Seek, Engage, Massacre (invitation only)
Field Captain Razhagin waited impatiently by the Yulan-Phu checkpoint, hoping that tonight he would fight battle enough to satisfy him. He was one of the most decorated men in all of Jiblea. The Black Cross was the most potent and dangerous combat units in the world, having at their disposal the full authority of the Emperor in all their endeavors. And alone among them was Varjo Razhagin, their leader, veteran of over 30 years of combat. The Black Cross Captain had a special mission tonight - he was to take some Kwaj foreign soldier for a brief voyage through the brush, meet some natives, and engage them. This was to be done because the Kwajhin in question had never killed a man, and thus was a rather inferior soldier.
The soldier in question was a comparatively small man, if he could be called that. According to the briefing, his name was Michael Lenzio (Mixael Lenzhyo? Mikhel Lanzhayo?), and he was 19. He was, apparently, the flower of Montesillano youth. His Gehsar'ko was bad and his manners were comical. But tonight was the night of the bushwhack, and this was the time when actions speak louder than words.
Michael Lenzio finished dressing, looked up and nodded towards Rezhagin as he stood and picked up his Jiblean bullpup SMG. The entire day, his nerves had been pumping with the thrill of the hunt: his first time in the jungle, his first time killing a man in combat, and his first time with an experienced soldier since he had left his drill sergeant at Basic.
But now it was nighttime. His nerves were collected, his faculties perfectly composed, and his jaw tightly set. It was time to hunt the border-jumping infidels, and bring honor and glory to the Commonwealth of Montesille. Long live the Mondiale, long live Montesille. Long live the Duce.
"Alright! Now is the time when we bravely foray into the woods and kill the heretics that lie within."
FC Razhagin's voice was like a cracking whip. Coiled underneath his right arm was some kind of wierd weapon that fed from a backpack. Michael knew from movies that it was called a Droqon, but he had never seen it fire. His helmet protected a face covered by a gasmask with four glowing lenses. He was wearing armor, legitimate, no-fooling armor. It was freakish.
The jungle was terrifying. It was dark, and behind every tree seemed to lurk a new terror. The ground was slightly moist, and the trees stretched up to the sky and prevented any moonlight from getting in. The air was filled with animal sounds, animals Michael didn't recognize.
"They're about 2 and a half miles from here. What fighting have you done, kid?"
"None, sir." His lips tightened with embarassment, but he maintained his silence, weeding through the wild sounds all around him in his mind and dismissing them as unimportant.
Michael glanced at the silencer currently hanging from a belt around his waist, tapped it twice distinctly, and looked back up at his superior for confirmation.
The Captain shook his head. "Silencers? Rubbish. We have no need of such toys. We are here to kill, not to sneak." His voice was scratchy and distant.
"So you've never shot a man before?"
"Not quite." He paused before a snake, frowned and stepped carefully past it to catch up to the captain again. "But never in combat, no."
"Don't mind the snake, boy. The big critters like that aren't the ones to be afraid of. It's the little ones you have to fear. Like the Bloodwasps. Thankfully, it's nighttime and not too hot. If it were day, then the armor you're wearing would be unbearably hot. But wear it anyway. The bloodwasps are like piranhas. They can strip you down to the bone in an hour once they get on you, and you're alive for most of it. They go for the eyes first. And then there's the millipedes. Whenever you sit down, they get in your shoes. Two bites, and you've got three hours to get some antidote. Three, and you die. But that's not the worst. You can see these things coming. The worst is the fog. It's a cloud of bacteria, floating on the air. When they get in your lungs, they tear you apart. That's why soldiers here wear the mask. That's why you're wearing the mask. This jungle is death, and only the wicked live here."
"The wicked..." He followed through the thick brush, mulling over all of the captain's words, wondering if it's possible he has just met someone more heartless than himself. On the other hand... these are the Black Crosses, after all. "Like those we hunt?"
"Those who live here. Those who were given the chance to come to our loving faith and nation, and refused. The Lanorcha. The Vendoki. The Cheljayel, whom we hunt tonight. Those who need walk but 5 miles to become one with our glorious Way, and deny it."
Captain Razhagin's eyes glinted behind his goggles. "Like yourself, with the sweet cup of heaven at your lips, yet you do not drink. But the Emperor calls you a friend, and so a friend you are. Were it not for those words . . ." He ran a gloved hand over his Droqon.
"Were it not for those words, Jiblea would lead a crusade and bring down the Hate of the Emperor on your sinful heads. But the Emperor tells us you are a friend. The Emperor in his Sacred Radiance dines with your king and tells us of his discipline and humility. Humility is a virtuous thing. All but the Emperor are filthy and worthless before the glorious Words of the Prophet. For all I have done for the Emperor, I am still encrusted with dirt and wretchedness. Still do I hunger, still do I sin, still do I betray the Emperor and the Prophet in thought. And so I obey. I obey the Emperor with my life, because he gives me the chance to be virtuous. And you, too, will be given a chance to be virtuous. But the animals in the jungle have been given their chance, and they have wasted it. And as such, we slaughter them, for skill and meat and sport."
The speech is disquieting, to say the least.
Lenzio paid little attention to the speech, completely unperturbed; after all, he knew he too was just as racially prejudiced. It was almost a requirement of being in the Lenzio family: conservative, militaristic, and proud of a pure lineage dating back to the days of imperialistic Patreille. Stupid theocratic brownie...
As they crossed a small stream, something caught his eye. He dropped gently to a knee and scooped through the soft brown mud, letting the water run over it. A small gold nugget lay in the palm of his hand. He looked up and motioned to Razhagin.
"Well, well, well, what have we here? Ignore it, boy. Our mission isn't to hunt for gold. Our mission is to kill Batorya, not to pansift." Nevertheless, the Captain reached down, snatched it from his charge's hand, and tucked it into one of his pockets.
"Focus on the task at hand, and think about what you'll do when you see a native, and how you'll kill him."
"Yes sir..." Lenzio's lip curled as he followed the Jiblean officer. His father would have a lot to say to the Duce...
*Later, at the camp*
The young lieutenant sealed the letter to his father, the head of the Lenzio Automotive Industry, and sent it off with a corporal who really served as little more than the mail patsy for the Montesillano commandos. The letter quickly changed hands from Mr. Lenzio to the Duce, with promises of decreasing Beresti automotive exports in favor of Lenzio exports. The sparse interior of the continent of Ezafarul had finally begun to look much more inviting.
Jorj-Vekhao Cardaryas, Radiant Emperor of the Holy Empire of Jiblea, was in his sauna. It was a time-honored and sacred tradition of the Jiblean monarchy that they met with their high council in the sauna. 70 years ago, back when Emperors were strong and robust of body, this was a good thing. But Jorj-Vekhao was not very impressive as a naked man, and tried to make up for it with his words and bearing.
According to a report made by one of his Black Crosses, who were more prestigious than his private bodyguard, there was gold in the South. To a foreigner, the term "The South" might draw images of farms and shotguns or unsophisticated city slickers who can't pronounce their H's, but to Jibleans, the South was where everything was nasty and wet and barbaric lived. Of course, far to the south was Zanaclar, where all things nasty, wet, and barbaric got together around some old factories, but that wasn't part of the discussion.
Anyway, it was a good thing that there was gold in the South. It would give the Empire reason to go take it from them, and annex their land and burn their forests. It was almost perfect.
The almost? The gold was found by a grease-headed Montesillano kid, who, no doubt, has informed his government of the find. The problem compounds somewhat. But not enough to be a major problem. Gold for Jiblea, gold for the Bank of Jiblea, prosperity for all.
Word reached the Duce quickly.
He had been sitting in his study at his mountain home at the time, avoiding the currently visiting extended family by doing "important office work" (reading a dense but interesting book about a man and his hunting dogs). It had been a phone call; and although he hated being called while he was in his study, he had been put in a very good mood by the Christmas season, fortunately for the caller. All in all, life was good: the Pauli reactor ran smoothly on its fourth of five major tests, taxes were low, consumerism was high, and his economy was thriving. The call would make his day better several fold.
"Hello?"
"I have good news, sir."
He laughed shortly at the man's abruptness. "Merry Christmas to you too. You have good news for me, Vercati? Do tell."
"Ah, yes sir," he continued with an embarassed chuckle. "The commando unit we sent in with the Black Crosses? They, ah, discovered something in the Territory."
"...I'm listening."
"Gold, sir."
He blinked. "Gold?"
"Yes sir."
"And the Jibleans?"
Vercati cleared his throat. "Intell reports they're planning an invasion."
"Arrange a meeting with Jorj. We will split this territory according to what we decided at the last Mondiale summit."
"Yes sir."
"And Vercati?" The Duce smiled. His favorite part. "Make sure the generals mobilize that armor and deploy it to the border. I want a skeleton plan drawn up for the occupation and suppression of those lands by Saturday."