Ridgian territory. After a fierce four hour struggle, the battalion of Ridgian troops defending the area were broken and in routing, with Air Force units in flying constant sorties in harrassment to prevent a regrouped counter attack.

The opposition battalion, numbering at around sixty Main Battle Tanks (MBTs) of unconfirmed classification, numerous infantry fighting vehicles, as well as several hundred dug in supporting infantrymen, staged a valiant defence of the critical roadway, but were largely unsuccessful. Air units wreaked havoc on the fixed positioned armour battalion, forcing them into an utter retreat before the armoured element of the Wanderjarian Royal Army, supporting the Marines, could arrive to clear them out. A battery from the Horse Artillery delivered nearly two hours of constant barrage on the enemy positions, but still they held fast despite the overwhelming firepower. Some light artillery and even mortar units deployed ordinance against our forces as they advanced, but to no avail. Estimates place the enemy casualties at around two hundred thirty dead, three hundred and fifty-three wounded. The rest of the enemy combatant force remains scattered, but likely to continue harrassing our forces.


http://www.telegraph.co.uk/telegraph/multimedia/archive/00656/news-graphics-2008-_656794a.jpg <--- Lt. Colonel Manross
"Our men have done a great job this day," Lieutenant Colonel Manross, commander of 3rd Battalion, 92 Commando said in a comment earlier recieved by war correspondants. "But there is still much work to do. We need to stay honed, ready, and focused, until the end of this conflaguration is in sight." No confirmed number of Wanderjarian casualties have been recieved, but the estimate is at thirty dead, seventy wounded.

Elements of the Royal Air Force continue pummeling enemy fixed positions throughout the country. A bomber squadron of unconfirmed designation has repeatedly hit the capital city, targetting police stations, and government centers, and known military command centers throughout the country are being struck constantly with white phosporous ordinance. Air Ports have had their runways cratered into dust, and a battalion from the Royal Corps of Engineers stands ready to begin the reconstruction with the complete and total surrender of Ridgian Forces to the Dersconi Military.

With every moment, Wanderjarian troops advance deeper into Cherry Ridge alongside their stoic Dersconi Allies, ready to defend freedom and bring order back from the chaos.

OOC: Everything that happens in THIS THREAD (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=583653) happens within the timeframe of this post and my next post here in this thread.

Veliky Kynaz Tarakh Andropov only took in half of what was going on around him. He was more focused on the other Dersconi across the table on the Council of Ancients. Smugly watching sat Karshvi Saryudin, son of Lord Renityr, present due to House Saryudin's open support for the Pantocratorian Emperor. Political maneuvering? Sure. Underhanded? Definitely. However, House Saryudin was a definite competitor to the Andropovs in Derscon, and even if they didn't succeed, could be used by the Pantocratorian Emperor to quell any Dersconi resistance to the Prussian crown going on Andreus's head, barring any unforseen circumstances.

Karshvi glanced at Tarakh from the corner of his eye, still curious. Why is he not at the Buttatasvraad meeting? He's the head of House Andropov now. He, of course, maintained his smug appearence in front of the Andropov. After all, finally, the Saryudin family overtook the Andropovs. But the fact he wasn't at the Buttatasvraad upset him, and Karshvi couldn't figure out why.

No matter. He had to speak with Leibnitz regarding further pro-Pantocratorian Dersconi involvement. After all, he was supporting Andreus so the Andropov's could be removed, but sacrificing Dersconi power within Greater Prussia simply could not be allowed.

It was supposed to be a great day for Marie. She was nineteen years old, and her parents had felt it was her time to get married.

Though Reichskamphen has grown less and less traditional over the years, the village of Allensdorf, where Marie lived, had not. Perhaps it was the fact that the locals were Catholic rather than protestant, like the majority of Reichskamphians. Therefore the wedding would be a traditional one – in church, where Father Bruno would bless Marie and her husband, Hans Helmholtz.

Yet Marie felt otherwise. Helmholtz was thrice her age, and weighed over two hundred pounds. She was quite certain that her parents introduced her to him – and later insisted on their marriage – for the simple reason that Helmholtz owned a large pig farm and was quite possibly the second-richest man in the village entire.

She did not want to marry him, of course – but her parents insisted. They tried to use guilt. Then threats. Eventually, violence. Even now, as she walked towards the altar, hand to hand with her fiancé, her back ached from the blows her stepfather had bestowed upon her merely two days ago. Yet outwardly, nothing was noticeable. Marie Ghent walked proudly next to Helmholtz, the blue marks on her back concealed by her long dress, smiling with faked joy.

Everybody was here – from the village mayor with his wife and down to the village postman. Out of the three hundred and fifty inhabitants of Allensdorf, only about thirty were absent from the wedding. Out of Marie's twenty-six relatives, none were absent. Which meant Marie could not afford but look her best. Her family's honor depended on it.

But it also meant something else.

* * *

The phone pole fell with a loud crack, dragging the wires with it as it went. George Kowal turned off his chainsaw and returned to the convoy, smiling happily at his handiwork.

The convoy was comprised of five technicals – Firestorm pickup trucks, laden with armed men and women. And they had just cut off Allensdorf from the outside world. With most of the villagers at the wedding, it would take time until they noticed that the phones were down – and when they eventually found out, it would be far too late.

Two kilometers away from the village, the vehicles split up. The teams would approach the village from separate directions. Each had their own method of dealing with the people would soon play host to the AVF's party.

* * *

William Chesterton swung his SVD to his shoulder. Eight hundred meters away from him, the young man herding the Helmholtz herd was completely unaware – of course – that on a hill half a mile away, the AVF sniper had already chosen the day of his passing.

Chesterton flipped the Leupold scope's front cover open for just half a second and held on the herder's left shoulder, accounting for the wind. Slowly, he added pressure to the trigger.

It broke crisply, without noticeable travel. The .338 Lapua Magnum rifle slammed him in his right shoulder, and half a second later, he saw the front of the herder's shirt burst open on the front. The man fell on his back, his arms still flailing as if they were made of thick rope. The herd of cows broke apart at the sound of the gunshot, running in several directions.

There had not been a cow born upon the Earth that could run faster than a speeding bullet. Chesterton fired two shots into the head of a Hereford bull, smiling with satisfaction as the enormous animal collapsed.

The herd was in a panic, breaking up, running in every directions, mooing and moaning in horror as cow after cow collapsed, seemingly at random.

But Chesterton was not here to hunt cows. Breaking up the herd was only a minor assignment on the way to his major task. Simply put, he had to destroy the wealth of Allensdorf before destroying Allensdorf itself.

* * *

As Marie approached the altar, the sunderstoon, more and more, that she could not give her vows. Not to be married to this man. Not forever. No matter if it would shame her family. She was adopted anyway. And...

“Do you take this woman...”

Bruno's voice was there. Droning, like he did during mass. As if this had no meaning. As if he was not condemning her to a new living hell.

Marie's parents had abandoned her at an early age. Then, she had been taken in by her foster family. They had no children of their own, but they did not treat her well. They didn't just beat her – they humiliated her in every way they thought was appropriate. As long as nobody knew – or as long as people pretended not to notice – they thought they could do anything to her. And Marie hated them, and hated the villagers for not noticing.

For a long time, she thought that with marriage there would come a certain degree of release – a new family, a husband that would not be like her stepfather. But then they decided to give her to this... man

She did not quite hear what Bruno said, but she realized that the elderly priest was asking her a question.

“No!” - she suddenly screamed, dropping to her knees - “I will not take it! I will not marry that man! Father Bruno! Do something! Help me! Please!”

“She's in hysterics.” - noted Helmholtz. It was as if he had planned for this eventuality. Or... had he?

“No!” - Marie's scream rose in pitch as she wrenched her hand from the farmer's clenched fist - “Father Bruno, I am not sick! I know what I am talking about ! Don't marry us!”

And yet father Bruno looked completely unperturbed. And her stepfather rose from the front bench. “Be quiet, Marie. Do not bring shame to the family. You know what happens if you embarrass us like that.”

Anger burned in his eyes. She realized immediately what he meant. It was not even a threat – it was a veiled warning. If she returned home that day – it would be the same as the day she first refused to marry Helmholtz. He would beat her again – and it would not be with a belt. He would use her stepmother's rolling pin again... and this time, she might not get away with a few blue marks. He broke her rib once, when she was fourteen... she still remembered it.

Marie struggled to her feet. “I am sorry, Father Bruno. I apologize for my outburst.”

She did not remember giving her vows. The next few minutes were a blur for her, and she only snapped back into the real world when she heard Father Bruno ask the last question.

“Does anybody object?”

Nobody would. She knew her fellow villagers that well...

“I object!”

A young man was standing at the entrance doors. He was handsome – dressed in a dark military uniform with shoulder patches depicting a bloodied hand, wearing a broad hat and glasses, like the Allanean soldiers she once saw drawn in a schoolbook on the history of the Empire.

“I object!” - the young man spoke again. - “Forced marriages are forbidden under the Emperor's law.”

“Oh, but sir...” - the priest spoke in the most disgustingly-sweet tone he was capable of. - “This is not a forced wedding. Surely you jest, such a thing...”

He's in on it. – Marie thought, her last hope dashed before her. - Maybe Helmholtz bribed him or-

“Aw shut up.” - answered the Allanean.

Nobody quite noticed how – or when – he drew his pistol. Within less than three second, he fired three shots at Father Bruno. The Priest remained standing for a second, blood running from two wounds on his chest and another in the place his left eye used to be. Then he fell.

“Can't have a wedding if the priest is dead, can you?” - the Allanean beamed at the astounded villagers. “But maybe I ought to make sure. Martin! Shakhar!”

Two tall men appeared behind him. As they pointed two intimidating-looking weapons at the audience, the villagers fell quiet.

“You see, ladies and gentlemen... I have been ordered to find a village that supports the Pantocratorians and make an example of it. And yours has seemed appropriate. I have bribed your postman...”

A void formed around the village postman, an elderly, bald-haired man.

“So I know everything. I know about the way this girl's family had been treating her. I know that many of you knew about the forced marriage.... your postman collects rumors, not just mail. And finally, I know that many of you support the Pantocratorian pretender. Let alone, any of those crimes would not have drawn retaliation from me... young girl, your name is Marie, right?”

Marie looked upon the young man. He was intimidating... but he was also handsome. And he was her savior.

“Yes... sir.”

“Lieutenant Fradik, if you will. Alexander Fradik. Now, Marie, you don't look like the people here... are you from here?”

Her stepfather intervened. “Her mother was a slut! She dropped her here! You know the kind! They don't care for their own spawn, they leave them to good people to take -”

“Hey, you sick fuck.” - Fradik aimed his pistol at her stepfather's head. “This here is an Equinox Tactical (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=556892) semi-automatic pistol. And I was talking to the lady. Do the fucking math.”

Silence fell in the church hall.

“Lady. I already know that these people have mistreated you. I know that they support the filthy Pantocratorians. I know I have orders to assault this village and kill anyone inside. But for the sake of your mother, for the sake of you not being one of them, and for the suffering you underwent... I will ask you: Should I punish these people for their sins, or should I pardon them?

A movie heroine would have pondere the question for a few minutes, and then decided to forget and forgive. A movie heroine would have held on to Fradik's hand and lowered his pistol.

But Marie was not a movie heroine. The wounds on her back still hurt. The wounds on her soul – from all the unmentionable and horrible things that had been done to her – would hurt for decades.

“Kill them! All of them! Kill them all!” - she shrieked, almost choking on her own hatred.

“You bitch! After all we've done to you-” Marie's stepfather could not finish.

The Equinox roared twice.

Everywhere around Marie, horrified villagers scrambled for the exits, trying to get away from the terrible man and his guard. The church was rapidly becoming a complete wreck as scrambling wedding guests turned over benches and smashed windows in an attempt to escape.

“This is the Judgement of the Empire! For your sins, we will kill every man and woman in this village over fourteen years of age! The village will be looted and burned to the ground! Martin, protect Marie! Shakhar, kill them all!”

One of the villagers – the mayor's son, brighter than most of them – tried to make a grab for Marie himself. But Martin was indeed on guard. His weapon roared – and the young man collapsed to the ground mere feet away from her.

And so it began.

* * *


“Cleanse, purge, kill!”

The technical hit Marie's stepmother even as she ran out into the street, dragging her along for a few minutes until the woman was sucked in under the truck's wheels with a sadistic crunch. On the back, an Allanean was firing a Brettonian Industries RA-87M (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=13261452&postcount=151) assault rifle at the terrified villagers. With every short burst, a man or woman fell to the ground. Two men had tried to grab on to the moving vehicle and climb on board, but the rifle had a 20-inch bayonet attached – and therefore, the Allanean did not even bother to shoot. A quick slash across one man's face, then a stabbing motion – and it was over.

The truck stopped in the middle of the street. The rifleman knelt in the truckbed, shooting methodically at any villager who appeared on the street, even as the driver emerged from the car and threw something into the window of one of the village houses. Fire erupted from the house a second later as the one-kilo anti-tank grenade did its work. The roof collapsed half a minute later.

* * *

The mayor of Allensdorf fell forward, swinging his arms in front of him to brake his motion, but he was too fat and the fall too sudden. He fell flat on his face – and a second later, a heavy combat boot (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=13842227#post13842227) hit the side of his face. An explosion of pain filled his entire consciousness as the blow removed at least a dozen teeth.

The soldier – was his name Martin? – kicked him again – in the ribs, this time. He tried to roll away from thte terrible blows, but even as he did, he exposed his face an throat to a final, direct hit.

Seconds later, the tip of steel-toed boot obliterated the mayor's larynx. Then Martin simply smiled and watched the obese man writhe in his last convulsions. It would take the mayor at least several minutes to die.

* * *

The mayor's wife screamed in horror. Even as she ran out of the church, one of the truck riders jumped off his vehicle and towards her. Seconds later, a single swipe of a machete (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=14092486#post14092486) slashed her throat open and stifled her cry forever. She made a final gurgling noise, spilling blood over the front of her shirt, and collapsed to her knees. The Allanean slashed again, this time finishing his job and removing her head completely.

* * *

Fire rose over Allensdorf. Three men, armed with flamethrowers (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=12786027&postcount=53), went from house to house, methodically igniting everything – homes, barns, grain and hay. Sometimes, a gunshot or two were heard. It meant that the Allaneans had found a survivor. There was no mercy for the living.

Around her, Marie saw Allaneans do what they were famous for. On the very church steps, a man had hung the dead, now-naked body of Father Bruno upside down and sliced him open from groin to throat, like a hunter gutting a deer. The next stage, Marie knew – she had once helped her stepfather do it – was to carefully removed the innards, to avoid them polluting the body with their contents. Then and only then could the real work of removing the skin be commenced.

In other places, people were sawing off the skulls of the dead, removing their skin and hearts for bizarre war trophies. What was left of the bodies was thrown into the village well.

Marie was drunk with exhilaration. She was free from the very people who had tortured and abused her for years. Some people would call her feelings maniacal, sociopathic – but Marie was a village girl. She didn't know big words like that. She believed in fairy tales – about knights, and wizards, and Prince Charming.

And now, Prince Charming had come. True to form, he had rescued her from her evil stepmother and stepfather and the evil rich man whom they wanted to sell her to – and took their bloodied skulls as trophies.

Prince Charming smelled of blood and gunpowder and his face was still splattered with the blood of the last man he killed. Marie didn't care. What was important was that she was with her beloved – and she knew that as long as she was with him, no man would ever raise a hand - much less a rolling pin – to her again. And the Allaneans had brought a chaplain with them. It was that chaplain that flayed Father Bruno and took his skin and skull as mementoes. And it was that same chaplain that Lieutenant Fradik approached afer the work was done, asking him to "do him a favor".

They had entered the village in five cars. They left the village and crossed the Dersconi border in six. The last car was once the property of Hans Helmholtz and the only car in Allensdorf. It had been decorated for the wedding with stripes, flowers, and ribbons – Helmholtz had seen couples in the city do that.

Now the car was owned by Lieutenant Fradik. His subordinate was driving, and Marie Fradik was sitting in the back seat with him.

The joyous white writing on the rear window held only two words, and thanks to the team's chaplain they were still relevant.


JUST MARRIED

"Animals." the Emperor growled, setting the intelligence report about the Allensdorf incident down back on the silver tray upon which it had been carried to him. "In the middle of Reichskamphen, at that. Outrageous. Leibnitz, Brune and de Centreville all protested that the government was firmly in control, yet it would appear that they can do nothing about the integrity of their own borders. Just like they could do nothing about the political reliability of the Council of Elders and Council of Ancients. The aforementioned councils weren't even supposed to sit until I arrived to preside over them! Does Leibnitz think he is the Emperor?"

"Sire, there are reports that Leibnitz has taken upon himself at Reichsburg a royal court and all pretensions of kingship." reported the IFIS agent, a gentleman of social standing whose identity was otherwise obscured by various Acts of Parliament and Imperial Decrees. His monicker was Monsieur de la Masque, after a black velvet mask he wore to obscure his identity from people who might otherwise have known him at the court.

"And yet it is Brune whose name has been put forward as king." the Emperor observed. "And de Centreville remains an enigma to me. I can trust none of them."

"Sire, you previously observed that you trusted Monsieur von Leibnitz..." the agent offered.

"And I still trust his original motives." the Emperor answered. "I just mistrust his judgement."

"The faux-royal court of Monsieur le Premier Consul requires even the other consuls to defer to him, Sire, as all here at the Imperial Court of Christ Pantocrator, defer to Your Majesty." said Monsieur de la Masque. "It is said that Monsieur le Premier Consul has taken to wearing cloaks of ermine lined with red velvet, and that all access to His Serene Excellency, even by his co-consuls in the triumvirate, is via chamberlain..."

"His Serene Excellency?" the Emperor spat incredulously.

"I am given to understand, Sire, that is what Monsieur le Premier Consul requires be used as his appellation..." said Monsieur de la Masque. He was given to understand many things, some slightly exaggerated.

"His Serene Excellency" the Emperor began, saying the words sarcastically. "Appears to be fiddling while Rome, or more accurately, Allensdorf, is burning! Clearly my will is difficult to interpret via correspondence! The whole of the apparent political settlement of Greater Prussia is crumbling and Messieurs les Consuls are either unwilling or unable to do anything about it. Thank you, Monsieur, that will be all."

"Sire," Monsieur de la Masque said while bowing with a flourish. "Monsieur le Directeur sends his sincerest regards."

The agent then left the room, and the Emperor turned his attention to his friend, Sir Constantine, the Imperial Champion and Commander of the Varangian Guard, and to the palace secretary.

"Monsieur le Sécretaire," the Emperor began. "Issue a formal summons to Monsieur le Despot to New Rome, to exercise Our responsibilities as Our regent. We are shortly to be absent."

"Sire." bowed Monsieur le Sécretaire du Palais. "Shall I inform the Imperial Chancellor?"

"Of course, and everyone else as appropriate. And have Monsieur, Our brother, ready himself at once to journey with us to Reichskamphen." the Emperor commanded. "Begin preparations at once, Monsieur le Sécretaire, it is our intention to be in Reichsburg in a week. Have a letter drafted to the Consuls for Our signature to precede us. The letter must be ready within the hour. Go."

"Your Majesty!" the Secretary said, bowing deeply, before leaving almost in a panic.

"He bows more deeply the more worried he is, Sire." Sir Constantine observed.

"He's paid well to worry." the Emperor observed. "Monsieur and I will need men we can rely upon to see to our personal safety in Reichskamphen."

"You will have me, Sire, and a company of Varangians." Sir Constantine answered.

"Good. Make sure the men you take with you know that their duties will not be merely ceremonial." the Emperor answered.

Within an hour, official letters bearing the Emperor's seal and his signature, written in purple ink, were dispatched by fast courier to von Leibnitz, Brune, and de Centreville, advising them that the Emperor would arrive in Reichskamphen at the end of the week, and that His Majesty would require their presence immediately, and the presence of both the Council of Ancients and the Council of Elders the day after his arrival.

"By the ancestors, the penchant for flowery language would put a Beladanya poet to shame." clucked Markes Vinselmo-Ryme, the Provost of the lower Parliament as he read the dossiers on Pantocratoria and Reichskamphen. The Lord High Chancellor's office played host to both the Lord Provost and the Grand Chamberlain of the Regents for an official meeting twice a week, though the three officials spoke constantly. Chancellor Dirh was younger than the other two men by at least two decades each, but despite the considerable difference in age the young executive was always sure to establish that he was their superior.

"The Pantocratorian court is stepped in tradition; it is the same as the oratory excesses of the Bel years." contributed the soft-spoken Chamberlain Tigrakash, a native of the far-northern city of Tawsanggai and a rather radical political appointee for the sedate Chamber of Regents. "Their system functions because of the traditions, rather than in spite of it."

"We can't say the same of what these Reichskamphen lot are doing with the traditions of the French and Byzantine court." frowned the Chancellor. "The Citadel's deep cover operatives in the country have been dispatching... interesting information for the past few years since insertion. There's good opportunity here, however, for expansion- the Foreign Ministry has been talking about relations with the Pantocratorians at least since I was Fourth Minister."

Dirh briefly thought back to his service in the Foreign Ministry and the incompetence of his predecessor as First Minister.

Provost Vinselmo-Ryme chuckled. "I can see why we've waited. We got such cold receptions from the Taraskovyans and folks like them we seem to have gotten an inferiority complex."

"Tarsar, I want you to find a Regency noble of sufficient rank and experience to be an envoy to the Pantocratorians, and I want a similar envoy to Reichskamphen. This is a special affair, not out of the Foreign Ministry. This is a situation I don't think we can afford to be apart from."

"I have just the people in mind."

Carmel, Cherry Ridge

The city wasn't quiet by any means. In fact, it was loud. Uproarious.

Mass demonstrations in the street praised Sean Daniel De Vito, being hailed affectionately in the press as "Don Cresta." The Mafia Don / Philanthropist stood on a podium in front of the old royal palace, protected by the re-established Royal Carmelian Guards. Interestingly enough, there was no mention of DeVito becoming king. In fact, he explicitly refused the crown, saying he would hand the title off to "a higher power, a protector of Cherry Ridge from the beginning, and a friend of the Antonettes," while he would instead rule as a prince.

Throughout the country, only brief pockets of resistance remained, quickly stamped out by the Wanderjaran and Dersconi forces supporting DeVito. The actual heir to the Ridgian Throne remained to be seen, as the mafia don quickly departed to an unknown location for some "important, nation-shaping" meeting.

Something was going on behind the scenes - in Derscon, in Cherry Ridge, and even all the way over in Pschycotic Pschycos, where the new Queen was beginning to reference a power ruling higher than her. Some felt it was sinister. Others thought they meant the Pantocratorian. Even more felt that there was no difference between the two.

The Double Headed Eagle arrived in Reichsburg within the time frame the Emperor advised the Consuls for his arrival. It carried the Emperor, his brother, Monsieur, the Prince Basil, and his brother's wife, Madame, the Princess Jacqueline. A company of the Varangian Guard under the command of the Imperial Champion Sir Constantine accompanied the members of the Imperial Family. The careful selection of a Reichskamphian equivalent to Pantocratoria's Varangian Guard had been in progress for some time, but the New Imperial Guard, as it was beginning to be called, was not yet completely formed. For these reasons, the Emperor brought his own guard with him.

The Bureau of Correspondence in Reichsburg, the Emperor's official personal media and correspondence office in Greater Prussia, had advised local media agencies of the Emperor's arrival. Included with such advice were information sheets about appropriate protocol for the press. Both editorial protocols and protocols for journalists about behaviour in the Emperor's presence were included. Also included were information sheets about the Varangian Guard, which went to great lengths to stress that the men serving in the Guard were not Pantocratorian, but of Scandinavian and Saxon origin. They served the Emperor personally, not the Pantocratorian state.

The Double Headed Eagle touched down on the tarmac, and a purple carpet was run down the steps from the aircraft to the tarmac. Andreus, Emperor of Greater Prussia, King of Reichskamphen, was about to step foot in Reichskamphen for the first time...

OOC: Panto, I dunno if what I did with your title is the way you do it, so I wrote out the title as is Dersconi custom. Sorry if I'm wrong. :P

Along with whatever ceremony Reichskamphen had set up for Andreus, a simple courier stood in place, instructed to hand-deliver a message to Andreus himself. On the letter, a double-headed eagle, protected by a Knights Templar shield and cradled by a three-headed dragon boldly glared at the reader. It was the imperial seal of Derscon.

To His Imperial Majesty Emperor Andreus I, By the Grace of God, Emperor of Pantocratoria, Emperor of Greater Prussia, Autocrator of the Romans, Caesar Augustus, King of France and Navarre, King of Reichskamphen, Equal of the Apostles, God's Vicegerent on Earth, the Very Christian, the Most Pious, Sebastocrator, King of Kings Ruling over those who Rule, Grand Master of the Chivalric Order of the Pantocrator, Grand Master of the Royal and Military Order of Saint Louis, Royal Knight of All Aerion,

We write to you in the most turbulent of times. With Greater Prussia and Reichskamphen slowly coming under your imperial influence, and Derscon having quickly formed an Imperial Government, there are many issues that must be settled in order to ensure a completely smooth and peaceful process.

We cannot urge His Imperial Majesty enough that a personal meeting is essential to not only quickly establish more friendly relations, but quell any resistance against a stable Crown of Greater Prussia. We fear more chaos and destruction in our noble friends to the South, especially such done in Our Name.

Signed by Our Hand in the First Year of the Fourth Empire,

His Most Divine Imperial Majesty Tsar Alexei I, By the Grace of God, Ambrosial Seraph of the Dersconi Amaranthine Imperium, Autocrator of All Russias, Emperor of Pschycotic Pschycos, Emperor of Saint Rynald, Emperor of Wanderjar, King of Cherry Ridge, King of the Redemption Isles, Prince of Paxton, Lord of House Andropov, Keeper and Protector of the Covenant with Israel, The King of King of Kings, The One That Is Because He Is, Empyrean Imperator, Master of the Universe

Darielle City, Darielle, Allanea

The fresh monument was truly imposing. It was composed of 24 statues, made out of black metal and standing upright, ranging up to seventy-five meters tall – men and women in flight uniforms, some wearing their pilot helmets, some cradling them under their arms – the 24 men and women of the Allanean Strategic Air Command that gave their lives in the war of East Congaree. Each statue was forged of the one metal that was their due – the metal of a Congarese submarine, taken down by the Allanean in battle. The names of the fallen had been carved on the pedestal of the mighty monument.

They deserved this memory – for every Allanean who fell in battle, three million Congarese have lost their lives.

Upon the steps of the Strategic Air Command monument, a small podium had been made, and now, standing upon it, dwarfed by the twenty-four men behind him, stood Alexander Kazansky. He spoke calmly, respectfully, his voice carrying over the heads of the small crowd assembled to hear him speak.

“Freemen! Allaneans!

I am honored to open this monument – in memory of twenty-four valiant men who gave their lives so all men could be free. They have engaged the fascist enemy on the ground, in the air, and on the sea, and everywhere they have brought us victory against impossible odds. Hundreds of enemy bombers and fighters, thousands of ships, millions of enemy troops and sailors, seventy million enemy civilians – this is the kill count of the Strategic Air Command.

A force outnumbering our Navy on the seas four-to-one had risen against us. But the Strategic Air Command did not surrender. The Strategic Air Command reached out and killed them dead. This is what this monument is to. Not merely to self-sacrifice, or bravery – but to victory and honor.

Now that we have reaffirmed our honor as a nation and a civilization, I, President Alexander Kazansky, am honored to make another announcement. I am here to announce that the sacrifice of these twenty-four men had not only kept our nation secure and prosperous – it improved our international standing enough that Allanea can now rejoin the Greater Prussian Empire as an honorable member.”

For a few minutes, the President was unable to speak, interrupted by applause.

“As you know, some terrorists are now wreaking havoc in Northern Reichskamphen in the name of the Imperial Family, and committing various atrocities. Even thought some of them are rumored to be Allanean, it is the duty of our government – as a member of the Empire and as a decent state – to assist the Empire against these fools.”

“I hereby announce the United States a member nation of the Greater Prussian Empire.”

“May God bless Greater Prussia.
May God continue to bless Allanea.”

He could still feel the heat in the air when he stood up. A mortar round. Some incendiary shell struck the escort vehicle beside him. He brushed away the dust and a few small pieces of gravel that were haphazardly impressed into his face when his cheek hit the road. ‘I’m not missing anything’ he thought to himself, examing his limbs. ‘They shouldn’t be able to strike that close.’

He recovered his senses a bit. Marechal Brune hurled himself towards the still burning car. The screams were like a corkscrew being driven down his spine. He grabbed the blackened hand he saw writing in the drivers side window. “HECTOR!” He braced himself with one foot against the door and with some effort wrenched the man from the depths of the flames. The sole of his shoe had melted and it came away in strings, clinging to the car, when he pulled his foot away. He lifted Hector off the ground and, bending his neck low, carried him like some great 200 pound sack of flour; the man’s head over one shoulder, legs flailing over the other, and torso against his neck.

The smell. Like putrid bacon.

He threw the man on the ground, screaming for a medic. His eyelids were burned away and his eyes were like great orbs rolling about wildly in some animatronic socket. There was still a patch of blackened skin that here and there clung obstinately to his face, but mostly ashen muscle writing in a pain so great that only the numbness and abyss beyond could sooth it. ‘Hector…’ the air upon which he breathed the word dribbled from his lips like water from the mouth of a drowning man just pulled from the sea.

“Where is Berthier!?” He screamed, seemingly changing his whole state of being in but a moment.

A soldier in full cybernetic tactical armor seemed to appear out of nowhere, grabbing Brune and pulling him away frantically. “We have to go Marechal, there’s a whole armored brigade over that ridge.” He pointed to a tree line crease in the horizon. Brune was unaccustomed to seeing Reichskamphian soldiers in the latest battle armor. In his days, during the glory of the Aquilar Empire, the Dersconis and Allaneans were the only soldiers wearing that stuff that he didn’t have a strong inclination to shoot at. It didn’t look quite as bad as he had thought it would. Much like a normal camoflage BDU, just with obvious obtrusions and large plates beneath. The soldier’s face was completely covered by the face shield of his helmet, which contained a full color heads up display.

“I’m not going anywhere!” Brune shouted.

“The men, sir…if you die…this will not only be a defeat but a total rout.”

“This is no defeat yet. Tell the men if they want me to live, they better come here and do something about it. I won’t move an inch.”

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

Four Days Earlier

“The disgrace…” Brune muttered to himself. He stepped out onto the balcony outside the window of his fourth floor office in the Palais Consular. He looked out upon the sea of Pantocratorian flags that flew from every flagpole in the city in lieu of the new Reichskamphian flag whose design was still in committee. His consular sash fluttered a bit in the cool night breeze. “The disgrace.”

The attack was right in the heart of Reichskamphen, well behind the frontier of tactical operations. General Barthaume had been tasked with tracking down, trapping, marginalizing, and otherwise eliminating the threat posed by Kotalik’s old army, which intelligence indicated was now being run by a man named Markhil. Brune knew that an Allanean militia was operating in the Northern theatre, so did Barthaume. But up until now this had proven to be a very good thing indeed. The militia had been chasing Kotalik’s Army out of Reichskamphen at a frightening pace. Whenever the Allaneans got practically within 50 miles of them, Markhil cleared out and sent his men running as fast as they could. Barthaume was the anvil, and the Allaneans were the hammer. Though neither group communicated, Barthaume saw the way things were progressing and placed his force in a concealed position along the only route of Escape to Derscon in the general area. The
Allaneans were closing in and three days promised to bring them victory.

Something had obviously changed. By the time Barthaume realized that the militia had permanently vacated the field rather than simply dispersing into the countryside as they were want to do, they had already made their massacre and left.

Brune watched as Armored troop carriers and traced their way around the honeycomb of ancient streets. A few patrols passed on foot here and there. By his order, martial law had been declared in the Reichsburg province as well as all provinces that either seemed to be under a specific threat, were adjacent to those that were, or simply seemed vulnerable to another incursion.

“I have played the politician too long.” He said to no one at all. He turned around and leaned back on the stone banister of the balcony, facing away from the city and looking through the glass French doors to his office that hung ajar. His Marechal’s baton, insignia, and ceremonial sword hung on the wall facing him. With a deep sigh he looked away from them and strode with new gusto back into his office. He sat down at his desk and stared at the paper that had been staring back at him ever since he drafted it, but an hour after the news had arrived. He picked up his quill and signed it with such force that the nib nearly tore into the paper. When he picked it up, he could see the indentations he had made on the finish of his desk.

Up until now, conditions had not been right, and plus he had needed every competent officer he could find regardless of any suspect loyalties. Now, though, the stroke of his pen effected the purge of the officer corps. All officers of any grade that an extensive review had shown to have detrimental Bonapartist or Domitian loyalties (and that could not be vouched for by Brune or any of the two or three officers he explicitly and implicity trusted) were removed from command and discharged from the Emperor’s service. The more dangerous and suspect individuals had already been rounded up privily in the middle of that very same night and awaited exhile or worse in the bowels of the old Reichsburg jail. There they joined five members from the Councils of Ancients and Elders who had been likewise remanded to the custody of the Gendarmes by orders of Leibnitz.

Brune rose from his desk and pried his baton from it’s display hangers. “It seems that I can never put any title above that of Marechal de l’Empire, not even Consul.” He said, though this time not the faceless darkness, but to himself and to the stars of the great men long gone whom he knew looked down upon him at this very moment.

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

The Marechal grabbed the fleur-de-lis standard from the arms of a retreating soldier and planted it firmly in the dusty road before him. A company of scouts came into view just in the distance. He loosened his gold plated Beretta from its holster and fired into their midst. They were out of range, but his target was not their heads but the hearts of his own men. “Vive l’Empereur!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Vive Andreus! Honneur et Patrie!” The spectacle of the old man standing alone in the fading light of day with his standard and firing aimlessly into the coming horde like Athanasius Contra Mundum clutching his scripture send waves of pride through the ranks of the men…but more importantly panic. The waves of retreating Imperial troops faltered in their flight. The word was passed like a wildfire that Alexandre Brune, their Marechal, was about to be overrun by a swath of terroristic vermin.

“Save the Marechal! Protect Brune!” men variously shouted. Machine gun squads deployed themselves on the Marechals flanks and peppered the oncoming attackers, now far more than a single squad, with an unrelenting hail of bullets. The smoke trails of anti-tank shells swirled and twisted through the air like sinister streamers, finding their marks not just on the advancing vehicles, but in groups of men and anything that moved. A group of more than thirty or forty men in the same type of tactical armor pried the standard from the Marechal’s hand. One physically picked up, and threw him over his shoulder, making haste towards the rear. “Put me down dammit!”

“Your day has not come.”

“I’ll tell you when my day has come!”

“What are you talking about sir?” the soldier asked, out of breath. He put Alexandre on his feet in the cover of a stand of ancient oaks just behind the fighting.

“You said, ‘Your day hasn’t come.”

“No, sir, I didn’t.”
Brune didn’t realize until some hours later what the soldier had said to him as he was already on the line screaming for Berthier.

General Berthier, who by now himself had heard of the Marechal’s plight was well on his way to the scene with his five armored battalions. They arrived five minutes later, swung diagonally across the field, and swept away all before them like some cavaliers of old.

Brune dabbed and the tendrils of blood that dripped from a cut on his forhead. He watched as the once torrential floods of the enemy were pressed back towards their encampments. Set piece battles were far from a common feature of modern warfare as Brune knew it, but as he walked the smoldering field of battle in the first glimmer of the next dawn, he thought that if ever there was an opportune time for one, it was now.

After the armored reinforcements, whom he had been calling for two hours, finally arrived and obliterated the enemy’s local drive, Kotalik’s men along the entire field of battle began an ordered retreat and even held off the advance of Berthier for a time before the Airforce, whom he had been calling since the dawn hours, finally saw fit to respond. Before Markhil could do anything, half of his force was entrapped and slaughtered to a man while the other half broke their ordered retreat and began practically running down the highway towards Derscon where General Barthaume patiently awaited their arrival.

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

The Emperor was more than likely already in the air, en route to Reichsburg, when he received the electronic Communique from les Consuls on what the newspapers were calling the “Battle of the Magdeburg Forest”. The report made clear what was already obvious: that this battle was of only moderate tactical importance. Markhil had never posed a real threat aside from the fact that his presence in the north made it impossible to secure the border with Derscon with any efficacy. The other half of Kotalik’s old army never reached the waiting Barthaume, but rather scattered into the countryside and kept their heads low. This meant that the Army could now secure the border, but could be ill assured of what lay on their own side.

The main point of the short campaign was to show the people of Reichskamphen and the world that His Majesty’s government could and would use overwhelming force to dispose of its opponents and would not be easily toppled by any dark horse.

The Bonapartists now thoroughly united behind their eternal champion, the Marechal Brune, were now by proxy even more firmly united behind their Emperor Andreus whom they were now convinced carried Brune’s heart as well as his official imprimatur. The real threat arose from Domitian elements who found in the lower classes and country folk willing dupes for their propaganda. The Army had been forced to quell countless small revolts throughout the country that had been instigated by Domitian puppet masters from afar or from secretive places in the government in Reichsburg. A few buildings had been burned and a local Imperial Guard base had been attacked by a mob with pitchforks, but peace was ultimately restored with minimal civilian casualties. The question remained as to how tenable that peace was.

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

“Wake up, Gravey.”

Reverend Graves bolted upright in his bed. ‘A Dream.’ He convinced himself. That bastard Kotalik had caused him so many sleepless nights that at this point, he thought himself delusional.

“So…I see how it is. Gravey and Andreus sittin’ in a tree…K…I…S…S..I..”

“WHO THE HELL ARE YOU!?”

The man cloaked in shadow beside his bed bent into the sliver of moonlight that escaped into the room through a small gap in the curtains. “Don’t you recognize me?”

“No…who the hell are you? Wait…Markhil. You’re General Markhil. I saw you on the news.”

“WRONG. Guess again.”

As Graves slowly emerged from his stupor, his eyes grew wide with fear and realization, “Kotalik.” He gasped for air like a fish in the desert for water.

“Right. I have been called that before, and that’s how you knew me best. Now, though I am inhabiting the body of this Markhil person. People once called me Senator Domitius as well. Before that, I think it was Andre Allistaire von Katrineburg that they called me. Ahem. EMPEROR Andre Allistaire von Katrineburg, if you will.”

“Pax Maria in Aeternum…” Graves finally muttered, almost in resignation. “What would you have me do, my Emperor?”

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

The crowds thronged the airstrip and cheered wildly as Emperor Andreus the First of Greater Prussia walked down the steps from the cabin of the plane. The size of the crowd was not unsurprising given the monarch’s extremely high approval ratings within Reichskamphen proper (63% approve) and especially in Reichsburg (82% approve). The Emperor’s lowest approval rating at almost any juncture was always higher than highest of any of his consuls. This certainly showed that whatever actions the consuls took that the people found to be disagreeable, they did not, for the time being, reflect on their monarch. The only Consul whos positive rating came anywhere close to that of the Emperor’s was that of Marechal Brune after his recent victory (60%).

Consuls Leibnitz and de Centreville stood high in the distance upon a stage covered with silken fleur-de-lis bunting. Consul Brune was one hour away, en route to the city, from disposing of the last of the resistance in the Northern Theatre. Standing next to the Consuls were the Premier ministres of the Councils of Ancients and Elders. Alexandre-Napoleon nee Bernadotte, Premier Ministre of the Council of Ancients looked on confidently at his counterpart across the way, Rev. Peter Graves the newly elected Premier Minister of the Council of Elders. All were arrayed in their best finery and powdered wigs, awaiting the deliverance they were sure their monarch would bring.

Leibnitz appeared more than a little nervous. He had obviously been made aware of the distinct possibility that his monarch held him in displeasure. He nodded to the band which played, not the Pantocratorian national anthem, but Veillons sur l’Empire. This was the supreme recognition that the government and people of Reichskamphen viewed the ascendancy of his Majesty, Andreus, as legitimate and lawful. The last man this anthem had played for in any official capacity was Joseph-Napoleon, the brother and successor of Napoleon IV.

“Your Majesty!” Leibnitz bowed deeply, as did all assembled. “Your most loyal and humble subjects, the people and government of Reichskamphen welcome their savior from darkness and disorder, the protector of their laws and rights, their lawful and God-ordained monarch!”

“Vive l’Empereur! Vive l’Empereur!” the crowd shouted. The two hundred brass, smooth bore cannons on the walls of the city fired a thundering cannonade as the band played a new composition, a romantic, verismo counterpoint piece that juxtaposed the Pantocratorian anthem against Veillons sur l’Empire and then ended with a grandiose rendition of the Pantocratorian anthem. Gigantic screens descended from nearby ramparts displaying the soaring tower of the Imperial Cathedral in New Geneva. The Carillion in the top of the tower, the largest in the known world, joined in tolling the King’s anthem from the highest point in the Empire. Other screens showed the colossal organ and 300 voice choir of the cathedral joining in.

Two columns of ornately attired Imperial Guard marched in perfect parallel lines towards the plane, then abruptly did an about face to face one another and make a path for their Emperor. The standards unfurled. No eagle topped them, no tricolor, no reference that a Bonaparte had ever reigned in the land. The gold embroidered lettering read, “l’Empereur Andreus au 1eme Regiment de la Garde Imperiale”. There were few dry eyes in the crowd in contrast to the supreme serenity of the Emperor Andreus. Everyone gathered there realized that there was now no turning back. The age of the eagle had ended and the age of the fleur-de-lis had begun. The people greeted it with joy. Leibnitz only prayed to himself that they would have that same joy in a few months time.

There having never been a great hegemonic ruler who oversaw the whole of the Snefaldian geographical state, those civil servants and residual aristocrats who composed part of the government's civil bureaucracy were quite usually surprised when they ran into the sort of pomp and circumstance surrounding the arrival of a hereditary monarch, in any capacity. Despite the existence of Kings and Queens and Emperors-in-pretense among the many former noble states of the Snefaldian polity none of them had possessed any sort of power; merely a degenerate sense of entitlement that followed them like an obscene perfume mixture of despair, contempt, and tarnished glory.

Of course, there were those who owed their titles and power to the powerful civil administrators of Aatem Nal, many of whom were descended from powerful ancient families. They often served as Regents of the upper parliament, or had been Chancellors, or some such other high office; the government occasionally called upon them to serve again. Paskardâmmu Hantili, the Marquis Nuhassa, reflected on the presence of the Pantocratorian Emperor and the role of aristocracy in government as he turned his diplomatic papers over in his hand.

"The tea tastes like burnt ginger."

The Marquis was torn from his thoughts by Sondoël Quëstàyán, Royal Equerry of Têisnáya, his companion for the trip (delayed by the arrival of Emperor Andreus in Reichskamphen). The Beladanya peer was the inheritor of an ancient title from the days of the Great Kingdom, and as a former Treasury Ministry worker, rather boring and tactless.

"You certainly don't have to drink it. We'll be there soon and will present papers to the government- I'm sure you can do without for a little while."

In a while, when the air traffic would likely be released, the two Special Envoys of the High Chancellery of Snefaldia would be in Reichskamphen to convey the messages of the government- and something more.

The Marechal arrived in Reichsburg three hours behind his sovreign. The 1st Division of the Imperial Guard, whose advanced elements had arrived a bit ahead of Brune, was slowly filing into the modern fortifications around Reichsburg. The Aigle Division, which had historically been the Emperor’s own personal army and guard force, had been reconstituted only a day or so earlier of only the most loyal and and hardened veterans. The expansive force, whose actual order of battle was a state secret known only to Emperor Andreus and the Consuls, had quickly replaced any elements of the regular Army serving guard duty in the Capitol. There were to be no chances taken.

The Airport where the Emperor had landed, his processional route, and the Palais Consular where he would first seat himself upon the throne of Greater Prussia were heavily guarded green zones with restricted access. The people in the enthusiastic crowds that had greeted his majesty upon his arrival had each undergone a full hour of searches, questioning, and two background checks before they would be allowed in. Access to the inner walls of the ancient city was also restricted along with access into the outskirts of the city. Freedom of movement was revoked for all citizens of the Capital. Anyone wishing to travel anywhere beyond the two blocks adjacent to their residence was required to present formal documents signed by a Consul before they would be allowed to enter and/or leave. There were to be no chances taken.

Andreus had the Marechal to thank for the extreme measures to ensure his safety. It was hoped that as things normalized, some of the forces could be drawn down and some security measures relaxed.

Andreus would likely have been informed that Brune had issued a press release condemning anyone who would use his name to obstruct the progress of the August House of Bourbon and formally declining any nomination to any noble title whatsoever. Further, he declared his enmity towards anyone who would obstruct the due process of lawful succession, and that swift actions would be taken against them.

The timing worked out splendidly. After the hour-long reception for His Majesty, the lengthy briefing by all of the relevant ministries, and the parade through the Green zone to the Palais Consular, Brune would arrive at his offices at around the same time as his Emperor.

This time, when the Consuls assembled, Brune joined them in full military regalia. At his side was a young 12 year old boy who bore a strange resemblance to the elderly soldier. The Imperial Heralds sounded the arrival of His Majesty whose horse-drawn gilded carriage pulled up to the towering façade of the palace which must have seemed quite small in comparison to the facilities at the Court of Christ Pantocrator. If only New Geneva were safe. There was a city worthy of the glory of the Emperor.

“Vive l’Empereur!” the Consuls and gathered staff shouted, the military men saluting their monarch and the civilians bowing deeply. The young boy shouted out a moment later in a high little voice, “Vive Andreus Premier!”

This ceremony, away from the prying eyes of the General public thanks to the new security measures, was to be a bit more familiar. The media had been dismissed at the airport. Any interviews or questions could be posed later. There was much to be done.

“Your Highness,” Brune bowed deeply after the Emperor had serenely processed to meet his Consuls. “My sincere apologies for my absence this morning. Surely you have heard that it was for good cause that I was tardy. If I may also impose, may I present my grandson Guillaume Brune and beseech your highness to place upon him your most Holy benediction.”

Standing behind the Consular delegation was a most anxious messenger who would not be attended to until the Emperor had been seen inside. He carried with him a message of mixed blessings: General Barthaume had decisively crushed all of the remnants of Kotalik’s army when they had tried to reform to counterattack the now smaller Royal force, but Markhil had escaped with a small delegation. More ominously, another village near the border had been attacked. At least this time the insurgents couldn’t make it any further.

The presence of Andreus was the greatest blessing of all. Only he could possibly restore security at home and manage a Greater Prussian Empire whose former member states, inspired and reassured by the new leadership, were rapidly returning into the fold.

To: His Most Divine Imperial Majesty Tsar Alexei I
From: His Emminence Gerhardt N. Leibnitz Premier Consul de la Royaume de Reichskamphen et l’Empire de la Grande Prusse
CC: His Emminence, the Foreign Minister of the Empire of Pantocratoria

Your Highness,

I greet you in the name of OUR most holy Sovreign, Andreus Premier, Emperor of Greater Prussa, King of Reichskamphen and bring you good tidings from the Imperial Court at Reichsburg and in the name of the Court of Christ Pantocrator.

The Empire rejoices at the return of its heart and conscience, the Dersconi Empire, even as it gains a new head in the Empire of Pantocratoria. With the help of God, perhaps the reunion of the whole of the Empire, the Kingdom of Burgundy, and Free Cities Alliance may not be as far off as the naysayers predict.

I have put forth your name to OUR Emperor that you be elevated to your rightful post as Arch Chancellor of the Empire. I am but a servant and can do nothing but advise my Monarch and carry out his wishes, yet I sincerely hope that the next month will find you arriving in Reichsburg to meet with the reconvened Imperial Government as its Arch Chancellor.

More urgently though, I must convey to you the concerns of OUR Emperor as to the aggression that the Dersconi government seems to be visiting upon its neighbors which are also Reichskamphen’s neighbors. As Reichskamphen is at present the seat of government of the restored Empire, instability and war within neighbor states must be brought to an end to ensure the security of the Capitol so that our attention can be turned outwards to greater projects.

In this same vein, I must beseech your Majesty to strictly patrol and guard your borders to ensure no marauding parties or hostile individuals will use Derscon as their path into Reichskamphen. I must also beseech you to track down those villainous rebels who have bloodied our land and defiled our people and who yet seek refuge within your borders. Their extradition is not necessary, only ocular proof that they have met with justice most severe and most discrete.

Your most humble servant,

Gerhardt Nathaniel Leibnitz
Premier Consul de la Royaume de Reichkamphen et de l’Empire de la Grande Prusse

--

To: His Excellency, President Alexander Kazansky
From: His Emminence, Alexandre Brune Marechal de l’Empire, Troisieme Consul de la Royaume de Reichskamphen et de l’Empire de la Grande Prusse, et Prince de Axackal

President Kazansky,

I thank God that you are well and that fortune should bring our paths together again. The Empire and Reichskamphen are forever in debt to you for your recent kindnesses and measures of assistance which have gone above and beyond any level of expectation.

I know Allanea well, and it holds a special place in my heart. My first campaign as General was with Napoleon IV when he briefly reigned as King of Allanea under Emperor Paisley. Then again, I was called to lead the campaign to liberate West Axackal from pernicious Communism under the leadership of Napoleon IV when he reigned as Emperor of Greater Prussia. You will remember my constant patronage of the Robert E. Lee Military Academy and that my son was enrolled there and now my Grandson Guillaume was enrolled in this most prestigious school until this very month when I briefly withdrew him for a semester’s leave of absence to be with me here in Reichsburg.

By my authority as Consul, I have elevated your guest advisors here to ministerial postings and appointed you Chief Advisor to the Third Consul. Messrs. Leibnitz and de Centreville have yet to join me in a vote to make your appointment as Chief Advisor to the Consulate effective. I hope that this month shall see your arrival in Reichsburg to participate in these crucial hours when the birthpangs of this new Empire still burn fresh in our memories.

However, I must petition you in the name of OUR Emperor Andreus Premier that you take all measures possible to ensure that no further Allanean nationals raise their hand against the lawful government of the Empire and especially its people and innocent citizens. I would also ask you that any such individuals who have taken part in pernicious and treasonous activities against the Empire be dealt with swiftly, harshly, and discretely. There is no need for extradition, just see to it that they are disposed of accordingly.

Your Friend,

Alexandre.

The Emperor gave Brune's grandson his benediction, making the sign of the cross in the air and then placing his hand on the child's forehead, and then addressed his consuls, starting with Brune.

"Monsieur le Consul," the Emperor began. "Your absence at my arrival is most certainly excused. Your victory over the forces of chaos is laudable, and I extend my gratitude for your able performance of your duty."

"Monsieur le Consuls von Leibnitz et de Centreville," the Emperor continued, turning to the other two. "I thank you for all the courtesy extended to me in my arrival, it was very well done. I should like to see the Imperial Carillion in person one day. Permit me to introduce Monsieur my brother, Prince Basil, and Madame his wife, Princess Jacqueline."

"Messieurs les Consuls." said Basil, shaking the hand of each Consul as his wife curtsied to each.

"My old friend and champion, Sir Constantine." the Emperor said, introducing the Consuls to the commander of the Varangian Guard.

"There is much to discuss, messieurs. Let us go inside to speak." the Emperor told the Consuls.

After they had retired to an appropriate meeting room in the Palais Consular, the Emperor showed them the missive he had received from Tsar Alexei. He asked for a briefing about the military and national security situation, and although he was characteristically difficult to read, he seemed content. Occasionally Prince Basil would ask for minor points of clarification, which the Emperor would shortly reiterate, as if through years of familiarity and service as his brother's chancellor, Monsieur sometimes knew the questions the Emperor really wanted to ask but did not initially articulate. When the Emperor was thoroughly briefed, he began discussing affairs of state.

"The matter of the council meetings I wish to discuss shortly, but first I must discuss the ethnic cleansing of Allensdorf." the Emperor began. "The massacre of Allensdorf is an unspeakable atrocity, which, according to the messenger, may have just been revisited upon another border village. No more such events can take place. The animals who have committed them have committed the worst sort of war crime, and can be afforded no quarter. I want the butchers of Allensdorf, any who might still be at large, brought to justice, and I hold whoever gave them their orders, their equipment, and secreted them into Reichskamphen among their numbers too. They should face the most severe of penalties. I thank you all for everything which has been done to bring these mass murderers to justice, and trust in your efforts to see any of the butchers who are still at large similarly dealt with."

"This leads us to one of the inherent contradictions of statesmanship, however." the Emperor observed. "Recently I heard word that Alexander Kazansky has announced that the United States of Allanea has rejoined Greater Prussia. Allanea rejoining Greater Prussia is an enormously promising and pleasing prospect. If Allanea is a member of the Empire, then the Allanean President should hold an office in the Imperial government of Greater Prussia. That is, I believe, correct and understood according to established Greater Prussian practice, is it not, messieurs?"

"And yet, Alexander Kazansky is the biggest mass murderer in human history." the Emperor observed, the cold disgust chiselled in his face. "He has overseen genocide and apocalypse on a scale few of the very worst dictators even approached, and he has exceeded them all. He is responsible for the death of billions. For whatever justification for his myriad crimes his admirers propose, that he has committed them is beyond doubt. Genghis Khan, the Grand Turk Mehmet, Matthew Iesus, all of them put together are exceeded by Alexander Kazansky. The human misery he has inflicted upon the world passes the profound and moves well into the territory of the hyperbolic, if only hyperbole was involved."

"I am, messieurs, greatly conflicted about any role in the government of Greater Prussia Alexander Kazansky may have." the Emperor concluded. "Of course, it is my sincere desire that the United States of Allanea rejoin the Greater Prussian Empire, yet nevertheless, the involvement of Kazansky... I would have your thoughts and advice, messieurs."

AVF Camp, Southern Derscon

Alexander Kazansky rode into the AVF camp openly, upon a black horse. He wore not the suit and tie of Western politicians, but the parade dress clothing of the Fieldmarshal of Allanea – black, with silver buttons and gold-laced epaulettes and a pair of large stars on each shoulder. A large diamond-studded star at neck level was the final mark of his office. On his belt hung the two massive Presidential pistols, plated with solid gold, and behind his right shoulder was clearly visible the blade of his sword. For he was the Sword of Allanea, Count of Centreville.

Here, Kazansky had no fans or admirers – the likes of which were common in Allanea, in Vault 10, and in various minor dependencies of the United States. Though the Allaneans were often given to what foreigners termed 'personality cults', the AVF followed the Crown of Greater Prussia, not the President of Allanea. Kazansky respected that – and these men respected him. They wouldn't die for him – but they would listen to him.

Following him were the troops of the Fieldmarshal's Own – a battalion of men of proven loyalty and courage. It was their duty to follow the President – into the very mouth of Hell, if need be. If treason was afoot, then these men would form a ring of steel around him – for if the AVF was not given to any kind of hero-worship of Kazansky, the Fieldmarshal's Own Personal Assault Battalion was chosen from men who were.

At the feet of the horse rushed a massive dog – Odot, the Fieldmarshal's Hound. Odot had a story of his own. Once upon a time, when the people of Kahanistan were raising charity money after some disaster had befallen them, one of the world's more evil national governments donated a small, mangy dog to mock their suffering. Kazansky had bought the dog for an immense sum of money from the Kahanistani charity, turning the terrible mockery into an act of good will. For years, Odot underwent retroviral modification, cybernetic augmentation, and other processes – eventually becoming a fierce hound, capable of besting a bear or a raptor in combat. He followed the President on his hunting trips.

There was stunned silence as the President rode into the camp. Perhaps two thousand men had made this secluded place their camp-out – a fraction of the total numbers of AVF fighters. But Kazansky knew that what he said to these people would become soon known throughout the ranks. Which was precisely his intent.

He approached the center of the small camp-out without incident. There he saw a large tent, quite obviously the headquarters. Two soldiers kept guard at the entrance.

"Hey!" – he called out – "Private! Do you recognize me?"

"Yes, Mr. President!"

"What's your name, private?"

"Trent Jackson, Mr. President!"

"Well, Private Jackson. I know I'm not in charge here – but I do work for the Empire again. I am now again the Chief Advisor to the Consulate. And… obviously I can't order you around. But I do have a request."

"Yes, Mr. President?"

"Fetch me your commander. Tell him I have a message for him from the Consulate. Tell him to gather the men."


*

It took a while for the AVF troops to gather in center of the camp – mostly because Kazansky had to persuade the commanders that no man had to be left out, not even the perimeter guards. The Fieldmarshal's Own would guard the camp for the duration, and everybody had to hear what Kazansky had to say.

"My friends!

It appears that order has been restored in the Empire. To my knowledge, Kotalik is defeated. An Emperor has been chosen for this Empire. It is Andreus Capet, , Emperor of Pantocratoria, Autocrator of the Romans, Caesar Augustus, King of France and Navarre, Equal of the Apostles, God's Vicegerent on Earth, the Very Christian, the Most Pious, Sebastocrator, King of Kings Ruling over those who Rule, Grand Master of the Chivalric Order of the Pantocrator, Grand Master of the Royal and Military Order of Saint Louis, Royal Knight of All Aerion!"

A mumble of discontent flowed through the crowd like a wave.

"I know, my friends. The Pantocratorians are not like Prussians, and they are not like Allaneans. They dislike our culture, and they dislike me. But… hate as I do to say it, there is a question of lesser evil at play."

Another rumble. Allaneans hated talk of lesser evils.

"This man, whether you like him or not – whether he likes it or not… this man is the Emperor. If you continue your acts of violence against him, you will destroy the peace that is so precious, so tenuous in Greater Prussia – and you will become traitors to the Empire by virtue of that act. For the Empire – for the old dynasties that worked hard to maintain it – I implore you to cease those acts. Moreover… there is an Emperor now, and for the sake of peace, for the sake of our Empire, you must swear fealty to him. You will join his brand-new Imperial Army, your steel shall be the Emperor's steel – and if you cannot bear serving under a Pantocratorian, then you can go home and tend to your homes and families. But remember that Imperial service is not just service to the Emperor. It is a service to the Empire."

Some men nodded. Others frowned.

"I will provide money to rearm the AVF completely, to give you better uniforms, better food and better salaries. I will speak to the government of Derscon to help integrate the AVF into the Imperial Army. You will be given the respect you're due. All you need to do is to follow your duty – and to stand by your Emperor in this dark hour."

Kazansky paused, studying the men. He saw the division in their faces, in teir eyes. Some would surely sign up – they wanted to feel as a part of something powerful, something great. They wanted to serve the Empire. Others seemed to hope that Andreus Capet wouldn't be around forever. Yet others, disgusted with the entire deal, would quit. But it wasn't enough. He needed to assure that the violence would cease entirely.

"Some of you will choose, perhaps, to continue the path of violence. My response to these people is simple. Attack a single Reichskamphian civilian, raise a finger against an Imperial citizen – and you will die. I am redeploying additional infantry divisions to bases around Derson for that purpose. I have more than enough men at my disposal to crush any terrorist scum like bugs. Is that clear?"

Of course it was clear.

"Now, about the Allensdorf Massacre… the Emperor wants to chase down the murdering scum who did it." – there was a twinkle in Kazansky's eye – "There will be difficulties, of course. The massacre – and the one that followed it – were executed by, at best, two platoons of people, assuming they were done by separate units."

"They left nobody above the age of fourteen alive – meaning we have no reliable witnesses. They used the same kind of rifles everybody else here uses, and probably swapped out the bolt assemblies and barrels since – or at least fired the guns a few hundred times. Or simply traded rifles with somebody. Most importantly, your units, being informal, have no database of the troops' DNA. There is only one way in which the killers can be brought to justice."

Kazansky paused. "The only way they can be brought to justice is if someone here comes forward with the evidence. I implore you – if you know these murderers, speak! I will establish a hotline. Any of your will be able to speak, anonymously if you want, and provide information on the killers – and we must do so swiftly before they move to Vault 10 or to ViZion."

The President could barely restrain himself from laughing – he knew it was not likely anybody would speak – but then, he had to try, no?

"Finally, in the process of your rearmament, I had some troops bring in some standard Prussian Army rifles, to replace your AK-47s ripoffs. If you want, you can hand them in to me in exchange for some cash. But if you want to keep both rifles, it's fine by me, just as long as you comply with the laws of wherever it is you are going to end up. Me? I'd sell the AK. You got them for free, now you can get five hundred bucks for them. Deal, no? Oh, and of course, if you join the Emperor's Service, I guarantee you on my honor that you will be well paid – at least as well as men in Allanea's own Army."

Suddenly smiles broke out. It began to dawn on people that, despite the fact they might not precisely like the outcome, the war was over. And that no matter what happened, the Empire had people like Kazansky, and these people would provide for them, no matter who was on the throne.

Several hours later, two thirds of the unit swore fealty the new Emperor.

* During the Military Briefing of the Emperor *
“Your Majesty, I must bring a matter of grave and immediate importance to your attention.” Brune formally addressed Andreus. “My entire Army was nearly wiped out by a technologically and numerically inferior force at this most recent battle. Reichskamphen has always been justly famous for the prowess of its infantry and armor but I knew that these alone would not prevail against Kotalik’s force, which was possessed of far greater training and experience than my Imperial Guard troops. To this end, I requested overwhelming air and artillery support. I received none until my infantry had already snagged victory from the jaws of an unnecessary defeat. Our military which we had previously suggested be disbanded to a large degree, now seems to prove incapable at its current level of funding and manpower to effectively secure the country.” Brune removed his white leather gloves and sat them gingerly one on top of another on the table before him. “We were wrong. I was wrong. If there is any concerted uprising on any scale, it is doubtful that we can respond in enough time with enough force to prevent the spread of disorder.”

Leibnitz nodded affirmatively. “The Allaneans actually funded and oversaw the formation of the Royal Army and the Imperial Guard. They are strong and good forces, but the officer corp of the Royal Army has just been purged by the order of Monsieur le troisieme Consul and its loyalty is at issue should a situation arise as they have been unpaid for the last three months.”

“Our government has no money to pay them as we sunk all available funds into infrastructure with the belief that all violence was at an end.” Centreville added, despairingly.
Brune looked at his Emperor with grave concern. “Unless your Majesty is able to secure an immediate source of funding for your armies or immediately augment native forces with Pantrocratorian troops or soldiers from another of your dominions, we cannot guarantee the continued existence of this government or of peace.”

* In Response to the Emperor’s concerns *


“If I may, messieurs.” Brune nodded his deference to the other two consuls and his monarch. “I am the only person in this room or government who has personally known and worked with President Kazansky. It was by my authority that he was elevated to Chief Advisor to the third Consul and it is my reccomendation that he be elevated to the position crafted specifically for him by Napoleon the Fourth and in which he was retained by every tenant of the Greater Prussian throne thereafter.”

He had supposed that the Emperor may have been greatly shocked at his suggestion, given his recently stated loathing of Kazansky. But the Emperor’s face remained perfectly motionless and hinted at no emotions. Somehow though, Brune knew that his suggestion was not well received.

“The position of Chief Advisor to the Empire is one that carries absolutely no power except that which your Majesty would award to it. This allows the Empire to reap the strategic and economic benefits of Kazansky’s work and presence while maintaining the ability to distance itself and remain aloof should his actions prove contrary to the greater good. Further, an appointment to this position does not signify an endorsement of any of his previous or current actions. All it signals is that we are willing to listen to his point of view even if we choose to disregard it.”

Leibnitz frowned a bit, but ultimately nodded grudgingly at Brune’s statements. “I must agree with His Emminence le Troisieme Consul, but must also echo your Majesty’s gravest concerns. Alexander Kazansky has given the restored government of Reichskamphen countless billions of Reichsmarks in funds in addition to hundreds even thousands of tones of equipment. The highly educated economic and industrial advisors he has sent and his subjects have sent at his direction have made the difference in our recovery from abject poverty. His giving has only increased during Your Majesty’s tenure as ruler.” Leibnitz leaned back a bit in his chair and tented his fingers together pensively. “Yet his past treacheries and crimes give cause for great apprehension. While he freely gave and assisted the Greater Prussian Empire and never took any actions against the Imperial crown, and there may be a reason to believe that this would be the case again…we must remember that President Kazansky had a personal connection to the Imperial family and benefited greatly from their kindnesses and friendship. This is manifestly not the case as of yet with your Majesty.”

“History might contend that it was the Bonapartes that benefited far more from his friendship than him from theirs.” The second Consul added coyly. “Kazansky’s fingerprints are on practically every significant policy and action the Napoleons ever took. Our Emperor is the mightiest sovereign on earth, the heir to Caesar Augustus and Charlemagne. We have no need of the Allaneans. Should we allow them back in, we may as well hand Bernadotte the crown as this restored Greater Prussia will be no better than the old; perhaps its evils would be substantially greater.”

“I would suggest that Monsieur hold his tongue about those things he does not know of.” Brune stared at Centreville. “In front of his Majesty is not an appropriate place to air unsubstantiated opinions.” It was not characteristic for Brune to publically scold anyone, especially in front of his Monarch. But Centreville, not even born in the Empire and who had been an émigré for his entire life until his return, knew nothing of which he spoke. Brune had been there. “While His Highness the Emperor Napoleon IV seldom took any action without consulting Kazansky…it is us who took the actions who bare any responsibility. I openly accept any blame that is justly my due, and I know that if your father,” he looked directly at Centreville “ if you father our former Emperor’s foreign Minister and sometime Regent were still living he would do likewise rather than pointing fingers at others.”

“I do believe,” Leibnitz cautiously cut off the Marechal, feeling embarrassed at the terse exchange, “that the Allaneans should be judged on their own merits rather than any imagined actions. We concurred in meetings prior to your arrival” he stared scoldingly at Centreville as if to remind him of the prior agreement and exhort him to hold his tongue, “that despite our reservations it is necessary to accept the Allanean nation as a natural and integral part of the Greater Prussian Empire.”

“We must keep an eye on them.” Centreville interjected with a bit too much energy for the low key gathering. “And be prepared to take decisive action at the first sign of skullduggery.”

“Yet as of now, this is the best chance your Majesty has to make Greater Prussia an instrument for good in the world.” Leibnitz decisively and finally cut off the Second Consul. “With Allanea under the watchful eye of the Greater Prusian crown and Kazansky holding a position that implies no Imperial endorsement of his activities…we have an exceptional opportunity to solidify the former domains of the Greater Prussian Emperors and to further the immutable and immortal Gloire of the Auguste House of Bourbon.”

--

(More to come on other fronts, but Panto, feel free to respond)

To: His Most Divine Imperial Majesty Tsar Alexei I
From: His Emminence Gerhardt N. Leibnitz Premier Consul de la Royaume de Reichskamphen et l’Empire de la Grande Prusse
CC: His Emminence, the Foreign Minister of the Empire of Pantocratoria

Your Highness,

I greet you in the name of OUR most holy Sovreign, Andreus Premier, Emperor of Greater Prussa, King of Reichskamphen and bring you good tidings from the Imperial Court at Reichsburg and in the name of the Court of Christ Pantocrator.

The Empire rejoices at the return of its heart and conscience, the Dersconi Empire, even as it gains a new head in the Empire of Pantocratoria. With the help of God, perhaps the reunion of the whole of the Empire, the Kingdom of Burgundy, and Free Cities Alliance may not be as far off as the naysayers predict.

I have put forth your name to OUR Emperor that you be elevated to your rightful post as Arch Chancellor of the Empire. I am but a servant and can do nothing but advise my Monarch and carry out his wishes, yet I sincerely hope that the next month will find you arriving in Reichsburg to meet with the reconvened Imperial Government as its Arch Chancellor.

More urgently though, I must convey to you the concerns of OUR Emperor as to the aggression that the Dersconi government seems to be visiting upon its neighbors which are also Reichskamphen’s neighbors. As Reichskamphen is at present the seat of government of the restored Empire, instability and war within neighbor states must be brought to an end to ensure the security of the Capitol so that our attention can be turned outwards to greater projects.

In this same vein, I must beseech your Majesty to strictly patrol and guard your borders to ensure no marauding parties or hostile individuals will use Derscon as their path into Reichskamphen. I must also beseech you to track down those villainous rebels who have bloodied our land and defiled our people and who yet seek refuge within your borders. Their extradition is not necessary, only ocular proof that they have met with justice most severe and most discrete.

Your most humble servant,

Gerhardt Nathaniel Leibnitz
Premier Consul de la Royaume de Reichkamphen et de l’Empire de la Grande Prusse

TO: His Emminence Gerhardt N. Leibnitz Premier Consul de la Royaume de Reichskamphen et l’Empire de la Grande Prusse
FROM: His Imperial Highness, The Shekhinah Maraidt Enilanuki, Imperial Chancellor of the Dersconi Amaranthine Imperium

We warmly accept your greetings of the sovereign. I, as Shekhinah, bestow upon you the blessings of Holy Rachek and the nation in which He rules, the physical manifestation of His will. The Amaranthine Imperium looks kindly upon your offerings of thanks and your words of good will. We assure you, our heart beats eternal.

However, we must note that there is a slight insult at the notion of the Holy One being offered a position of subordination. It is forgiven, though, as it cannot be expected that our friends and neighbours to the South could firmly grasp the true workings of the Amaranthine Imperium. The Great Tsar, though, would like to see his son, His Imperial Highness Tarakh Tsarevich Andropov, Veliky Kynaz Dersconya, Kynaz-Nyebnyoi Drakheimr, installed in the rightful position of power that belongs to the Dersconi people.

As for your concerns of aggression - there is none. All of the military action taken on behalf of the Amaranthine Imperium was done by invitatio, and the crowns of those states willingly offered to their rightful owner, Holy Rachek. Cherry Ridge is pacified and prosperous under Our Divine Guidance, and Pschycotic Pschycos will have its war machine channeled into more productive areas under the guidance of the Tsar. We desire stability as much as you do, but we find true stability in the world comes only in the form of the Amaranth Throne.

Finally, it does indeed burden Our Heart that there should be violence in Our lands, but only so much may be done. We shall see to it that those who would dare blaspheme against the just name of Our Holy Emperor will be destroyed in the most brutal and unforgiving of manners.

Forever vigilant,

Shekhinah
His Imperial Highness Maraidt Enilanuki
Imperial Chancellor
The Dersconi Amaranthine Imperium

Upon the establishing of the Consulate, First Consul Leibnitz took it upon himself to retain the service of 100 former members of the Domitian Secret Service. The intelligence these men were to provide to the First Consul and the Emperor was to be gathered independent from any other existing intelligence structure so that if the other intelligence services of the Empire were infiltrated by a hostile faction, internal or external, reliable information could be gathered. The main charge of the force now known as the Consular Guard,whose very existence was made privy only to the First Consul and Emperor Andreus himself, was internal house cleaning. The Consular Guard spied on the Army, the official Intelligence Services, the Second and Third Consuls, the Senate, the Houses of Ancients and Elders, and any other powerful individual or group of individuals.

The day of the Emperor's visit, the First Consul received a report from the Consular Guard on the state of the Army. It had become apparent due to an increased amount of anti-Pantocratorian chatter that something was afoot. The Emperor’s presence in the country only made the situation more disturbing. Despite the fact that Brune had purged the military and reshuffled the ranks to ensure that they were not of a uniform political belief, in a short amount of time, the units had restratified themselves. The loyalty of several units of the Royal Army was in doubt. The Imperial Guard seemed to be loyal to a fault, though some of its commanders seemed to be of dubious loyalty.

The Bonapartists and most moderates of any stripe had accepted the Pantocratorians long ago. Yet, the radical Domitians, which many in the government had once been, if they were not still, seemed bent upon deposing the Emperor through whatever means necessary. To be found in their Pantheon of heros were, of course, Senator Domitius, but also Maximilien Robespierre and Karl Marx. These men had run the country with an iron fist for 30 years and saw no need to give it up.

Several military commanders had been put forth by the Consuls to have title of Marechal de l’Empire bestowed upon them. All of the men in question were the most powerful military commanders in the country, and the men whose defection, should they be working with the Domitian resistence would do the most damage. Despite the protestations of loyalty from the Consuls, agents of the Consular guard were able to discerne through some intercepted, though not all decrypted communications that every single one of these men had at one point or another been in contact with atleast two to three individuals who were held in great suspicion of being part of the Domitian resistence. The Guard advised the First Consul and the Emperor to place extra resources into the surveillance of these individuals in order to prevent any possible coup from occurring and in order to prevent any further unpleasantness. It was believed that refusing to confer the Marechal’s baton upon any of them though could be seen as an insult and may spur them to action if they were so inclined. On the other hand, the large income and landed estates that were awarded with the Marechal's baton would certainly ensure the loyalty of many who could be convinced to place their allegiance elsewhere.

List of Individuals Proposed for the Marechalate:

Ignatius Malave
Rank: General
Unit: 2nd Royal Army; 25,000 Strong.
Age: 45
Place of Birth: New Geneva, Reichskamphen
Command History:

Graduated from the Imperial Citadel, entered service in the Republican army at the rank of Captain at age 18. Entire tenure of service during Domitian Republic. Engaged in heavy fighting against Reichskamphian resistance fighters. Honorably Discharged upon retreat of Dersconi forces at the rank of Lt. Col.

Formed Pax Maria Militia during interregnum, served as CO at the rank of Col. Unit was combined with five other sizable militia units under the direction of Guillaume Richarde Lefebvre de Centreville to form the 2nd Royal Army. 2nd Army formally declared loyalty to Leibnitz during the recent crisis that led to the ascendancy of Andreus I. After establishment of the Consulate, was promoted to General and his de facto command of 2nd Army was made official.

2nd Army currently posted in New Geneva to augment the Garrison.

Notes:
Known former member of the now (assumed) defunct Pax Maria society which took substantial and violent action against the government of Sen. Domitius as well as the governments of the Napoleons.

Never married, assumed homo-sexual. Displays preternatural ability for organization and management. Can be construed as cold, calculating, and infinitely patient. Loyalty has been vouched for by the Second Consul.

Dieter von Stockhausen
Rank: Major General, Military Governor of Kamphstadt
Unit: 5th Royal Army; 45,000 Strong
3rd Imperial Guard; 20,000 Strong
Age: 62
Place of Birth: ???, Wanderjar
Command History:

Imigrated from Wanderjar with family as a child. Graduated from the Ecole Militaire Royale in Kamphstadt, entered service in the Imperial Army at the rank of 1st Lt. at age 20, approximately two months before the death of Emperor Joseph-Napoleon. Commanded a regiment of pro-Dersconi Imperial Guard at the rank of Captain during the brief occupation of New Geneva. Upon Marechal Brune’s revolution against the Dersconis, was commissioned as Lt. Col. in Brune’s Army. Fought heroically during the abortive invasion of Derscon. Commanded rear guard during Brune’s retreat, facing off against pro Dersconi forces commanded by Gen. Richard DuChamp. Was captured during night raid before the destruction of the entire army and held in prison for two years. Upon his pardon and release, he immigrated to Allanea without receiving formal discharge from the Royal Army whose administrative duties had been assumed by the Dersconis.

Upon retreat of Dersconi forces, Stockhausen returned to Reichskamphen to petition the ministry of War, under Richard DuChamp, for a command posting. Severe lack of talented personell necessitated his appointment as commander of the 2nd Army of the Republic and ultimately as Military Governor of Kamphstadt. Conspired with Guillaume Richarde Lefebvre de Centreville and declared Kamphstadt’s allegience to the new government which was supposed to have been formed by Centreville. When Guillaume Richarde ultimately sided with Leibnitz, Stockhausen cast his lot with Brune and declared loyalty to Alexandre-Napoleon.

After the settling of affairs, Stockhausen swore an oath to Andreus the First and has since ably performed his duties by following all directives from Reichsburg and Pantocratoria and crushing all Domitian and Ultra-Bonapartist resistance.

Notes:
A Brash and easily provoked man, he is quick to make judgements and even quicker to act upon them. His wife and two children currently reside in Allanea. Loyalty has been vouched for by the Second and Third Consuls as well as General Barthaume.

Marcus Harrington.
Rank: Colonel, Military Governor of New Thessalonika
Unit: 1st Royal Army; 38,000 Strong
Imperial Guard, la Princesse Zoe Division; 10,000 Strong
Age: 54
Place of Birth: Allensdorf, Reichskamphen
Command History:

Born a peasant in the small town of Allensdorf, Harrington has no formal education, military or otherwise. Organized Allensdorf Militia at the age of 36 during the Domitian Republic. Fought brilliantly organized and executed actions against the Republican Armies of Senator Domitius before the unit was obliterated by overwhelming air support and artillery fire.

Was taken prisoner, and allegedly tortured without end for three years in the Fort Carson prison under the direct order of Domitius himself. His cell mate was Guillaume Richarde Lefebvre de Centreville and his father. Centreville was released after his father was executed and his torture was complete; one year before Harrington effected his miraculous escape from the heavily guarded compound. Both men fled to Allanea. Where Centreville used his influence to find a place for himself on the board of an Allanean University and to secure a teaching position for Harrington at the Robert E. Lee Military Academy.

Harringon returned to Reichskamphen upon the retreat of Dersconi forces and quickly reformed the Allensdorf Militia of new conscripts and restored order to the region. He even sent detachments to two other neighboring provinces to bring unrest to a heel. The largest city in these three provinces was known as New Thessalonika and an ad-hoc military district was created by Harrington’s own authority to encompass this area and give him direct authority, if not political, over all functionings in the provinces. The war and unrest that affected other areas of Reichskamphen during these years was not visited upon New Thessalonika due to Harrington’s efforts.

When Centreville returned to Reichskamphen, he offered Harringon a promotion to Major General and the government’s official sanction of his military governorship. The former he declined, the latter accepted. Harrington sided with Marechal Brune during the recent unrest. Afterwards he swore loyalty to Pantocratoria and was the first to respond to the unexpected Allensdorf Masacre. The investigation into the incident is proceding under his authority.

Notes:
A crude and course man, Harrington feigns culture and nobility only in the presence of his superiors. His brilliance and grasp of terrain is natural and his resourcefulness as a military-political leader is beyond compare. Loyalty vouched for by all three Consuls.


Erich von Bilder
Rank: General, Commander of Imperial Secret Police
Unit: Gendarmerie Imperiale; 15,000 Strong
Reichskamphian Royal Secret Police; 5,000 Strong
Imperial Guard, Aigle Division (Emperor’s personal guard); 10,000 Strong
Age: 32
Place of Birth: West Axackal, Allanea
Command History:

Erich von Bilder is the grandson of Gerhardt Volckner who held several high level positions in the governments of the Napoleons before he, Marechal Brune, and Rev. Peter Graves Sr. formed a government during the interim between the death of Napoleon IV and the reign of Joseph-Napoleon. Volckner and Brune also formed a similar government in revolt against the Dersconi Tsar and his control over Derscon. Their government’s defeat by Greater Prussian forces during their failed invasion of Derscon brought about the Domitian years and forced Volckner’s daughter and her husband General Wilhelm von Bilder to flee to Allanea.

Bilder was trained at the Robert E. Lee Military academy, the most elite institution for young men of breeding in the Greater Prussian Empire, founded by Napoleon IV and Alexander Kazansky. His family’s pull and his own innate abilities saw that when he enlisted in the Allanean armed forces, his rise was nothing less than meteoric. He performed heroically during a number of campaigns and was appointed to a high level position within the Allanean Central Intelligence Agency.

Von Bilder returned to Greater Prussia to bury his father during the 5 year interim between the withdrawal of Dersconi forces and the formal collapse of the Domitian order. Second Consul Centreville appointed Von Bilder to his current position where his efforts to suppress open discord and dissent have resulted in the prevention of several local revolts and atleast one major revolution. Countless ranks of disloyals and rabble rousers were rounded up and indefinitely detained or deported during the two days of martial law after the Allensdorf massacre including 15 members of the Imperial Senate and 5 members of the Councils of Ancients and Elders.

Von Bilder openly sided with de Centreville and finally with Leibnitz and the Pantocratorian party during the resent unpleasantness.



Notes:
A handsome, single man who is a favorite with the women of the Capitol. Well dressed and affable, his outgoing personality hides a constant insecurity and out-of-place feeling. Ever vigilant, and mindful of all details, his encyclopedic memory, constant drive, and thorough classical education make him one of the most qualified individuals in the government. While his permanent disposition is uncertain, all three Consuls perceive that he is loyal for the moment and needs to be tied materially to the new regime to ensure loyalty.

Edouard Rieck
Rank: Major General, Royal Military Chief of Staff
Unit: Royal Army, Royal Airforce, Royal Navy, Royal Artillery, Greater Prussian Imperial Guard
Age: 78
Place of Birth: Reichsburg, Reichskamphen
Command History:

Educated at l’Ecole Imperiale Militaire in New Geneva. Comissioned as Captain in the Imperial Guard Soli Deo Gloria division at the age of 18 during the reign of Napoleon IV. After brilliant action against forces of the Reich under Matthew Iesus, was made aide de camp to then General Alexandre Brune. Served with Brune in the West Axackal campaign. Was given command of right wing of Brune’s main army after its commander perished during battle and Rieck was the only one on hand.

After he and Brune prevented the destruction of the army by overwhelmingly superior forces, Rieck was given command of the Soli Deo Gloria Division at the Rank of General. Served under Joseph-Napoleon and eventually led the Soli Deo Gloria Division into battle under the command of Brune during the invasion of Derscon. An errant grenade blew off his leg, forcing him to turn over command to his subordinate and recouperate in New Geneva. When news reached him about the utter destruction of the Army and the presumed death of Brune, Volckner, and the execution of the Moderator of the Presbyterian Church, he went underground and led a resistance movement against the Dersconis with some success until he re-emerged to bring his forces to bear with the Army of Marechal Brune during the recent unpleasantness.

After the resolution, he was made a Major General by Brune and appointed to be his direct subordinate in commanding the armed forces of the Empire.


Notes:
Rieck is a bitter, old man. Brilliant in the art of war, as well as classically educated. It is assumed that his loyalty rests with Brune, wherever he may go. Should Brune revolt, Rieck will revolt. As Brune is loyal to the Emperor, so too is Rieck.


Pierre Barthaume
Rank: General, General in Chief Northern Theatre
Unit: 9th, 17th, 5th Royal Armies. Soli Deo Gloria Division Imperial Guard.
Age: 33
Place of Birth: New Geneva, Reichskamphen
Command History:

Born during the rise of Senator Domitius, Barthaume was educated in l’Ecole Militaire de la Republique and commissioned as a 2nd Lieutenant in the Republican Army. Effectively suppressed resistance and destroyed the Allensdorf Militia. Received the Star of the Republic from the hands of the Senator himself.

Was securing the Northern theatre during Brune’s march from the south. His lethargy in sending reinforcements prevented Brune’s wholistic destruction before he even encountered the armies of Steigl and Mitrik which revolted to his cause.

His slowness to react to the absense of the Allanea militia following Kotalik and to realize the double cross might have resulted in the Allensdorf massacre. However, his perfomance against the armies of Kotalik both during and after the presence of Marechal Brune was heroic.

Currently engaged in rounding up all remnants of Kotalik’s army, enforcing Martial law in the Northern theatre and exporting dissenters.


Notes:
Barthaume is a committed Domitian. His loyalty seems sure though due to the monetary benefits he is receiving from the new government.

The stars glistened upon the sky as glitter upon the black eyelashes of a young beauty. The wind carried upon it the noises of preparation for war. It was as some strange 12 tone composition, but harmoniously and singularly beautiful to the ears of General Barthaume as they drifted into his open bedroom window on the 5th floor of the Hotel de Montplaiser on the newly christened Rue de Andreus Premier in New Geneva. For the first time though, the sounds chimed a more distant and haunting tune rather than a striking immediacy as the armies of the Northern Theatre were encamped three miles from the city on the other bank of the river. The downfall of Kotalik’s forces and the neutralization of the AVF as a viable force meant that New Geneva, at long last, was safe. No soldiers tramped up and down the cold streets, there was no threat of insurrection, the back of the Domitian resistance seemed for now to be broken firmly.

“The hour is upon us, Monseigneur Marechal.” His chamberlain called to him. The chamberlain was an old man of nearly 85 years of age, slightly stooped and sporting a powdered coif. Barthaume ruffled the covers off of his legs, but found himself still clutching the letter that Marechal Brune had written him the day before by which he learned of his nomination to the Marechalate.

“Monseigneur?” Barthaume asked, half awake.

“Yes, this is the formal appellation of Marshal of the Empire and has been since Napoleon the Great ruled this land.”

“Monseigneur Marechal…” he said slowly, relishing each syllable.

“Soon,” the Chamberlain continued, “my Lord’s name will stand in the firmament of greatness alongside such names as Marechal Ney, Davout, Murat, Massena, Lannes, Augereau, Kellerman, Brune, and…even our Marechal Brune.”

“Bastard.” Barthaume muttered under his breath at the invocation of the name of the third Consul. “If he had left well enough alone, I could have finished Kotalik’s bastards without him. He does nothing but steal my glory. His days are past.”

“Monseigneur, I was a footman to Napoleon IV and his august brother, Joseph-Napoleon. I even served our Marechal Brune. You must understand that even these men had others around them who made them the men they were. Marechal Brune elevated your name to our Emperor and secured your fame forever by the battle of the Magdeburg forrest. You must be grateful to him.”

“You are not my father.”

“Be that as it may…” the humble old man bowed his neck slightly, “It is time for your meeting with the general staff and the Mayor.”

Barthaume quickly dressed himself in his bright blue and white uniform with golden embroidery, hung his saber from his side, and shuffled out into the cold night air. A carriage pulled up to the front entrance. The two white horses shuffled around a bit, but snorted with some finality as they settled into a firm stance. Despite the wonders of modern technology, upper class individuals, government officials, and nobility tended to prefer to ride in carriages, much the way that the gondolas still ride in Venice.

The footman descended from his perch and held open the carriage door. Barthaume had no sooner taken his seat than he noticed the man seated right across from him, staring intently in his direction.

“Who the hell are you!? Guar…” the man put his hand over Barthaume’s mouth to prevent him from calling for his Guards.

“Shut the hell up, Pierre, it’s Ignatius.” He slowly removed his hand from the General’s mouth. “Do you want to get me shot or something??”

“I thought you were…”

“I know. Markhil. I’ve heard it too. The bastard has been paying visits to anyone who will listen. I don’t know how they don’t have him yet when he’s that blatant.”

“He’s not as blatant as you think.” Barthaume sighed, looking out the tiny window as horses began to trot away.

“I know far more than you think, Pierre, but let’s cut the bullshit. I am here to ask you to join the Pax Maria.”

Barthaume tore his eyes away from the scenery with a start and glared at Ignatius angrily. “Now who’s trying to get whom shot! I hope to God you mean that piddle-shit militia of yours!”

“No, Pierre. The REAL Pax Maria.” He leaned forward, speaking more softly. “Can you honestly tell me that it’s not an offense to everything we stand for, to restore the monarchy, feudalism, to take our society back two hundred years!” Realizing his excessive volume, he instinctively looked around, though he knew no one was there with them. “Senator Domitius is probably spinning in his grave like a jet turbine!”

“Senator Domitius is dead.” Barthaume nearly spat the words at him, contemptuously. “I believed it too, once, all that hogwash about liberty and equality. But the only true thing in the world anymore is money. That’s it.” He pulled the letter from Brune out of his pocket, carefully unfolding it. “I am to be made a Marshal of the Empire. I will have enough money to start a business when this is all over, and live like a King! I will have an estate that I can pass down to my children and their grandchildren. Senator Domitius can give me nothing.”

“He can give you more than you think. Or atleast his Grandson can.”

“Tamzil? The former Vice President?”

“Yes.” General Ignatius Malave leaned back comfortably in his seat, taking on an air of relaxed comfort that did little to hide the nervous wreck he was within. “I am to be made a Marechal de l’Empire as well. This…Emperor of ours” he made quote signs with his fingers “is nothing but shit in a silk stocking. Anything he gives me is worthless. He has no authority to give. The people don’t sanction his right to rule…he is a foreign invader. And his government will not be around long enough to lick the stamp on the letter that tells us we got our batons.”

“What do you mean?” Barthaume glanced about. He seemed visibily disturbed. “It is all set into motion and cannot be stopped.”

“Who do you have?”

“Senators, members of the Houses, Enough soldiers to tear the gilding off of their f**cking palaces…and even a Consul.”

“I see.”

“Where do you stand?”

“I need time to think.”

“Think all you want.” Malave pulled the cord, which in turn rang a bell near the driver who brought the horses to a stop. “I’ll walk the rest of the way.” The General said, opening the door and descending from the coach. “I’ll see you at the meeting…and tell no one.”

Somewhere in New Geneva

“…and tell no one.” The words drifted into the man’s earpiece. A man in a drab grey blazer walked up behind him.

“So…what is it.”

“You were right, sir. It was a good thing we bugged his carriage. There’s a conspiracy to depose the Emperor, by force perhapd, going right to the very top. General Malave seems to be a ringleader of sorts and is trying to bring in Barthaume.”

“Did he say no?”

“No…but he didn’t say yes either. He’s stalling for time.”

“Well then…” the standing man paced away a bit. “I want Barthaume followed. If he takes a piss I want to know about it. And I want you to arrest Malave.”
“Sir, the Consular Guard have no authority to arrest anyone. Further, he hasn’t said anything truly incriminating yet.”

“You seem to be under the impression that this is a democracy. We don’t have the authority to arrest him, but we have the POWER to drag him from his bed as he sleeps and pull out his fingernails one by one until he tells us everything we want to know.”

The Kazansky Matter

The Emperor looked to each consul in turn. His expression was, as Brune observed, cold and betrayed no emotion, but, as Brune nevertheless discerned, he did have strong feelings on the matter. The Emperor was naturally inclined to the opinion of de Centreville, and could hear in Leibnitz the voice of Thibault Drapeur, Sir Pierre Phocas, and so many other Pantocratorian statesmen who had always favoured diplomatic engagement over exclusion on the basis of moral principle. Nevertheless he recognised in Brune's criticism of de Centreville's opinion the voice of wisdom and reality. It appeared, from the discussions he had with his consuls since arriving in Reichskamphen, that the government was less secure than he had believed it before embarking for Greater Prussia. It could ill afford to offend the Allaneans unnecessarily, and in fact, even the Emperor could concede that, butcher that he was, Kazansky had neutralised a significant threat to the government in his appeal to the Allanean volunteers.

"Messieurs..." the Emperor began, regarding de Centreville and Brune in particular. "We are united by common purpose here, and while I expect you to have differing opinions from time to time, I desire that such differing opinions be offered respectfully and not in an argumentative fashion. I admire that both of you feel strongly on this issue, as it is a matter I feel strongly about. Nevertheless, so long as he has absolutely no legal authority, I feel that necessity requires us to allow the appointment of Kazansky to his accustomed position. Consider, all of you, how we may manage him when he is aware that we have no intention of listening to his... advice."

OOC: Posts on the other two issues soon!

The Military Budget

"The purpose..." the Emperor began, obviously frustrated although he showed it very little, "...of having a civil service, a large, well-funded, organised civil service, is to provide Government with advice, projections, budgets, schedules, and all other forms of information necessary to inform the Government's decision making. Clearly, messieurs, the decision to reduce the size of the armed forces was informed by no such information. Either the information was unavailable, inaccurate, or, and I sincerely hope this is not the case, not sought after. We shall all learn from this mistake."

The Emperor paced thoughtfully for a few moments which seemed to stretch out into an eternity, before turning to Brune.

"Monsieur le Troisieme Consul, you shall oversee the expansion and re-organisation of the armed forces to best meet the country's long term national security requirements. By this, let me be clear, I do not mean the reconstruction of various formations which had been decommissioned by our previous actions. Rather, I mean the creation of entirely new, entirely loyal and dependable formations, and the development of appropriate defence capabilities. I am not a military man, I shall not direct you to prefer an air force over an army, or any such thing. I urge you, however, not to simply recreate the armed forces of ancient Reichskamphen." the Emperor explained. "The nation needs a modern, well-equipped defence force, capable of warding off any foe, internal or external, more than it needs, at least in the short-term, the capacity for significant force projection. Your planning shall have two stages. The first stage of your reforms will have immediate effect, and they shall be intended to immediately supplement our capabilities to make them as adequate as possible for the short-term within a budget of..." the Emperor hesitated and turned to his brother, and to several Pantocratorian palace staff he had brought with him from home. He turned back to Brune. "...some ∂87 billion."

"Sire..." Monsieur coughed. He knew the figure in question referred to the majority of the Emperor's personal revenue from Pantocratorian taxation. It would not be part of the Pantocratorian Government's budget, but the Government would surely find out about it, and probably be none too pleased.

"The eighty seven billion ducats will be repaid over the next ten years." the Emperor said, glancing to his brother for only a moment to reassure him, before turning back to Brune. "Within the constraints of that additional funding, Monsieur le Consul, you will have to make the most urgent reforms. The second stage of reforms you may plan over a longer period, and must be costed for subsequent approval and enactment. This second stage should reflect the long term restructuring of the armed forces to see to Reichskamphen's long term national security. You will consult widely and act upon the very best evidence in planning both stages, and for this purpose, and to ensure we never make a mistake like this again..."

The Emperor turned to von Leibnitz.

"Monsieur le Premier Consul will oversee the creation of a new Department of Defence, a new bureaucracy which shall supplant previous ministries pertaining to the defence forces." the Emperor began. The Pantocratorian faith in bureaucracy clearly extended to the top. "This civilian department shall be charged with providing oversight of the armed forces, and all relevant expertise. It shall inform the Government's national defence policy, and especially support Monsieur le Troisieme Consul in his reforms. Naturally there will be significant interaction between the armed forces and the Defence Department, and there will obviously be a number of uniformed or retired members of the armed forces involved in the department... the details I leave to you, but we must have reliable advice and information to inform future decisions regarding defence."

"As to the broader issue of the budget..." the Emperor turned to de Centreville. "Monsieur le Deuxieme Consul, you will oversee a reform of the Government's finances. The idea that the Government should run out of money is patently absurd. That we appear to lack the ability to run a larger deficit in a time of national crisis is absolutely unacceptable. You will reform the Treasury and begin work on a plan to expand the Government's revenues in an economically responsible fashion."

The Marechelate

"I assume any number of these can be elevated to the rank of Marechal?" the Emperor checked. "There is no maximum number? On the basis of that assumption... Malave seems worthy and most useful given the military reform agenda I have outlined... von Stockhausen... the two of you say is loyal, but I have reservations about his character, let me think upon it more... all three of you vouch for Harrington and von Bilder, and therefore no higher recommendation could there be, let us grant them the baton... Rieck and Barthaume seem very old and very young respectively..."

The Emperor ceased his considerations and handed the dossiers about each man back to the officials who had provided them.

"Monsieur le Premier Consul," he began. "After confirming that they will each accept the honour, announce that Malave, Harrington and von Bilder will be made Marechals. Make such arrangements as are necessary for the ceremonial conferment of their batons as soon as possible, while I am still here. And invite von Stockhausen, Rieck and Barthaume to an audience with their Emperor in two days time. I wish to meet and measure the men. One final question... are any of these men Catholic? The requirements of the Military Order of Saint Louis are such that it can only be conferred upon Catholics. If they are not, I wish to become acquainted with an equivalent Prussian chivalric order."

*The Meeting with the Emperor*

OOC: Apologies for the brevity of the meeting section.
IC:

The Consuls all eagerly accepted their charges from the Emperor. Finally some coherence seemed to be arriving in Reichsburg. Perhaps it had been the presence of the Emperor himself that was so badly needed rather than simply the invocation of his name by a government which the people felt little connection to and felt had even less of a connection to their monarch.

"Your Majesty," Brune replied to his monarch regarding the decisions of the Marechalate "One must recall that the use of the baton is not age or ability restricted. It is a necessary tool of reconciliation between the armies of Domitius and Napoleon and those of your majesty. These batons and their accompanying domains will tie the military to the success of your regime in a much more...shall we say...material way." Brune pulled out his old Baton and sat it on the table before Andreus. Atop it sat the Napoleonic Eagle, cast in solid gold. Gold bands criscrossed on the baton itself which was carved of pure ivory and resembled a fasces without the axe head. A golden plate tucked between two silver N's ensconced in laurel leaves on the side of the baton read 'Au Empereur Napoleon IV a Alexandre Brune, Marechal de l'Empire de la Grande Prusse'. "People call me Marechal as a courtesy and because I hold this baton. But I am not certain that my title is legally valid in the eyes of your Majesty as it was bestowed upon me by him whom you regard as a usurper of the throne of France. Our nobility supports you, and they support myself...but they don't even know with certainty whether Your Majesty regards their titles as valid either." Brune carefully lifted his baton from the table and placed it back in his lap. "While I recognize the wisdom in carefully choosing those you appoint, I must urge you to make the conciliatory steps of bestowing these batons, validating those received from other monarchs as well as other titles of nobility passed down by the Napoleons."

"Indeed, your Majesty." Leibnitz piped up. "I couldn't agree more with the Marechal." He emphasized the use of Brune's title. "This is simply a practical way to neutralize threats. Recall how...I hate to bring up the name of him who usurped the throne...yet recall how Napoleon the Great bestowed the Marechal's Baton on men such as Kellerman, who were far too old to fight, as a conciliatory gesture to the old Revolutionary Army. I would go further and suggest that your majesty bestow more batons as well as create new nobles from those whom you feel may be a threat and feel could be neutralized in this fashion. As long as their livelihood depends on you, they will not rise up to strike us."

"Yet, we will do as you request" Guillaume Richard said, penning a reminder to himself, "and send letters under the seal of the Consulate to those who have had batons bestowed upon them immediately, and summons to those who require further consideration."

"And as to your inquiry..." Brune opened up a file on the men in question. "It seems Harrington is nominally Catholic. There are a number of other orders which your majesty could bestow. The traditional Greater Prussian order of the Rose and Cross requires its recipients to be Protestant. The Star of the Republic which was created by Senator Domitius can be rechristened l'Ordre de l'Etoile de l'Empire by yourself, which might serve as an additional conciliatory gesture. This goes without mentioning the Legion d'Honneur...which I may imagine your majesty may wish to disband...and its Greater Prussian counterpart founded by Napoleon IV, the Legion de Valeur." Should the Emperor have looked at the medals upon the Marechal's uniform he would have seen every order mentioned, except for the Star of the Republic.

*Somewhere in New Geneva*

“I’ll only ask you once more.” The man said in an ominously calm and level voice. “Are you conspiring to create an armed insurrection against your Emperor?”

“No…” whimpered a shell of man, crumpled over on himself and tied to a chair. His mouth gaped open, blood intermingled with drool dripping in long strands to the floor. “I….am….working with the…” he breathed heavily, the gashes on his bear chest still stinging from the lime juice that was poured on them.

“I know, I know.” His interrogator said, stepping into one of the few patches of light that peeked through the cracks in the boards which sealed the large windows of what appeared to be an old warehouse. “With the Imperial Gendarmerie, probing the loyalty of the military.” The interrogator turned his back to the man again, now visible was a small patch on his left arm “La Garde Consular”.

“Yes!” the man cried out, half in pain and half in exasperation. “Just call von Bilder! Call von Bilder!” tears began streaming down his face. “We’re on the same side!”

“I have no need to call von Bilder, General Malave. We know everything that General von Bilder has done and know what he is about to do before he does it.”

“Then you know!”

“I know Ignatius” the man said, now brandishing a pair of rusty shears, “that unless you tell me who you’re working with, and what Consul is, as you claimed, behind your treason…then you will lose a joint of a finger every minute…one at a time.”

“PLEASE! I’m telling you the truth!” His interrogator positioned the pliers behind the first joint of his left pointer finger. “Vive Andreus!” Malave cried in desperation, almost crying to his absent sovereign for help.

The blood sprayed on his face.

*New Geneva, Reichskamphen *

Pierre Barthaume dropped the letter to the floor. It fell open, the neat script of the First Consul clearly visible on the fine cotton stationary. “I’m being recalled to Reichsburg,” he stammered, “and I have not been made a Marechal.” He looked out upon the table before him. Seated there was every military commander from the Northern Theatre over which he had direct command. To a man, these soldiers were men Barthaume had served with in the Republican Army. It was almost a reunion of the Domitian army whose Kabal in the old days was challenged by none; only now their uniforms were white, bore the Fleur de Lis, and the inscription of a Monarch.

“They’re going to kill me.” Barthaume nearly collapsed into his chair at the head of the command table. His head spun as he reflected on the words of the messenger who informed him but an hour ago that General Malave was missing and assumed under arrest. ‘They must know.’ He thought to himself. ‘I never did anything…’ he regretted now not immediately reporting what he had heard from Malave a day earlier. In his deepest thoughts he knew that there was only one reason he would be denied his Marechal’s baton after his victories over Markhil…the Gendarmes suspected he was involved in the conspiracy. And if Malave cracked, it wouldn’t be long before they would be dragging him out of his house in the middle of the night as he had ordered his men to do to so many other dissidents.

“Pierre,” an older man in the uniform of a Colonel said reassuringly, “This is not 10 years ago. We don’t purge people for no reason anymore. This is a new government, with new leaders.”

“Really, Colonel Maxime?” Barthaume leaned forward, the old ire coming up again. “What happened to General Marck? General Weisz? Colonel Wacholtz? Senator Perigord? A week ago they purged the Senate, the Army, and the Council of Ancients and Elders. We have no clue what happened to them, except for the ones that they deported.” He leaned back, deep in thought. Barthaume ran both hands down his face clearing the beads of sweat. “I had a Private ask me the other day what happened to General Marck. I lied. I said he had been assigned to a post abroad. What are you going to tell your men when they ask what happened to General Barthaume?”

“We won’t let them take you!” Colonel Vilnitz shouted slamming his fist on the table.

“I agree.” Colonel Maxime said sagely, stroking the silver hairs of his moustache.

Barthaume’s heart was nearly leaping out of his chest. “Does anyone…” he paused, nervously wetting the corners of his mouth “disagree with the Colonels?” He looked about and saw no motion or response. “I am about to say something that may cost your lives if you hear it…so if any of you would like to leave. Go now.” Still, no man budged.

“I was approached by Ignatius Malave yesterday. He informed me that the Pax Maria is engaging in…well…let’s be blunt…an insurrection.” The gathered officers stared on now in shock. “Dimitri Tamzil, the grandson of Senator Domitius and one of the Consuls…I wasn’t told which…will be installed as the heads of a new government once the military deposes the Emperor and disestablishes his government. On the whole, it seems likely that they have most of the notable commanders on their side.”

“What the f*ck are you talking about! Are you crazy? You’ll get us all killed!” another officer shouted out. “I’m all for standing up for you against Brune and the other B*stards…but this is insane.”

“I warned you to leave, General Yorck, if you had reservations.” Barthaume said calmly, not even raising his voice.

“Threatening an insurrection to save your skin is one thing. That’s what I thought we were going to do.” Yorck started fidgeting a bit and studying the faces of those assembled, as if hoping against hope to see some signs of agreement.

Colonel Maxime drew his revolver, pulled back the hammer, and shot him in the head. The assembled group looked on in a mixture of awe and fear. “We’re all in this together, now. Unless someone else would like to leave?” Maxime panned the room with the smoking barrel of his revolver. The calm expressions on the officers’ faces belied the petrifying fear welling up within them.

“That will be enough.” Barthaume ordered, seemingly unfazed by the dead officer on the floor and the blood and brains splattered on the wall before him. “I have been informed that Malave went missing last night, and was probably arrested. He’s an old soldier, but he may eventually crack. We either have to do it now, or never.”

“Colonel Vilnitz!” Maxime shouted, assuming his familiar role as Barthaume’s second in command. “The Imperial Guard unit in this theatre is based in your district. Your men are to take possession of their camps, their armories, and peacefully disarm them somehow. We can’t have them operating in our rear.”

“Exactly.” Barthaume nodded his head. “Find out any loyalty risks in your units, men, and get rid of them however you must. We don’t need surprises. In all likelihood…we will be fighting Marechal Brune himself. Your men have to be prepared for that eventuality.”

“At 12 noon tomorrow,” Maxime barked, looking to Barthaume, for reassurance. Barthaume nodded that his time was correct. “At 12 noon tomorrow, you will receive an order from the General. You will then seize formal control of your districts at that time and order the forces which you will already have positioned to do so, to march on Reichsburg.”

“And let it be known…” Barthaume pointed his finger grimly at his officers, “If your men see Marechal Brune or Emperor Andreus, who will now be properly called Citizen Capet, they shall be under strict orders to shoot to kill.”

“And Alexandre-Napoleon?” Vilnitz enquired.

“They shall kill him as well. We are obeying our oath to Senator Domitius...the oath we took before all others on the pain of death. We shall have no King. Mort aux Rois!”

“Mort aux Rois!” the men shouted the Domitian battle cry that hadn’t escaped their lips since the retreat of the Dersconi army.

*Reichsburg, Reichskamphen *

It had been nearly an hour since the Consul’s meeting with the Emperor had adjourned. The Emperor and the First Consul had retired to the First Consul’s office to discuss other matters and the Second and Third Consuls had begun work in earnest on the Emperor’s directives. One acted in folly who waited more than a moment before doing as the Emperor bid him. Even beginning such a grand process as this could certainly not wait until the morrow. The sun was beginning to set. A golden bath of light engulfed the city and glittered on the River Stille which ran through the center of Reichsburg.

Guillaume Richarde Lefebvre de Centreville, the Second Consul and Foreign Minister of the Empire could see the river three stories below his expansive apartments in the Palais Consular as he waited for the Allanean economic advisers to arrive in his office. His pen doodled aimlessly on a piece of paper on the desk before him. Written upon it were the names of the two candidates to fill the position of Chancellor of the Imperial Exchequer. He heavily favored Dr. Olaf Magnusson, currently the Secretary of the Treasury of Reichskamphen and an Allanean advisor himself. Yet, the name of Senator Edward Graff did also stand out. Recreating the efficient Imperial Treasury of old certainly would not be an easy feat.

“Patently absurd.” The Emperor’s words ran through his head again and again. How indeed could Reichskamphen run out of money? Trillions had been funneled to the government by allies former and current. And, yes, trillions had been spent on infrastructure and modernizing the army but there should have still been at least one trillion Reichsmarks left in the Royal Treasury. Money like that simply didn’t walk out the door on its own. And all that money that was spent on the Army…where did it go if the Army didn’t use it? The First Consul was the only one able to authorize disbursements of that level from the treasury…

The doors of his office suddenly swung open without a knock. Erich von Bilder hurled himself into the office like some linebacker. It was a wonder the door was still intact.

“Congratulations on your baton, Marechal. Though you may want to knock next time.”

“Malave is missing.” Bilder spat out breathlessly, ignoring the Second Consul’s comment. “And the Imperial Guard Base in New Geneva has gone silent. They’ve missed two scheduled check-ins. “I ordered Barthaume to check it out, but his aides keep giving me the run around. I can’t get to any of his subordinates either.”

The Consul’s fountain pen fell to the ground, the delicate lacquer shattering on the hardwood floor and splattering ink everywhere. “What happened!?”

“You remember Malave’s plan that you approved last month?” Bilder seemed to be regaining his breath. “Well, he has been doing his job. He approached General Barthaume to assess his loyalty to the government…to see if he would revolt. The b*stard may think the conspiracy is real. But that doesn’t explain what happened to Malave.”

“Someone must know he is working with us.” Guillaume Richarde more shouted than suggested. He searched the depths of his mind but simply could not figure out who could have known. There was no paper record of the mission, no discussions had been had over the telephone or any electronic means. Malave was assigned by word of mouth when they all met in the forest outside of Reichsburg where there were assuredly no listening devices.

“Or maybe Barthaume has a conspiracy of his own.” Bilder suggested. “And doesn’t want anyone else horning in on the action.”

“Whatever it is…General Barthaume has run afoul of his Majesty’s government.” Centreville stood up decisively. “Have him arrested and find Malave with all speed.”

Von Bilder saluted and ran out as quickly as he had arrived.

The Consul picked up his telephone and dialed four numbers. “Marechal Brune, we have a situation.”

The Emperor's Solemn Declaration

It having come to Our attention that various grants of nobility, title, estates, and other such, including honours military and civil, made by past governments of Our Kingdom of Reichskamphen, or past emperors of Greater Prussia, are now regarded as being uncertain by various of Our subjects, We hereby make the following solemn declaration:

In the first, that We have always regarded, even prior to Our accession to the throne of Reichskamphen, that the Emperor Napoleon Francois Charles Joseph de Sanglant, dit Napeoleon IV, and the Emperor Joseph-Napoleon, were the legitimate monarchs of Reichskamphen and Emperors of Greater Prussia.

The second, that the descent of Emperors Napoleon IV and Joseph-Napoleon from Napoleon Bonaparte, sometime de facto ruler of Our Kingdom of France after the period of instability and insurrection following the unlawful murder of Our ancestor the King, in no way impugns upon the legitimacy of their reigns as Emperors of Greater Prussia and Kings of Reichskamphen.

The third, that We acknowledge that Senator Domitius led the only constituted government of Reichskamphen in the period after the death of Emperor Joseph-Napoleon, and thus, was President of Reichskamphen.

The fourth, that President von Leibnitz was lawfully President of Reichskamphen.

The fifth, We solemnly assert and affirm the legitimacy of the Government of Reichskamphen, being composed and constituted lawfully by Us, advised primarily by Our Consuls von Leibnitz, de Centreville and Brune, together forming Our executive government.

Finally, that the honours military and civil, awards, orders of merit, orders of chivalry, titles, estates, and letters of nobility conferred upon Our subjects by previous lawful governments of Reichskamphen or the Greater Prussian Empire, including Presidents von Leibnitz and Domitius, and Emperors Joseph-Napoleon and Napoleon IV, are entirely legitimate and lawful, and have the full recognition of Our Government.

This, Our Solemn Declaration, shall be taken as confirmation of such recognition, given at Our Capital of Reichsburg, in the First Year of Our Reign,

ANDREUS IMP. PRU. MAG. REX REICHS.
Andreus, by the Grace of God, Emperor of Greater Prussia, King of Reichskamphen, et al

LETTERS PATENT
GREATER PRUSSIA

ANDREUS IMP. PRU. MAG. REX REICHS.

ANDREUS, by the Grace of God, Emperor of Greater Prussia, King of Reichskamphen and His Other Realms and Territories, et al;

TO ALL to whom these Presents shall come,

GREETING:
WHEREAS it is desirable that several worthy societies of honour established by Our predecessors be preserved now and into the future, and that awards granted by Our predecessors in Reichskamphen continue to be recognised and granted in the years to come;

KNOW YOU that We, by these Presents, do establish a society of honour to be known as the Order of the Star of Reichskamphen;

AND WE DO ordain that the Order shall consist of the Sovereign, Our Consuls, and such members and honourary members as Our Consuls, with Our approval and in accordance with the Constitution of the Order, shall appoint;

AND WE DO further ordain that the Constitution of the Order shall be the Constitution set out in the Schedule;

AND WE DO further ordain that all of those of Our subjects upon whom were conferred the Star of the Republic are members of the Order, and that the Star of the Republic shall henceforth be referred to as the Star of Reichskamphen.

AND WE DO hereby command that a seal be immediately engraven, that that seal shall be the Seal of the Order, that the Ordinances of the Order shall be signed by Our Consuls and sealed with the Seal of the Order, and that the Ordinances so signed and sealed shall have the same force and effect as if they had been recited in these Our Letters Patent and given under the Great Seal of Reichskamphen.

FURTHER, WE reaffirm the Legion de Valeur and Our continued affection for it;

AND WE DO recognise the Legion d'Honneur, but require that no further appointments to it shall be made, and that where the Legion d'Honneur would be conferred, We require the Officers responsible to confer the Legion de Valeur instead;

AND WE DO, irrespective of this determination, render to the members of the Legion d'Honneur all due respect and require all to do likewise;

AND WE DO require that all Our subjects render customary respect, privilege, and honour to members of the Legion d'Honneur as has always been expected.

IN WITNESS whereof, We have caused these Our Letters to be made Patent.

Given under the Great Seals of Greater Prussia and Reichskamphen at Our Court at Reichsburg.

By His Majesty's Command,


G. VON LEIBNITZ
Premier Consul.

G.R.L. DE CENTREVILLE
Deuxième Consul.

A. BRUNE
Troisème Consul.

A.N. DE BERNADOTTE
Premier Ministre.


Affixed is a schedule containing the referred to constitution

Shortly after the publication of the Letters Patent, the Emperor had immediately published an Honours List:

Honours List

Order of the Star of Reichskamphen
Alexandre Brune, Troisème-Consul, Maréchal de l'Empire
Ignatius Malave, Maréchal de l'Empire
Marcus Harrington, Military Governor of New Thessalonika, Maréchal de l'Empire
Erich von Bilder, Maréchal de l'Empire
Major General Edouard Rieck
General Pierre Barthaume
Major General Dieter von Stockhausen, Military Governor of Kamphstadt

Legion de Valeur
General Pierre Barthaume

Order of the Rose and Cross (at the rank of Knight)
Ignatius Malave, Maréchal de l'Empire
Erich von Bilder, Maréchal de l'Empire
Major General Edouard Rieck
General Pierre Barthaume
Major General Dieter von Stockhausen, Military Governor of Kamphstadt

Royal and Military Order of St Louis (at the rank of Knight)
Marcus Harrington, Military Governor of New Thessalonika, Maréchal de l'Empire

OOC: Supplemental - if de Centreville and von Leibnitz never got the Star of the Republic, then they will also be awarded the Star of Reichskamphen, I have just assumed (don't know why) that they received the Star of the Republic.

*New Geneva, Reichskamphen *

“I don’t know what the hell you’re carrying on about Pierre, but you better shut the f*ck up and keep your head low or you’ll get us all killed!”

“But he told me you would be President, Dimitri!”

“I’m not risking my skin for you.” Dimitri Tamzil angrily pressed a button on his desk that ended the video conference. The screen in front of General Pierre Barthaume now rose slowly back up into the ceiling.

“Cold feet?” Colonel Maxime stepped in from the open doorway where he had been listening on the conversation.

“Maybe.” Barthaume sighed, collapsing into his chair. He gazed out onto the twinking canvas of stars hoisted above New Geneva. “Or maybe Ignatius is delusional.”

“Or a Spy?”

“If he was a spy, I would be arrested, and he would be free…not the other way around.”

“True.” Maxime began pensively pacing the parquet floor in front of Barthaume’s First Empire gilded desk. “What we have to worry about now, General, is whether or not Tamzil’s next call will be to the Gendarmes. We can’t lose our element of surprise.”

“Damn the element of surprise, Edgar!” Barthaume shot up like a bolt, a look of revelation flashing across his heretofore sullen face. “If Malave is full of it…and there’s no revolution at all…” His face turned sullen again. “Then we’re marching into a death trap. No one is going to come to our aid and we’re…well…we’re all alone.”

A knock at the door.

“Come.”

A Captain, attired in dress uniform trod purposefully into the room, a letter in hand. As he extended his hand to General Barthaume, one could see a few stray threads clinging to his shoulder from where the patch with Emperor Andreus’ name had been ripped off.

Barthaume greedily snatched the letter from the man’s hands and practically tore it in half trying to pry it open. While the Captain departed, Barthaume silently and intently read.

“Maxime…I’ve been elevated to the Order of the Rose and Cross, the Legion de Valeur, and they’ve recognized my Star of the Republic.” His mouth practically hung agape. “Oh…Sh*t…”

“Oh Sh*t indeed…” Maxime sighed. “I don’t think they were going to take you in at all sir.”

“No sh*t Sherlock!” Barthaume wildly paced the room. “Son of a B*tch!” he shouted, tearing down a curtain, which pulled the rod out of the wall with it. Drywall dust went flying into the air from the small chuck of the wall that was also ripped out.

“Well, we’ve only sabotaged the communications of the Guard Base. Our men are waiting to move in and disarm them. We haven’t done anything punishable yet.”

“There’s a man dead, Edgar.” Barthaume fumed, his nostrils flared. “You of all people should remember that. We could have just locked the b*stard up! Why did you have to shoot him!”

“Well that’s easily enough covered up, if we just…”

The window exploded throwing Maxime to the floor in a flurry of glass shards, wooden beams, and large pieces of plaster. A small metallic ball flew through the window, bounced a couple of times on the floor and began billowing a purple smoke.

Barthaume covered his mouth and hurled himself toward Maxime on the floor. He picked up a beam of wood that had fallen on the man’s chest and threw the Colonel over his shoulder. He staggered to the door, with each step, his legs felt heavier and heavier. He began coughing violently, if not for the blinding smoke he would have seen the crimson stain from the blood he had coughed up into his hand.

Some people were shooting. He could hear it. He could somewhat see the flashes from the barrels of their guns as collapsed to the floor. “They ARE going to kill me!” he gasped as reality slowly slipped away.

The last thing he felt was a sharp pain, a pressure in the center of his back. Someone was on top of him. And he heard the words…“General Barthaume, by order of the Second Consul you are under arrest. Your rights as a citizen of the Greater Prussian Empire are nullified.”

--

He opened his eyes. There were colors, but no clear shapes. It was like looking at the sun through a stained glass window. “Where am I?”

“You’re at your Headquarters General. You were attacked.”

“Colonel Vilnitz?” He lifted his head, a sharp pain shot through the back of his head and eased down his body as if he were being slowly dipped in acid.

“Yes. I have taken command in the interim.”

“Maxime!” Barthaume now shot up like a bolt, disregarding the pain. “Why are you in command!? Where is Maxime!?”

“Colonel Maxime…did not…erm…survive the attack sir.”

“Was he shot?” Barthaume noticed the hesitant expression on the man’s face. “If you are to be my second, then you have to speak up when I ask you something!”

“A piece of glass was driven into his skull from the explosion.” He spat it out quickly, as if the words themselves tasted of bile.

‘How could I have not noticed…he was probably dead when I lifted him over my shoulders.’ Barthaume’s memories started flooding back. “They’re going to kill us all!” he shouted with new clarity. “Tell your men to move now! Disarm the guard. March on Reichsburg!” He coughed again, this time he could see the speckles of blood on his handkerchief. His eyes recoiled in horror.

Two aids helped him to his feet. No sooner was he standing than Colonel Vilnitz approached again. “General, someone came to call while you were…out. They are still waiting and I think you will want to see them.”

Before Barthaume could nod his head in the affirmative, the doors burst open. A man in a slim black suit, covered with a black leather trenchcoat strode through the open French doors. He wiped the top of his bald head with his hand to clear the beads of sweat. Strange for a man so young to be completely bald.

“General Barthaume? General Markhil. Good to finally make the aquaintance of the man who killed half of my men.”

“Get out you son of a…” he noticed the man behind him. In clerical robes. Dr. Graves. “What are…you…doing here?”

Graves walked in nervously, a few steps behind Markhil. He kept eyeing the bald man, as if at any moment he may strike out and lop off his head. Slowly, he pulled down his left sleeve revealing a tattoo on his wrist. ‘Pax Maria In Aeternum’.

“So it IS real?”

“Let’s just say” Markhil interjected himself “If you want to beat Brune…you need us.”




*Capet Defensive Line, 100 miles north of Reichsburg *

“Why are we just throwing him out again so he can get back with his fellow conspirators?”

“Even if he get’s back with them,” the older man in the gray blazer said, dragging on a cigarette “We know Reichsburg itself is locked down and secure and under the direct command of Marechal Brune. And this is the last of five concentric defensive lines around the Capitol. It would take the entire Dersconi Army with a few extra divisions to break through this death trap. All he will do is lead us back to his compatriots.” He made quotation marks with his fingers around the last word. “He may lay low for a week, maybe two…but eventually he will reach out to them, or they will contact him. And when they do…” He punched his open palm and ground it from left to right.

“Here’s a good place.”

“We’re in the middle of a forest, anywhere is a good place except right in front of the defensive walls.” He ground out his cigarette into the mud with the heel of his boot.

With a great effort, the other man threw the burlap sack he hung across his back to the ground. It wriggled and writhed but finally settled.

“Halt! In the name of the Emperor! Who goes there!”

“Let’s get out of here.”

Moments later, two soldiers in Imperial Guard uniforms stormed the spot. One stood at a vantage point surveying the area while the other rooted about in the brush determining if the area was free of threats. The second soldier nearly tripped over the burlap bag. When he opened it, he threw up on the ground and almost on top of the bag. Ignatius Malave sat in the bag curled in the fetal position. His eye gouged out, his optic nerve dangling from the eye socket, gashes down the left side of his face and cigarette burns on the other. When he opened his one good eye, and saw the Imperial Guard patch on the soldier’s shoulder he hissed a scream of horror with what little air he had left in his lungs and half heartedly extended a bloodied stub of a hand to push the soldier away. “Don’t kill me please! I didn’t do it!”

The sharp cracks of a cannonade split the night. Great fireballs rose up from the defensive positions visible just beyond the spot where Malave lay. Machine gun fire hit a fevered pitch and hundreds of soldiers swarmed the outmanned and outgunned defenders. One soldier did actually trip over Malave as he lay there crippled with pain. “Who are you!” he barely squeaked.

“Corporal Wilhelm Steiglitz, 1st Republican Army.” The soldier said barely concealing his revulsion at the disfigured form before him.

“Republican! Domitius! Take me with you! They’re trying to kill me!” he blacked out from the pain.

“Your Majesty, I believe you will find your Kingdom a far better and safer place today by several orders of magnitude than it was when you first took the crown. And since this is the first moment that you and I have had alone, I wish to extend my most sincere apologies to your majesty for the rather unorthodox and unexpected manner in which the crown was proferred to you. I know you may have taken it as a shock or a slap in the face…”

The sovereign said nothing. Leibnitz noticed that the Emperor was nearly out of wine. He nodded and more wine was poured, a priest reciting the wine pouring ceremony with the appropriate accompanying choir. Leibnitz in particular, out of all the Consuls, had gone to great pains to ensure that as much as possible Andreus could have all of the comforts of home while at the Palais Consular.

“But your majesty may be pleased to know that the restorations upon the Royal Cathedral have been completed. Within one to two weeks notice, a grand coronation can be arranged for yourself and the heir that you choose to ascend to the throne of Reichskamphen.” He caught himself. “Or however it would be, in your deep wisdom, that you would wish to dispose of the crowns.” He corrected himself without a hint of sarcasm. It had been the wisdom of this man that had saved his country from ruin. He owed Andreus everything, even his very life.

OOC: Panto, here is where you can throw in any discussions you want to have with him. The thread will move on, but we can continue to address them as long as needed.

IC: After the Emperor had spoken his peace, three polite knocks were heard at the towering French doors which then opened just enough for a white wigged Chamberlain to fit through.

“Good Sir, I am with your Emperor, have a thought for this and inform any who wish to see me to return at a better time.”

“Monseigneur le Premier Consul, I am afraid that Messieurs Centreville and Brune must see you most urgently.” Leibnitz felt his heart beating within his ribcage, it pounded faster and faster like a prisoner banging itself into the bars of an iron cage, hoping against hope to escape. He nodded to the priest, choir, and attendants who immediately left via the hidden door in the wall.

“See them in.”

A moment later the Chamberlain opened the door, striking his staff on the ground thrice. “Monseigneurs le Deuxieme et Troisieme Consuls.” He announced with rigid formality as the two men all but knocked him over to get by.

“Gerhardt!” Centreville shouted out before seeing the Emperor. He then lowered his voice to a more muffled and reverent tone. “Your Majesty.” Seeing that the Emperor was seated, both men knelt.

“Your Majesty, we have quite a situation.” Centreville began anew. “We have lost contact with Fort Carson, the Imperial Guard base in New Geneva. Urgent enquiries to the commanding officer in that theatre, General Barthaume, have gone unanswered. Calls to his subordinates have gone unanswered. I was presented with satellite intelligence that showed troop dispositions indicating a possible attack on Reichsburg. I ordered the General’s arrest but my men were apparently unsuccessful in their attempt to apprehend him as…”

Brune cut him off. “As the 1st of 5 lines of defense around Reichsburg has been overwhelmed by units assumed to be under the command of General Barthaume.”

“Also,” Centreville pressed on, “Marechal Malave has gone missing. We are assuming that he has been kidnapped or otherwise disposed of by General Barthaume.”

“Does Barthaume have a grievance?” Leibnitz enquired coolly, almost as if this were a tennis match under discussion. “I mean we knew of his proclivities, but our Emperor has richly rewarded him. What could he have to gain from a revolt?”

“Do you think that really matters Gerhardt?” Brune stood. It mattered not who else was standing. His back ached from kneeling. “We could potentially have the 5th , 19th , and 17th Royal Armies crashing down on our position. We have no clue how many of his men are with him in the revolt, whether others will join, and worse, there’s an entire Division of Imperial Guard behind his lines. We can only pray to God that they haven’t been stabbed to death in their beds.”

“Perhaps your Majesty should flee the Capitol.” Centreville suggested.

“Nonsense.” Brune looked at the Second Consul with something approaching indignation. “There is no need to flee anywhere. He got through our first line, but he wont get through the next, or the next. And unless the whole army revolts, we still have three quarters of the Royal Army, the Entire Imperial Guard, and the Entire Airforce and Navy. He is leading an unsupported frontal attack on heavily defended positions. He is all but committing suicide.”

“So then the real problem is the political implications of the fact that a revolt could happen at all?” Centreville asked the Marechal. Brune nodded wisely in the affirmative.

“With your Majesty’s permission, I would like to lead the Aigle Division of the Imperial Guard, your Majesty’s own personal Division, to cut the opposing forces lines of communication in the rear, envelop them, and push them into the teeth of our defenses like a hammer hitting an anvil.”

--

*The Ducal Palace: Reichsburg, Reichskamphen *

“Not quite the digs I am used to…but I suppose they will do.” Richard DuChamp ran his finger across the top of a Louis XIV commode table standing against the wall of his new sitting room. It traced a line in the dust. He examined the fine particles that adhered to his finger and finally blew them off as if he were blowing the frond of a dandilion into the breeze.

“Well, Richard, they are smaller than our place in New Geneva, but they are at the Ducal Palace by God!”

“By whom, Edward?”

“Nothing, Richard. By nothing.” Edward Graff rolled his eyes.

Richard circled about and settled down in his leather wing chair, the same one from New Geneva. Once again his nimble fingers found the red ribbon marking his place in Ceasars writings on the Gallic wars. His meerschaum pipe, the one with the Imperial Eagle on the side, still sat in its stand right next to its owner. He picked it up along with a mother of pearl box. Richard lifted the lid of the box and grabbed several leaves of tobacco with three fingers and stuffed them into the bowl of his pipe with his pointer finger.

“We’ve been so busy, Richard.”

Richard nodded, fumbling for a lighter.

“This is probably the first night we’ve had at home for a while…well…since…”

He removed the pipe from his teeth in a measured fashion. “Don’t talk about it Edward.” He put it back in and flicked the lighter. It produced a brilliant flame.

“We have to talk about it Richard. Communication is key to maintaining our marriage.”

Richards eyes grew wide, but his face stayed motionless. “There is nothing to maintain, Edward.” he finally lit the pipe and puffed at it a bit, producing a few whisps of vanilla scented smoke.

“What do you mean!” Edward stood to go sit in his lap.

“GET AWAY FROM ME!”

Edward collapsed on the floor, missing entirely the couch where he was perched before.

“I just want to work things out!” Edward burst into tears, holding his head in his hands.

“You instigate a rebellion while I’m oversees…against my government? Hell I don’t like my government that much either…but if the killing starts…and you won…who do you think dies first??” No response. “Right.”

“I had no choice…” Edward nearly shouted through his muffled tears.

“You think I didn’t know about your royalist sympathies…your love for the Church for some un-f*cking-fathomable reason? I knew. I loved you despite that because I believed that you would never let it come between us.”

“It didn’t! You’re the Secretary of Defense of Greater Prussia…you’re fine.” Edward began to pull himself together and clear the tears from his face.

“I’m fine because Brune decided to talk instead of fight. If it were up to you, I would’ve been dead!”

“That’s a lie! Just let me tell you my side!”

Richard stood up from his chair and took a deep draw on the pipe. “There’s nothing to tell, Ed.” He held the pipe aloft in the air. “When you gave me this on our first anniversary…I thought our life could go on like that forever.” He threw it to the ground and stamped it into a thousand pieces with his shoe. “This is us now.”

Edward helplessly tried to sweep up the shards of the pipe, his tears flowing anew.

“I thought that if maybe I saw you again Ed, maybe If I let you come home just like old times…I could forget it. But I can’t. I want you out of my house!” Ed looked up in horror. “NOW!”

Edward hurled himself at Richard, clinging to his white dress shirt and thrusting his head onto his chest. “Please! I love you!”

“Guard!”

An Imperial Guardsman, DuChamp’s personal attendant pulled the hysterical man away from him and escorted him to the door.

“I’ll send you your things!” He shouted down the hall at Edward with contempt.

The pieces of the pipe crunched beneath his feet as he took his seat again. He stared for a moment into the distance. His mind blank.

There was a frantic pounding at the door. “Don’t let him back in!”

“It’s not him!” his attendant called back.

“Fine!”

Within moments a messenger in uniform approached DuChamp. “Secretary DuChamp. General Barthaume is leading an insurrection against the Emperor, you are needed at the Palais Consular immediately.”

Richard nodded, and the messenger was escorted away. He reached for his raincoat and buttoned the top two buttons “Tell the driver to bring the Rolls out front.” He moved like an automaton…on autopilot. His thoughts whirred and spun with great rapidity while his feet marked out the same steps that they did every day to go to work. “Pierre…a revolt?” he said aloud.

Before he knew it he was safely seated in the car and the driver began his progress to the Palais Consular. ‘Pierre, my greatest pupil…revolting?’ His mind ranged back to the times before he left the Domitian army for politics, where he had seen to the training of young Pierre’s military mind. ‘And what do I have here?’

“Driver!” he exclaimed with renewed confidence. “Get me out of here. Take me north. We will get through any roadblock with my authorization, and you can leave me once we reach the rebel lines.”

OOC: Also, Centreville is an emigre who was not associated with the Domitian regime. Leibnitz does have the Star of the Republic as it was a military order based upon not only achievement, but the general's political loyalty. Leibnitz was a radical republican (so long as it benefited him).

Tsarhof, Earth

Kynaz Sanin Andropov awoke, startled, when an aide walked in on his nap. It was the first time in two years that Sanin had been anywhere near any sort of seat of power. The youngest prince of the Andropov family had little concern for politics (even though he had a masters in Political Science), more prefering to use his MD and PhD in Sociology in humanitarian missions across the galaxy. His latest escapade involved organizing local towns and communities (as well as getting materials) to help build houses after a recent earthquake.

And now, as he was finally home sleeping after spending weeks without doing such, the aide comes in after an hour and prevents it once more.

"Yes?"

"My lord, Tarakh has informed the palace that his stay on Jörmungard has been prolonged due to a sudden business meeting with the Skaugran GearCorp, and will not be planetside for a little longer. he requests you go to Reichsburg in his stead to represent the Andropov family as Arch-Chancellor of Greater Prussia." Sanin stared back, mouth agape.

"What?" The awkward silence ate into both of them, poisoning the atmosphere for several minutes. "Goddamnit, he knows I hate that pretentious shit." The aide nodded.

"Yes, my Lord, he seemed rather amused as he was issuing the instructions." Sanin sighed and flopped back onto the couch.

"I'll do it later."

****The Next Day****

The aircraft touched down at the Reichsburg airport after having been directed in by air traffic control. Sanin travelled alone, refusing to take any guards with him. HE didn't even bother with any royal attire - it was a simple all-black three piece suit (shirt black, too) with gold waistcoat and crimson red tie. His Kavashar sword hung by his side, through his right coattail often left from behind his knee and wrapped itself around the scabbard. Sanin sighed, readying himself to see whomever the Reichskampheneren (or the Pantocratorian) bothered to send. He thought a moment, and chuckled. I wonder if I'll have to walk?

A black Mercedes S-Class pulled up in front of the airplane. It flew before it the Pantocratorian Flag and the Greater Prussian battle standard. As Sanin exited the plane, Imperial Guardsmen took his baggage while a short man with thinning hair stepped out of the vehicle. "Your Eminence..I am Marcus Levinson, Foreign Minister of Greater Prussia and aide to the Second Consul." He motioned to the door which he held open. "Please come with me. The situation is most urgent."

Sanin, amused, gave Levinson his usual sly-looking half smile and nodded. "Of course, lead the way." Sanin hopped in the Mercedes, quietly leaning back on the seat as the driver began to pull away from the plane. As the vehicle navigated the airport, heading towards the palace, the prince reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small Tarot deck. This should provide some amusement for the time being.

He dealt out the ten cards in the spread face down, so neither Levinson, nor the driver, nor any bugs in the car could see the spread. Not that they'd understand it anyway, Sanin thought bemusedly.

The cards floated in front of him, suspended at a steep angle by Sanin's psionic abilities, seemingly pressed up against the seat. The prince wasn't trying to impress or show off, though. In this case, there simply wasn't a table. The prince touched each one of the cards, using his psionic abilities to see each card in the spread. Certain cards gave him pause, though. Hmm... A reversed seven of swords in the seventh position, and a reversed Hierophant in the ninth. Sanin reached down to the tenth and final card, but hesitated. First, he drew another card from the deck - the Signifier - and glanced at it, cocking an eyebrow in curious anticipation. Sanin then, placing the signifier face down on top of the tenth card - being careful not to touch the final card - and drew a second card. No reaction. Thinking a bit, he pocketed the signifier and the second card, then finally shrugged and flipped the tenth card to see the eyeless sockets of Death staring back at him.

OOC: Moving over the Emperor's conversation with Leibnitz, which was conciliatory and gracious in nature, but at this point tangential to the main action of the thread.

Reichsburg, Reichskamphen
The Emperor stood when Brune stood, and pretended not to notice that Brune stood before him. He paced the room in a fashion which suggested he had always intended to stand at that very moment. Such was the courtesy he had long shown elderly courtiers at the Imperial Court of Christ Pantocrator, which seemed so far away and so secure now.

Yet the palaces at Reichsburg and New Rome had one thing in common between them - both were dens of vipers. Self-serving sycophants and cunning courtiers had manipulated his father, his mother's own court cabal had poisoned the Emperor's late wife Theodora with contraceptive drugs in the early years of the Emperor's own marriage, and slowly but surely he had fought them by stealth, by favours bestowed upon their enemies, by all the devices of palace politics, until he had been more master of his own house than any Pantocratorian Emperor in centuries. The vipers about him in Reichsburg were of a different breed than the serpents of his home, but he could hear their hissing about the palace's halls nevertheless. Could he trust even these men, his own Consuls? Von Leibnitz had betrayed every principle he had once espoused to offer Andreus the crown of Reichskamphen. De Centreville was an enigma wrapped in a mystery to the Emperor, who so often prized himself on being able to read men. And Brune, on the one hand the only man who had openly opposed the House of Bourbon, also seemed the most genuine man there.

"Monsieur le Maréchal..." the Emperor began, addressing Brune. "Your personal heroism in the defence of this new Reichskamphen we are building together, in defence of me and my house, commends you to me as no oath, no promise could. The division is yours. End this rebellion, and know that I will be ever loyal to you, for although you once may have been considered by some to be my enemy, you are now, and I hope will ever be, my champion, and the champion of the cause we all hold dear, a unified, strong, peaceful and stable Reichskamphen."

The Emperor embraced Brune, and kissed him on each cheek, a gesture of favour he would never bestow in Pantocratoria, but which he felt appropriate to bestow here. If Brune was a viper, let him bite him as he kissed him. If de Centreville or von Leibnitz were vipers, let them bridle at the sight of their enemy being embraced.

"Bring me Barthaume, alive if you can, dead if needs must be." the Emperor told Brune as he embraced him. "If at the last he does the honourable thing, and surrenders his troops and falls on his sword, I will ensure that he will be buried with all honours due."

*Remains of the Capet Defensive Line, 100 Miles North of Reichsburg, Reichskamphen*

The rubble crunched and made a harsh grating sound beneath the heel of his jackboot. The small pieces of concrete shifted with with each step he took, a few pieces being jarred loose every now and then and rolling a few feet to the bottom of the pile. He stepped on a large hunk of concrete. Twisted lengths of iron rebar poked out from the broken section of defensive wall. Markhil glanced with indifference at an Imperial Guardsmen who had apparently been impaled alive on the rebar, his charred face forever frozen in a final gesture of wild eyed agony. Bathaume barely kept himself from vomiting when one of his soldiers began to nonchalantly loot the mutilated corpse. Markhil barely concealed a chuckle. A gigantic column of billowing jet black smoke still trailed skyward. At first glance it was difficult to tell what was burning. Barthaume strained his eyes and atlast made out the ghastly sight. The bottoms of several trees that artillery fire had torn in half had the Fleur de Lis standards of the Imperial guard placed atop them. Twenty men were tied to the base of what remained of the old oaks…and were engulfed in flames. They appeared to be smiling, but in truth the searing fire burning away the muscles in their face had caused their lips…no there were no lips left…their mouths to draw up just so.

“YOU BURNED THEM ALIVE! YOU BASTARD!” Barthaume shouted, hauling back to strike Markhil in the face.

Markhil caught the punch and squeezed his hand so violently that two of Barthaume’s fingers audibly broke. “This is unwise. I’m the only friend you have left.” Markhil’s calm tone seemed less reassuring to Barthaume than it served to chill him to his very core. “When we are sitting in the Palais Consular…” he waved to the dozens of burning trees with prisoners tied to them “all of this will be forgotten. Besides, as much as I’d love to take credit this wasn’t my idea.”

Markhil gestured to a spot behind Barthaume at the same time as the nominal commander of the Rebellion felt the light grip of a hand on his shoulder. His shock was complete when, cradling his injured hand, he turned to face a man more reminiscent of a comic-book villain than a General in a professional army. “Pierre.” The man greeted him in a gravely, but somehow familiar voice.

“Ignatius!?” Bathaume gasped, finally placing the voice but not recognizing the thing that stood before him. Malave’s face was covered by a full metallic mask concealing the patchwork of torn flesh that lay beneath.

“Yes.” The gravely voice replied. “Technically. I’m here under this metal and machinery.” Barthaume could now see extrusions from beneath the General’s uniform. He could tell that Malave wore an exoskeleton similar to that that the nation had seen Marechal Brune wear during his revolutionary march to New Geneva. “There’s a machine to help me breath, one to help me walk, one to keep my heart…and one to replace the eye they tore out of my skull.” His voice grew increasing dark with hatred with each new word.

“A soldier found him and turned him over to my doctors.” Markhil nodded towards Ignatius. “With the condition that he was in, I have no idea how he has the energy to be up and around.” He added as an afterthought, “Even with the machines!”

“They tortured me for three days Pierre…three days.” Ignatius bowed his head as if in shame, ignoring Markhil. “And then left me for dead. If you two hadn’t found me…and if there hadn’t been a hospital nearby…I wouldn’t be standing here. As it is the only thing that keeps me going is these machines and the thought that I’ll soon see Andreus’ head on a pike.”

Barthaume listened empathetically, seeming to forget what Malave had done. Yet when the stench of burning flesh reached his nostrils, he was revolted anew. “But these…men…” he looked at Malave with absolute indignation and gestured to the douzens of roaring fires “didn’t do anything to you.”

“If I had the strength to laugh, I would laugh at them. If I could still spit, I would spit on them.” Malave turned his back on his atrocity. “I was trying to entrap you, Pierre. I thought you were a threat to me.” He blurted out after a long pause so as to change the subject. “I convinced the Second Consul and the Gendarmes that you were also a threat to the government…that at the slightest drop of a hat you would revolt.” He chuckled a bit and looked about him as a few tanks pressed forward to mass with the rest of their company before they renewed the assault. “Maybe I was right on that point, but I should have had sense enough to do the same.”

Barthaume looked off into the distance, himself seemingly distant from the moment. “So…no Consul supports us? No Dimitri Tamzil? No Army?” he finally stammered, seemingly unconcerned that the man before him had confessed to betraying him.

“You have my Armies.” Malave confidently assured the both of them. “And you have my word that there will be more to follow if we break through the next line as easily as the first.”

“We won’t be breaking through the next line just yet.” Markhil stated definitively. “I made the mistake of attacking Brune once. If I know him, the old man will lead a division or two outside of the defensive cordon to outflank us.”

“True…” Barthaume stared off into the nearby forest contemplatively. “We’ll have to outflank the outflankers.”

His sudden realization was no news to Markhil. “Finally, a break in the storm of your unending idiocy, Barthaume.”

“Air Raid!” A soldier shouted, while diving into a ditch in the rubble. Sirens began wailing as anti-aircraft vehicles were brought up into position.

Barthaume touched a small blinking device perched in his ear. “Prepare the MLRS systems and scramble our jets in New Geneva!”

--

The Capitol was safe. Thanks to the martial law and strict restrictions on movement that Marechal Brune had implemented prior to the Emperor’s visit, there was scant opportunity for conspirators to coalesce. Even so, there weren’t very many conspirators in the actual Capitol itself to do much. Monarchist sentiment ran very high in the restored Capitol of Greater Prussia. While Andreus had very far to go to achieve the type of blind loyalties the Napoleons could once have counted on, in the eyes of many he could do no wrong. Beyond the savior of Reichskamphen, the papers had given him a new title of late; Savior of the Empire. Until Andreus had taken the crown, the only land technically under the vacant crown of the Empire was Reichskamphen itself. Now several former member states were once again falling under the scepter, the former vast stellar and interstellar holdings of the Empire were reporting in and swearing fealty to the restored regime. A feat like this would have been unimaginable only a short time ago.

Further, the Emperor’s recent decrees regarding the nobility and Domitian leaders seemed, for now, to preclude the possibility of Barthaume’s revolt from gaining much wide spread support. The nobles had nothing to gain and everything to lose from siding with a Domitian revolution, the same could ironically be said of many former Domitianistas themselves. It was indeed an uneasy alliance of unlikely bedfellows, but one that was likely to hold provided Barthaume made no major gains.

--

Palais Consular: Reichsburg, Reichskamphen

Sanin was conducted through the gates of the ornate Palais Consular by Foreign Minister Levinson. There was a tight military cordon with several checkpoints all around the Palace. If he paid attention, the unique red uniforms would have told him that the soldiers guarding the palace were none other than the Emperor’s Household Cuirassiers, an element of the Aigle Division which was being left behind while Brune dashed out of the city gates with the rest of the men to best Barthaume. These men swore an oath of fealty directly to the person of the Emperor himself and took no orders from anyone but him.

Two such soldiers with glimmering brass breastplates (hence the name cuirassier) escorted the two men through the winding halls of the ancient palace. Eventually, they came upon two, three story tall wooden doors that stood wide open. The six lancers who stood guard on either side of the monolithic doors presented arms and saluted when the Second Consul walked out from the room on the other side to greet the two guests. “Sanin. It’s been a while. I’m so glad you could make it. Please come in.” Guillaume Richarde Lefebvre de Centreville, the Second Consul seemed to be overly somber as he ushered in the representative of the Arch Chancellor. Truthfully, he was no more somber than usual but had read the Gendarme’s report on Sanin. Knowing that he scoffed at courtly formalities and niceties, the Vicomte decided to simply be gruff and to the point.
“Majesty.” Marcus Levinson, the Foreign Minister of the Empire, took to one knee when he beheld his Sovereign bent over a table top map and surrounded by several individuals. “I bring news. All foreign parties have so far condemned the revolution and Barthaume. It seems we are at our liberty to handle the affair as we see fit.”

The men at the table didn’t even seem to take notice of Levinson’s announcement. He stood from his kneeling position and approached the table more closely. “With your leave, your Highness?” he bowed extravagantly, seeking the Emperor’s permission to speak. When Andreus serenely nodded, he began anew. “We are facing no foreign threats at this time, Highness. All Allies and members of the Empire stand behind the crown. But…more importantly…I believe we have found Marechal Malave.”

Leibnitz’s head shot up like a bolt from studying the map. “How? I mean, where?”

“We have an agent at the very top ranks of the revolutionary forces.” Levinson beamed proudly.

“The Gendarmerie…” Erich von Bilder corrected Levinson as he silently slipped in through a hidden door “The Gendarmerie has an agent at the very top ranks of the Revolutionary forces.” He approached the table carrying a thick file in his hand until he noticed Sanin. “Mr. Andropov…I hadn’t been expecting you.”

With the blushing realization that Levinson had never introduced Sanin in the first place Leibnitz formally announced his presence to the Emperor. “Your Highness, may I present to you Sanin Andropov, the brother and representative of His Royal Highness Tarakh Andropov, whom you will recall as Your Majesty’s Arch Chancellor by Hereditary privilege and Divine Right.” Then he looked at his watch, and wondered out loud "Where the HELL is DuChamp? He was supposed to be here an hour ago."

“Regardless.” Marechal von Bilder turned again to address the Emperor, “I believe you will find this file of great interest.” He handed the folder to his Sovereign, tactfully allowing him to read at his own discretion rather than announcing its contents and forcing the Emperor to deal with the issue then and there if he didn’t see fit to do so. “There are a few censorship marks on this version, but I retain a copy without such marks for your personal use when there are no extra eyes in the room.” He looked about at the two Consuls, Sanin, Levinson, and Major General Dieter von Stockhausen who had been flown in to command the defenses of the city.

When the folder was open, the first page that immediately stared back at the reader was a short memo

ATTN: His Emminence, Maréchal Erich von Bilder

Prepared by (CENSORED), (Censored)th District Command, Gendarmerie Imperial

Maréchal de l'Empire Ignatius Malave has defected to the Revolutionary cause and is confirmed by (Censored) to be in the company of General Barthaume and General Markhil who is apparently also participating in the insurrection.

Malave claims to have been imprisoned and brutally tortured by a government force he referred to as “La Garde Consular”. No record of such an organization can be found, and if such an organization exists, it must certainly have support from an individual in the upper echelons of the government. Whomever the torturers be, multiple sources including (Censored) and (Censored) confirm it is likely he was indeed tortured as he is surviving only due to mechanical assistance. Malave purports to be missing an eye, all of his fingers, and to have several other injuries which seem to be genuine.

END MAIN REPORT

Report Ammended by ERICH VON BILDER 2/11/20XX

Intercepted correspondance of Monseigneur le Premier Consul contains the following instructions to a “Colonel Stevens” who has not been positively identified:

“You are authorized to apprehend Malave and extract the necessary information from him as you see fit, and with whatever methods you deem best suited to the occasion.”

Let it also be noted that under the direction of myself and Monseigneur le Deuxieme Consul, then General Malave was working with the Gendarmerie and tasked with probing the loyalty of General Barthaume whom we held suspect. His loyalty was as sure then as it is sure now that we have lost all contact with him and deem his defection to be genuine.

END DOCUMENT

OOC: If you don’t wish to address this now, I can move on in another direction

Biorestructuring Medical Facility South, Terran Derscon

The fortress Marechal Brune found in the subtundra of Derscon were not the only advanced Dersconi restructuring facilities on Earth. One, in fact, was quite nearby the Tsarhof in southern Derscon, near Gernish and Cherry Ridge.

Data uploading: 83%.

"So what is this, again?" The newbie computer engineer watched amazed as the tank glowed and the data shot by on the holomonitor. The chief doctor pointed to one of the monitors and explained.

"Well, thankfully, his body was preserved, so brain degredation wasn't too bad, but it was still pretty strong. So what we did was basically clone the body and re-engineer it in order to make it stronger and better than the previous. Using the genetic code from the previous body, as well as his journals and other accounts, we coded the closest approximation of his personality and knowledge base as we could, and uploaded it into his mind. This allows for a clone of not only the physical, but mental, personal, and emotional self." The newbie engineer nodded, impressed.

"What about all the stuff since his death?" The doctor spun around to a different monitor, continuing his explanation.

"Well, what we're doing now is uploading knowledge of all of the stuff that happened since his death that he would presumably know had he still been alive, as well as the projected analyses of what he would have thought of them."

"Not bad. So who is he, and what's he for?" The doctor smiled, handing him a folder.

SUBJECT: Jean Baptise la Salle

Biography: Jean Baptise la Salle was born in Derscon under the reign of Tsar Alexei, pre-ascension. An orphan, no further data of his birth can be verified. He was raised in an orphan house run by the former GICAPFAH, where he was found to have interest in military tactics at a young age, so was taken under Blazhei Voikinov's wing and raised at Neuwittenburg by Blazhei himself. Upon coming of age and finishing his degree in physics, he signed up for the Greater Prussian Imperial Guard, graduating as a Second Lieutenant from the Imperial Acadamy. Quickly climbing the ranks, he made captain within two years, becoming part of the unit responsible for the defense of Reichsburg when it was the Imperial Capital.

His claim to fame came from the days of the reign of the false emperor Andre Allistaire von Katrenburg and Mary's Wars, the civil war between Dersconi/Reichskamphen led Paisley/Napoleonic forces and the Pax Maria. During an assault on Gerhardt Volckner, he successfully dispatched several Pax Maria militiamen and rescued Volckner, sustaining substantial injury. For his efforts, he was promoted from Captain directly to Colonel, and highly decorated, including being awarded the Legion de Valeur after the ascension of Napoleon IV to the throne of Greater Prussia.

With his new connections in the court, and decorated bravery in combat, he found himself a General n the Imperial Guard, commanding the Soli Deo Gloria division based in Derscon. After the assassination of Napoleon IV, he helped in the invasion and occupation of Reichskamphen until the ascension of the False Tsar Xavier II to the Prussian throne and the stabilization of Reichskamphen through the Dominitan Republic. With Reichskamphen stabilized, he found himself fighting this time with Marechal Brune as part of the anti-Xavier forces. It was during this war he held back Xavier's forces at the Second Battle of Friedensburg, sacrificing himself in order for Marechal Brune and the rest of the anti-Xavier forces to escape. For his efforts, he was post-humonously awarded the Order of the Dragon, the highest possible awared bestowed upon individuals within the Amaranthine Imperium.

PURPOSE: Military Advisor and Chief of Staff to the Crown Prince Tarakh

The computer engineer put the folder back on the desk. "I've heard of this guy in my history classes." The doctor smiled.

"It's nice to know history isn't totally censored out."

Data Uploaded: 100%

"Oh good." he glanced over at the clock. "Tarakh will be back soon, mustn't keep him waiting."
___________________________________________

Reichsburg, Reichskamphen

Kynaz Sanin bit his lip at the proceedings. While he didn't like courts, he most certainly didn't like being kept out of the loop. "What possible reason would Barthaume have to cause an insurrection? He must know that he himself couldn't do anything. Perhaps he has allies? Or, thought he had allies." Sanin began to pace, trying to calculate the probabilities and purposes behind an insurrection with such a limited force. Goddamnit! he thought. Where's Tarakh? He's the better chess player.

Reichsburg, Reichskamphen

If the Emperor was surprised to read that von Leibnitz had been acting on his own without consultation with the other consuls or with the Emperor himself, he didn't show it. Instead, he closed the dossier carefully, and turned to Maréchal von Bilder. In truth, the only thing that surprised the Emperor about von Leibnitz's bumbling had provoked Malave into rebelling was that von Leibnitz had acted upon his own initiative, something which the Emperor hadn't seen him do in some time. Then again, perhaps his apparent lethargy in the job was supposed to reassure the Emperor that all important matters were brought to his attention...

"Thank you, Monsieur le Maréchal." the Emperor said simply. He decided to comment further, in case von Leibnitz or anyone else was suspicious about the contents of the dossier. "It is good to know that Maréchal Brune is making such good progress."

With that, the Emperor handed the dossier back to von Bilder.

"Let us speak in a few moments in private about the classified material." the Emperor continued. He gave a glance to his brother, Prince Basil, who still accompanied the Emperor about the palace, although he spoke little. "Monsieur, I think it best, given the sensitive nature of the operations we are discussing, that you withdraw yourself. Perhaps you should check on Madame? I saw her with Sir Constantine earlier."

Monsieur the brother of the Emperor nodded. Given the glance, he interpreted the comment to mean that danger was afoot, and that the Emperor wanted to see Sir Constantine, the head of Pantocratorian Varangian Guard, and the temporary commander of the Household Cuirassiers. The remark about Madame was a comment that Monsieur should also see to the safety of his wife. Monsieur withdrew himself from the room, where his protective detail rejoined him, and made his way to the drawing room a short way away where Sir Constantine was discussing sidearms with several Cuirassiers.

The Emperor turned to Sanin.

"Most observant, Arch Chancellor. Barthaume must have thought he had allies." the Emperor said, walking to von Leibnitz's side. He looked to Levinson. "Minister, you were looking for DuChamp, were you not? Monseigneur le Premier Consul, do you think it possible that DuChamp has betrayed us? No doubt he felt left out of the settlement we secured... and a man like he would surely have allies within the machinery of government. Monseigneur le Premier Consul... I would like you to prepare a list of DuChamp's known associates. Naturally we cannot spare you from these important discussions very long, but it is crucially important that any allies DuChamp may have are detained before they can act in support of Barthaume's rebellion. There is an office a few rooms away, work there, and quickly, and then return at once..."

As the Emperor and von Leibnitz talked about DuChamp, Sir Constantine entered the room flanked by a pair of Cuirassiers.

"Ah, Sir Constantine..." the Emperor said, excusing himself from the conversation momentarily. "It is possible that we have traitors within the upper echelons of the Government. I know the palace is already locked down tightly, but I want this room to be sealed. Escort Monseigneur le Premier Consul to the office down the hall, and see that no harm comes to him."

"Sire." Sir Constantine nodded, and issued instructions to the Household Cuirassiers to let no-one enter or leave the room without first obtaining authorisation from the Emperor personally. Two Cuirassiers escorted von Leibnitz to the nearby office, and guarded him while he prepared his list.

"Monsieur le Maréchal von Bilder..." the Emperor turned to von Bilder again, and took him aside where the others could not hear him. "Let us speak now in private about the classified material you mentioned..."

Once the Emperor and von Bilder were away from the others, the Emperor looked to von Bilder.

"The Premier Consul will shortly return with a list of potential traitors. When he does, I will command you to go with him and prepare arrest warrants for them. This is what I want you to do... when you leave the room, take von Leibnitz back to the office and place him under heavy guard. He is to make no calls, see nobody, open no correspondence, communicate with nobody. You will then give the list he prepared to someone you trust in the Gendarmerie, who will vet the list for accuracy, and arrest any who might actually be traitors. Have the Gendarmerie detain von Leibnitz's known associates whose trustworthiness is doubtful. Then have a letter of resignation drafted for von Leibnitz's signature, and present it to von Leibnitz to sign." the Emperor instructed, his face showing some evidence of anger. "After you have done that, with my thanks, you will have saved the Empire, if you can but do one more thing... find out what this... Garde Consular is... and exterminate it."

OOC: Just to clarify, Sanin is NOT the Arch-Chancellor. His brother, Tarakh, is the Arch Chancellor. Sanin was filling in until he got back from Skaugra.

En Route to Reichskamphen

Tarakh's personal shuttle just received the delivery from the Tsarhof, with General Jean Baptise la Salle now fitted into a Dersconi Imperial Army dress uniform, with all of his medals and awards from his Imperial Guard days strewn across his chest. He still wore the epaulets from his Imperial Guard days, denoting his rank as a General.

The crown prince sat beside him as the two men discussed recent events and the meeting with the new Pantocratorian Emperor. As Tarakh poured another glass of cognac, though, he felt a slight mental nudge in the back of his head. What the...?

Tarakh! It's Blazhei. The Dersconi prince blinked a few times, realising that it was Blazhei Voikinov trying to telepathically communicate with him. He looked out the window and realised they were passing over New Geneva.

Yeah?

Look, you're walking into a huge shit storm. You should have all of the information I sent back.

What's the problem?

The rebellion isn't without teeth.

Markhil?

Yeah, him. I think he's a friend of yours.

Oh...thanks.

The shuttle continued on toward Reichsburg, Tarakh biting his bottom lip. Information? He turned to la Salle.

"Did they give you anything about this rebellion?" The General-turned-Homach looked up and smiled, tapping his temple with his forefinger.

"Oh yes, yes they did. They uploaded it before sending me here. It's rather interesting, to say the least." The prince smiled.

"Excellent. Brief me in the few minutes we have to get to Reichsburg."

---

REICHSBURG AIR TRAFFIC CONTROL, THIS IS KARSHALV ONE REQUESTING PERMISSION TO DOCK.
OOC NOTE: I'm assuming that Reichskamphen would have the identification information on Tarakh's personal shuttle.

---

Reichsburg, Reichskamphen

Sanin watched the whole situation unfold with mild amusement. He could take a few guesses as to what was going on, but it didn't matter. He was only filling in for his brother anyway. And ultimately, none of it would affect Derscon in any great amount. The internal affairs of Reichskamphen would never be anti-Derscon, and Andreus couldn't do anything on the throne that was anti-Derscon; the Tsar was simply too powerful.

Prince Sanin lost his train of thought quickly, though, when he felt a mental nudge. Holding two fingers to his temple, he let out a sigh and smiled, turning to whomever was left to hear. "My brother, Arch-Chancellor Tarakh, is proceeding here now. Turns out, he has some rather...interesting information for all of you."

“Majesty.” The First Consul bowed graciously and exited with Sir Constantine and the Cuirassiers. ‘There must be some real danger’ he thought to himself when he noticed almost immediately that the Imperial Guardsmen escorting him no longer had their ceremonial heavy cavalry sabers sheathed at their sides which were gold plated to match their cuirass plates, but rather had machine pistols strapped around their necks and standard issue semi-automatic pistols holstered at their hips. ‘God only knows what Richard has done now...’ Soon they reached a small office which was usually occupied by one of the Second Consul’s secretaries. One of the Cuirassiers knocked on the door and with Sir Constantine’s ascent, opened it. Finding all in order, Leibnitz was escorted in.

Sitting down at a work terminal, he typed in his password, clearance code, and began accessing the Gendarmerie data base by querying Richard DuChamp. A list of names and faces appeared on the screen. Beside the portrait of the man, was a field marked “Status”. Beside all but five of the fourty or so of the pictures that the search returned, the status either read “Executed”, “Detained”, or “Deceased” the latter being a euphemism the Gendarmes used to denote the fact that the person in question had never in fact been arrested at all but simply had some “accident” befall him. “Damn…he has no one left at all.”

“Wait,” it suddenly came to him, “Why isn’t Erich doing this? This is his job. Well…whatever.” He quickly jotted down the first three of the five names with an active status; Ignatius Malave, Dimitri Tamzil, Edward Graff…he omitted the last two Pierre Barthaume, Gerhardt von Leibnitz.

Gerhardt knocked on upper etched glass pane of the door to alert the guards that he had finished. The doors were opened and he was escorted back into the map room.

“Here” Leibnitz half sighed as he handed the paper with the names upon it to the Emperor. Andreus emotionlessly reviewed the note and handed it to Marechal von Bilder.

“I would ask that Monseigneur le Premier Consul and Monsieur le Marechal immediately prepare warrants for the arrest of these men.” Andreus said to the room in general, and then announced, turning to the two men, “Sir Constantine will escort you both to the nearest office, to assure your safety. Make haste!” All bowed and quickly beat a hasty retreat.

It was only a short distance from the map room to the small office in which the First Consul had penned the three names but moments ago. In truth, as soon as the door to the map room was closed, he could plainly see six of the Emperor’s own, the Household Cuirassiers, blocking the hallway. The two soldiers escorting Leibnitz quickly grabbed hold of his arms. “Monseigneur le Premier Consul,” von Bilder was almost smiling as he said the last few words, “by order of the Emperor, you are under house arrest.”

The Consul looked into the distance, through the soldiers, into the nothingness beyond. Wearily he said, “Erich, am I a dead man?”

“No, but you are not free.”

--

*Basil Defensive Line, 75 miles north of Reichsburg, Reichskamphen *

“As the satellite images show, two of Barthaume’s three armies, the 9th and 17th are concentrated in the urban areas of Kaiserstadt, just south of the Capet line.” Colonel Harrington drew a circle around the troop concentrations with his finger on the large touch screen panel. “The 5th is disbursed throughout the populace areas of the north and heavily concentrated in New Geneva. That means we’re facing about 90,000 men with a front line strength of about half that.”

Brune looked on contemplatively then suddenly blurted out, “Who had the bright idea to name all of our defensive lines after someone in the Emperor’s family? Talk about a propaganda victory if they take one…”

Marcus Harrington grunted and continued on, “We still can’t tell for sure what’s going on at Fort Carson. We don’t see any mass graves and there are troops guarding the approaches, so we can probably assume that the Soli Deo Gloria division is being held prisoner, and they have all of their arms and supplies.”

“Hold an entire division of men as prisoners?” Brune said in disbelief. “If I were in Barthaume’s position, I would have probably just shot them. Even unarmed, do you have any idea what kind of force it will take to hold 15,000 men of the Imperial Guard prisoner?”

“Either way they’re out of action…” Harrington grumbled, annoyed. “And a column of about 25,000 men with a frontline strength of, again, about half that, marched south from New Geneva two days ago.”

“They surely would have passed through some sparsely inhabited areas, no?” Brune said with an eyebrow raised.

“Yes, the approaches to the Capet line are mostly wooded.”

“Then why the hell didn’t Rieck use the airforce and grind them into the dirt?” The Marechal’s face was now acutely red with what Harrington could only assume to be extreme anger.

“Marechal, in that engagement a couple days ago with the rebel jets based out of New Geneva, we pretty well lost our entire air capacity. The good news is that so did they.”

“You’re a lunatic, Harrington. We lost twenty jets at most. We have thousands more, and ten-thousand pilots on the roster.”

“Well, Alexander” Harrington looked at his shoes, partly from embarrassment, but mostly because he didn’t want to be the one to break the news to the old man, “Right enough, we have thousands more jets, and right enough, on paper we have ten thousand pilots…but that’s just on paper. Most of those boys couldn’t fly a crop duster let alone a jet. They’re new conscripts, and the only Reichskamphians who have flown in any airforce are about your age, sir…only they look it much more than you.”

“When was someone going to tell me this?” The Marechal’s anger, now simmered beneath the surface rather than boiling over as he took quick hold of his emotions.

“I assumed someone already had…”

“No matter…we’ll have to make do. Dieter von Stockhausen is about 10 hours march away with his 5th Army and his 3rd Imperial Guard. When he gets here, I’m going to have his men relieve the Aigle Division from manning the fortifications, and I will sortie towards Kaiserstadt with the Aigle division and roust Barthaume out of there.”

Harrington’s eyes grew wide with concern, “Marechal, you’ll be outnumbered by about ten to one!”

“Yes, but they won’t know that.” Brune smiled impishly. “I have my ways…also, I have no intention of beating them in Kaiserstadt. I’m going to fall back on the Basil line as soon as he’s fully committed all of his reserves. That’s when you” he pointed his weathered hands at the Colonel, “cut off their path of retreat over the road to New Geneva with 1st Army, and assuming those 25,000 men who are in route to reinforce Barthaume don’t speed up any, they should be in your area of the threatre around then, and you’ll pin them down with the Princess Zoe division.”

“We surround them…” Harrington said dreamily.

“When they’re right in the teeth of our defenses, Aigle and the 3rd Guard will bottle them in on the flanks and deliver the coup de grace…”

“Let’s hope it works that way.”

Brune put on his embroidered bicorne hat with an air of decisiveness. “It never does.”

OOC: More to come later…

Reichsburg, Reichskamphen
The Emperor continued about the business at hand as if nothing in particular had changed while the man who had offered him the crown of Reichskamphen was placed under house arrest by the Emperor's own instruction. The Emperor had already asked about the absence of the air force, and been unimpressed with the response. The Pantocratorian Imperial Air Service sat at home, its vast formations capable of blacking out the sky over the Pantocratorian Archipelago in response to any invasion, but too far away to be of any use in the present crisis. Besides which, the Emperor had long regarded that Pantocratorian military personnel deployed in Reichskamphen would turn public opinion, thus far against the rebels, as the Pantocratorians would be seen as foreign occupiers.

"Monsieur le Consul..." the Emperor said, turning to de Centreville. He could have just dropped the Deuxieme for the convenience of contraction... "Have your secretaries prepare the necessary paperwork to strip Richard DuChamp of all offices under the crown. When Monsieur le Maréchal von Bilder returns, you may instruct him under my authority to have Monsieur DuChamp arrested..."

The Emperor thought for a brief moment or two, and continued.

"I believe DuChamp had a lover as well... Graff... or some such. Have him arrested as well." the Emperor decided. "Von Bilder may have to invent charges for the time being. Any person, man, woman or child, with whom either man is associating at the time of his arrest is to be detained for questioning as well. Issue these instructions remotely, your presence here is essential."

“Majesty…” Marechal von Bilder lowered his gaze reverentially when he reentered the room “may I request your presence, that of Monseigneur le Deuxieme Consul, Major General von Stockhausen, and Messrs. Levinson and Andropov in the study adjoining this room?” The men followed the Marechal into the study, leaving behind several more high ranking members of the General Staff, Secretaries, Ministers, and Attendants. When the door was closed, Von Bilder addressed the Emperor. “Majesty, these are the men we can trust, and these are the men we need to help us take action immediately. Therefore, the only people in the Kingdom aside from a few Cuirrasiers who will know this are those gathered in this room. Monseigneur le Premier Consul has been placed under house arrest by the Imperial Guard, per your orders Majesty, and should be signing his resignation as we speak. Assuming this Garde Consular has any sense whatever, they will not be long in surmising what has happened and disseminate the information in a way that will likely be antithetical to our interests. We must take action first.”

The eyes of the Second Consul went wide. He had known of the First Consul’s involvement in the Malave debacle only a moment before his Emperor. It was under his instigation that Marechal von Bilder offered up the information to the Emperor during the crisis rather than after a peace had been established. He had hoped this would lead to Leibnitz’s marginalization so that his bumbling would be of little effect during the crisis…yet this was a far from expected and far from desired situation.

“Majesty, may I offer a suggestion…” his thoughts flew quickly from one contingency to the next and no sooner had he arrived at a suitable idea did he quickly blurt it out. “As of now, our main concern is to keep the former Domitians who have taken part in our settlement loyal to the government. Yet, it is highly likely that there are some within this settlement who are either now disloyal or who could pose a risk of disloyalty upon the slightest reverse of the fortunes of the Imperial Arms.”

“Then we are in the unique position of wanting to keep the former cadres of Domitius loyal, and yet wanting to make sure they get nowhere near the reigns of power.” Dieter von Stockhausen approached the two men. Ample crows feet extended from his eyes and deep lines were carved into his forehead from years of scowling. He focused his piercing blue eyes, which were deeply sunken into his skull, on the Second Consul “So how is it that a bunch of old Bonapartists are going to convince the Domitians that we are acting in their best interest when we’ve just gotten rid of their highest representative?”

“I am no Bonapartist, Monsieur von Stockhausen. My life has not seen the reign of a Greater Prussian Emperor besides our Sovereign, Andreus.” The Second Consul paused reverently before uttering the Emperor’s name.

The Chamberlain appeared at the door and struck his staff thrice on the floor. “ Major General Edouard Rieck, Commander of His Majesty’s Armed Forces, and Plenipotentiary for His Eminence, the Third Consul.”

“Many thanks, Sir Chamberlain, but your services for this moment are no longer required.” Guillaume Richarde nodded at the Cuirassiers by the door, one of whom took hold of the Servant and escorted him away to be detained elsewhere. As soon as the first soldier had left with the Chamberlain, he was replaced by another Red-uniformed Guardsmen who also toted a sub-machinegun. “Leibnitz’s most trusted servants may have the power to act on his behalf.” He explained to all present. “They must be removed from the Palace before they can do so.”

“What the devil is going on here?” General Rieck hobbled into the room, dragging his false leg behind him. He adjusted the black silken eye patch which covered his missing left eye. One could still see the traces of a scar extending above and below the patch. He was a man in his mid-70s, but looked to be a deal older. “Where are you keeping him? He has more bugs in this place than ants in an ant farm. If you don’t get him out of here and to the Capitol Prison, he’ll be out of here on his own soon enough.”

“I took the liberty of notifying the Major General.” Von Bilder informed Andreus, apologetically. “He can be trusted, and we will need him.”

“Majesty, perhaps another Domitian should be appointed to the Consulate?” Marcus Levinson nervously stepped forward. “Or appoint the Arch Chancellor to the Consulate…the Domitians look well upon him.”

“Unacceptable.” Stockhausen growled as he began removing a black leather glove from his arthiritic left hand. “No offense, Mr. Andropov…but you’ll be gaining the Domitians at the loss of everyone else if you appoint the Arch Chancellor as no one wants to see the Dersconis in power in this land. And there are no Domitians we can trust in a Consular fashion. No, the best thing we can do is to purge them altogether. In jail, they can’t help us, but they certainly can’t hurt us. Besides, if they aren’t a problem now, they will be so soon enough. Might as well rid ourselves of them while we have an excuse.”

“You forget, General Stockhausen, that there are many, many people with Domitian sympathies.” The Second Consul placed his hand upon the shoulder of the Commander of the City’s defenses. “We cannot forgo them in any long term settlement.”

“Then, Monseigneur le Deuxieme Consul, we can select new members of the political class from their ranks after the crisis. But the current crop of Domitians has to go.”

“I second the General on this sentiment.” Von Bilder declared.

“Agreed.” Rieck nodded.

“No.” Guillaume Richarde nodded his head vigorously in the negative. “The Consulate must be dissolved. Your Majesty must rule directly. This way no preference is shown to either party and all will understand that this is an action that might normally be taken in a crisis. The Imperial Guard will disband the Senate, the Councils of Ancients and Elders, and confine them to their meeting chambers so that they will be of little harm.”

“I suppose if we inform the Senators that this is being done for their safety, and to prevent suspect individuals from being of harm…those who are loyal will understand.” Marcus Levinson feebly surmised.

“And I for my part will resume my post as Foreign Minister until after the crisis.” The Second Consul firmly stated.

“Whatever your Majesty does…whether you replace Leibnitz, rule directly, or take a third option…I beg you to have a firm hand and purge the Domitians. If they don’t betray us now, they will.” Stockhausen turned his back and walked pensively to the door. All the military men nodded affirmatively.

“What will your Majesty do?” The Second Consul enquired.

“This question is moot, Messieurs, if Barthaume and his cronies march on the Capitol.” Rieck hobbled to the window and looked out upon the empty cobblestone streets. “While Marechal Brune will certainly triumph, what will be the cost of life both civilian and military, of man and matieral, of money due to a protracted battle fought in and around a major city? If your Majesty can help our arms via some augmentation, we can bring this thing to a much speedier close.”
-----------------------------------------------------


“Welcome back to GPNN’s Street View.” An attractive blonde anchor turned to the left camera. “We all know about the battle that just took place and the victory by rebel forces over one of the Army’s defensive lines. As of now though, with the fighting limited to wooded areas, the loss of life has been limited to non-civilians. But with rebel forces setting up shop in Kaiserstadt, this promises to change.”

“It’s interesting to note, Kiera” a male anchor seated beside her piped up “That this instability has only heightened the Emperor’s approval rating. An unreal 95% of the population approve of the Emperor’s actions.”

“While 73% support the permanency of the Monarchy in the person of Andreus the First.” Kiera added. “But these numbers gloss over a lot of concerns our camera crews uncovered while they were out today. Let’s go to the Street View.”

“Well I didn’t like the idea of Dersconi troops running this place, and I don’t like the idea of a bunch of French-ified soldiers moving all about, but I far prefer it to those damn Domitians.” A woman of about 40, huddled in winter clothing said in a nasal whine.

The camera then switched to a shot of a man with black hair, nearly 30 years old. “I’ll be honest, I like a lot of the things the Domitians stand for…freedom from the Church, social fairness…but I don’t stand for war. Andreus stopped that, and he’s an enlightened man. We have freedom. I just wish he’d do something to keep us safe aside from ordering our men to fight for HIS crown. I’ve not seen a single Pantocratorian put his neck on the line.”

“As a former diplomat” and older lady dressed in a smart suit and camelhair overcoat began in a dignified tone “I understand that in a legal sense, the Pantocratorians have no legal obligation to act on our behalf. We are two independent countries that just happen to have the same head of state. But the reality of the situation trumps the legal technicalities.” She cleared a coif of grey hair from in front of her eyes. “I think it would be a terrible precedent for his Majesty to set if he does nothing to materially ameliorate the crisis. How can we be expected to champion the causes of the Auguste House of Bourbon if the House of Bourbon won’t champion the cause of Reichskamphen?”

An old man, equally dapper, and apparently her husband stepped in the frame beside of her. “I say he should drop the pretense, we all support his reign…we know what that means for relations between ourselves and the ruling Pantocratorian dynasty…and we’re fine with that. He just needs to show the flag and these rebels will disperse.”

“So we take the Emperor of Pantocratoria as our Emperor…and he takes the crown all easy like” a fat, unshaven man leaning out of the drivers side window of a taxi cab said with a lower-class sounding brogue “and we’re all like…okay. But now this…” he gestured around apparently referring to the revolt. “And I ain’t seen no Panto soldiers coming to protect me. All I seen is more Reichskampians marching off to die. At this rate maybe we shoulda kept the Republic.”

The camera cut back to the studio.

“Well Kiera…that was certainly a good report.”

“Thanks Jim.” The female anchor nodded respectfully. “We’re going to toss off to the news desk, but we’ll be right back after this.”

It was Tarakh in the room now, having arrived with little pomp or circumstance, trading places with his younger brother. It was good timing soon, as it wouldn't do to not have the actual Arch Chancellor present during such private deliberations. He was a bit taller than his brother, and wearing more formal Dersconi imperial robes* than a mere business suit.

Carefully examining the situation unfold before him, he commented after Rieck finished. "Gentlemen, it would be unwise to underassess Barthaume's strength. My source -" he hesitated to give Blazhei's name, or his position as Warmaster to the young Graves - "inside New Geneva presented some rather interesting news. It seems the Reverend Graves and this 'General Markhil' character have joined forces and signed on with Barthaume." Tarakh didn't bother to tell the group that he suspected Markhil was in fact Marshal Kotalik back from the dead, mostly because it was inconsequential, but it would also be needlessly unsettling. Tarakh began to speak again before realizing he had been pacing back and forth the entire time. Quickly regaining composture, he turned to face the Emperor.

"While I am fully confident in Marechal Brune's strength as a commander, having worked with him many times, as General Rieck here has suggested, the damage done both to the army, to the city, and to morale of both troop and citizen would be astounding, leaving blood on your hands and only a Phyrric victory to account for it." He placed The Prussian Times on a nearby table. "Look at it, Andreus. The professional columns, the editorials, everything. Most of them express support, but all of them are united in one call - Pantocratorian disloyalty to Reichskamphen. Not that they don't trust you at all, per se, your majesty, nor am I saying you have not been generous. However, what are numbers to the common man? Sixty billion here, sixty billion there; these monetary values are too large and abstract for the common citizen to wrap his head around. After all, if they could, I sincerely doubt there would be as many bureaucratic welfare states in this world as there are," he said, making a not-so-subtle jab at the Pantocratorian structure of government.

"I urge you to at least skim the columns, Your Majesty," the Prince continued. "You have a rebel army that would give you a phyrric victory at best, and a razing of Reichsburg at worst. Either way, you will be struck a blow that will be almost impossible to recover from, both to your position here in Prussia, and to your honor as a monarch. The citizen needs a symbol to rally around, Your Majesty, but a tangible symbol. I agree wholeheartedly with Rieck here - you must send Pantocratorian troops. It would not only reinforce Marechal Brune's position, but it would be a visible sign to the common Reichskampheneren that Pantocratoria is willing to risk a sacrifice for Reichskamphen." He let everyone run his words around inside their heads before finishing.

"Of course, if you pledge Pantocratorian troops to the cause, Your Majesty, I would be willing to send Dersconi troops to come from the north and strip the rebels of New Geneva and the surrounding area, thus cutting them off from retreat and resupply."

*OOC Note: If you really care, it's basically this (http://media.photobucket.com/image/sith%20lord%20robe/swgtailor/SithLordsOutfit.jpg) but with gold embroidering and dragons and shit.

Erich von Bilder also scanned the paper laid out by the Arch Chancellor. "We'll have to take care of this. This kind of rubbish simply won't do during a life or death struggle." He typed a few words into his mobile device. He looked up with an impish grin "I don't think we'll be seeing THOSE types of articles again. I imagine the authors will retire from writing altogether."

Major General Rieck barely stifled a chuckle at von Bilder's veiled references to the impending detention of the trouble making columnists. Once he regained his composure, he addressed the Arch Chancellor. "Emminence, I don't believe our only option is a hollow and costly victory. Apart from a few ideologues, the only reason the rank and file soldiers are following Barthaume's orders is the immense wealth he has promised them, and the plunder he has allowed them to gain from loyalist areas. Their lives are far more important than money. If we can put them under the impression that the numbers against them are so overwhelming that their defeat is assured...units will begin to defect left and right, leaving only a simple police action to mop up the leaders."

"We must emphasize though..." General Stockhausen butted in "that whether this is effective or not, our eventual triumph is assured, and there is no chance of a sack of Reichsburg. Our defenses are far too sound for an army fifteen times the size of the rebel force to defeat in totality."

"I'm not entirely sure a Pantocratorian military commitment is needed to scare the daylights out of these rebels, though it may go a measure to inspire confidence in the crown." The Second Consul, heretofore silent, insisted. "While our professional army is limited to the units we have already deployed, we have hundreds of thousands of cadets that were raised in the recent levee en masse. While they'd be murdered in a fight, we can use them to appear like there are far more troops than we actually have."

"But that still doesn't answer the question of the Airforce..." Rieck piped up. "I've only been in command of that shit show" he realized that he had cursed in front of the Emperor and bowed a sign of apology "That mess of an organization for two months. I did the recruiting and the building, but I can't train professional pilots in that little time. If we had wiped them out infront of the Capet line with bombers, then we wouldn't be having this discussion now."

"Quite right that it doesn't answer that question...but while it may be in our best interests to receive military aid from the Crown, as good subjects of the crown we must keep in mind what is in the best interests of the entire Empire, not just Reichskamphen." The Second Consul scolded his Generals. "We must drop this selfish veneer and keep in mind that while we also work for the best interests of Reichskamphen, we must equally strive in the best interests of Pantocratoria as determined by the State in the person of His Majesty the Emperor. If it is not useful to send aid, we will understand graciously, and make do with what our Sovereign has already provided us through his generosity."

Tarakh suppressed a snarl at the General's disregard for such basic liberties as free speech, but remained reserved in his tone. "Be careful, von Bilder. I think a few of them are Dersconi. It is the Prussian Times, after all, not the Reichskamphen Times, and it would not sit well up north for a Dersconi national to be legally attacked for an opinion."

As for the rest of the commentary, the Arch Chancellor remained silent until it appeared that the Generals were finished reassuring themselves and the Monarch. Once more, he thought. I must play the Devil's Advocate.

"General Rieck, it doesn't really matter why the soldiers fight for Barthaume, only that they do. And the fact remains, once the Domitians realize they've been shafted, you may see more ideologues and sympathies for the rebels. Of course, I must agree with your assessment that if the rebellion can be halted without a direct engagement, thus avoiding such an immense loss of life, that solution is the far preferred one."

Von Bilder was not a pretentious man, and when Tarakh refused to address him properly as Marechal of Greater Prussia he took no offense. He didn't even refer to him by his first name. The commander of the Gendarmes and the Royal Secret Police took no offense at this either, but certainly realized that this was a sign of things to come. No, he could be assured that his relationship with the Arch Chancellor would more than likely be less than pleasant.

"Emminence" Marechal von Bilder lowered his gaze deferentially before the Arch Chancellor "I am most heartily assured by the Gendarmerie in Derscon that matters are well in hand and under the strict supervision of Your Majesty's Police force. With the exception of cases of high treason, protocol demands that the Dersconi police appeal to the Gendarmes for assistance before any action is taken beyond an observational capacity." He caught a glance of the Emperor "And where we would we be without the proper protocol?"

Guillaume Richarde looked on with muted horror. While the presence of the Arch Chancellor did certainly complicate matters, it was very necessary for him to be present. It was almost as if this King among Kings, Andreus, had been through a Shot-gun wedding to an insane and disfunctional family. But family they still were.

"Dad!" The second consul could hear himself saying. He was fifteen years old. He could even see the number on the cell door, 0-21-415-000. He was no longer Guillaume Richarde Lefebvre de Centreville III, and his father was no no longer Guillaume Richard the Second..."Zero-twenty one-four one five- triple zero!" The guard shouted. "We're here." he could hear the 15 year old him whimper. The guard slammed shut the steel window on the door and moved on.

His father lay before him, blood draining down from gashes on his forehead. They were both stark naked. "Son, they're going to execute me. But I made a deal..." There was a gurgle in the back of his throat when he spoke. It could only be blood draining backwards. "Just run...go away..." His father passed out.

"I hate you." The second consul thought to himself as he came back to the present and caught himself staring at Tarakh Andropov. It had been Dersconi Guns and Dersconi Gold which had kept Domitius in power until the advent of Anarchy, and of the two it was the guns that kept Domitius honest. And once the guns were gone, it was as if the devil himself had been uncaged on the land.

Where was this Prince of the Blood Royal when they killed his father? Where was the only man with the power to stop it when they tortured them both for three years without end? Guillaume Richarde could only imagine him sitting in some palace passively watching the world and thinking about how enlightened he was, how supremely humane and gracious he was to give the people freedom to choose, freedom from government and from the rule of law. Look what the people chose in their freedom. They chose to loose a madman on the world who raped and pillaged and put to death everyone he ever loved, and almost everyone he ever knew.

But the Arch Chancellor must be paid the respect he is due.

"Well put, Emminence." The Second Consul nodded to the Arch Chancellor. "We are indeed in a prickly situation. But whatever our disagreements inside this chamber, we owe it to the people to set them aside when the doors swing open again. What our Emperor decides is law. He cannot steer our ship of state astray." This last comment he said facing the bickering Generals as if to tell them to hold their tongues until the Emperor himself pronounced on matters. Who were they, indeed, to decide the future of the Empire?

Tarakh sighed when he was addressed as "Emminence." He looked at von Bilder directly. "Please, Marechal, it's Tarakh. Or Chancellor Tarakh, if you must. This court show is for them," he said, motioning out towards the doors where the rest of the officers and courtiers stood. "Here, where real business is conducted, where thoughts and ideas must be shared and expressed openly and directly, it serves only to be a barrier to proper decision-making." The Bonapartes understood that, he didn't add.

The Dersconi prince made an effort to ignore the Second Consul's stare. Being a powerful psionic, it was an effortless job to read Guillaume Richarde's thoughts, and know where his utter disdain for the Andropov's came from. But now is not the time, he thought. And it's unlikely that he will ever change his mind. Thus, he merely nodded at the Second Consul when Guillaume suggested that disagreements be put aside, although the Second Consul's willingness to suppress discussion even behind closed doors worried him. The Consul grovels at the feet of the Frenchman he thought, sickened. Who is he, indeed, to decide the future of the Empire?