NationStates Jolt Archive

The Four Horsemen

The group sat in the dim light around the great circular oaken table.

In the centre of the table an ancient parchment lay - angular letters formed words from the Book of Revelations…

“I saw that the Lamb opened one of the seven seals, and I heard one of the four living creatures saying, as with a voice of thunder, "Come and see!"

And behold, a white horse, and he who sat on it had a bow. A crown was given to him, and he came forth conquering, and to conquer.

When he opened the second seal, I heard the second living creature saying, "Come!"

Another came forth, a red horse. To him who sat on it was given power to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another. There was given to him a great sword.

When he opened the third seal, I heard the third living creature saying, "Come and see!" And behold, a black horse, and he who sat on it had a balance in his hand.

I heard a voice in the midst of the four living creatures saying, "A choenix of wheat for a denarius, and three choenix of barley for a denarius! Don't damage the oil and the wine!"

When he opened the fourth seal, I heard the fourth living creature saying, "Come and see!"

And behold, a pale horse, and he who sat on it, his name was Death. Hades followed with him. Authority over one fourth of the earth, to kill with the sword, with famine, with death, and by the wild animals of the earth was given to him.

The chairs were plain and non-descript – except for one with a high back and well-worn wooden arms. Its occupant rose and addressed the assembled men.

“The time has come for action. In fact – we have waited too long – we’ve waited for the courage – we’ve waited for the opportunity.”

The collective sat back into their seats under the weight of the words.

The man in the high-backed chair continued. “The means is in hand.”

Another spoke without standing. “Then why are we here at this time?”

“You are here to witness. You are here to ensure The Plan is followed. You are here to be our conscience, and our future.”

Another spoke, “By what means will we comply with the plan?”

The standing man spoke again into the dim light, “We have…we have determined that four horsemen would be necessary to ensure The Plan is realized.”

“And who will implement The Plan,” asked a third.

“That is unknown to all but two. They have been as they always were – without names – without voices – without faces. But they will receive the word and will complete their portion.”

The men around the table nodded as one, but did not smile.

They knew this time would come – their mothers and sisters, aunts and nieces had ensured this day would arrive. They were merely the means to the inevitable end. Their part had been written long before they had been born. The End would arrive – and then – the beginning.

ooc: READ THIS BEFORE POSTING

Rationale and Core Principles
We live in an age which daily and hourly sets historic records for the size of our population. The population of NationStates has exploded. 107,000 plus nations – the smallest at 5 million people – the largest over 2 billion souls.
Ironically and tragically, the larger we grow our numbers, the harder it seems to be able to gain consensus on the connection between the growth in human population and the destruction of the world that sustains us.
Thomas Robert Malthus was a genius that explained in fundamental and brilliantly simple terms the connection between overpopulation and misery.
The Core Principles of Malthus (http://desip.igc.org/malthus/):
Food is necessary for human existence.
Human population tends to grow faster than the ability of the earth to produce subsistence, and that
The effects of these two unequal powers must be kept equal.
Since humans tend not to limit their population size voluntarily through preventative measures, population reduction tends to be by famine, disease, poverty and war.

(Here begins the fiction, still ooc)
The Malthusian Collective is a secret society that holds to Malthus’ Theory on population

This firm belief and conviction lead, over time, to the creation of an extensive coalition of individuals from many nations.

This coalition has infiltrated all segments of society – including leading politicians, military commanders right down to average trades people.

Because of the size and scope of the collective – it has both the power and resources equal to that of the largest of nations.

The belief of the collective is that it is better to choose the method of population control – rather than allowing the natural checks to take effect.

By controlling the decrease in population (and the timing of the decrease) the collective believes that it will not only survive the purge, but will thrive in the post-cull world.

TO TAKE PART To take part in this RP you must begin by RPing a Malthusian “event” in your nation, like mine below.

Keep in mind that the Malthusians have infiltrated all aspects of society, which gives you a great deal of latitude in creating your disaster.

Also remember that the goal of the Malthusian Collective is not to cause a hundred, or thousands – but millions of deaths. Small scale attacks are not their “style”.

Eventually the goal is to RP the effect this event has on your nation – does a food shortage force you to go to war, or to band together with other nations? Will your populace rise up against the government in protest? And will that force elections or civil war? Will the threads that bind your nation together (and to others) snap under the strain – or will you weave a stronger nation from the adversity?

(edited for timeframe)

*3 months ago*

Jake was a simple man. And he liked his simple life.

But it was getting tougher to live a simple life. As much as you try – life kept getting more and more complicated.

And the government didn’t help any. More roads – more phone lines – higher and higher levels of education.

And what, really, was the benefit? Tainted water, nothing left to hunt or fish, a spoiled world.

He pulled his 18-wheeler out of the truck stop. His thermos full of strong, black coffee.

Three hours later he pulled the truck over, poured himself a cup of Joe, and opened the package he’d picked up the night before.

Inside was a hard plastic case. He read the brief instructions printed on the case – rolled down his window, held the case in the cool night air and opened it.

They didn’t make much noise as they flew out of the case…just a bit of a click and a flutter of wings before they disappeared into the darkness.

Well, thought Jake, they’d have lots of food out here. Nothing but cornfields for miles.

http://www.imagequest3d.com/pages/insectphoto/images/Locust.jpg

The investigation would be based at the Fire Academy, everyone agreed on that. Those professors in residence who were not already on scene had been called in to assist with burn pattern analysis and the search for conclusive determination of the accelerant used. It had to be an accelerant, and a massively powerful one indeed to destroy such a seemingly safe building.

Janet Blaylock was the first one there that morning, or so the investigators had preliminarily concluded, because it was her keycode that had been used to unlock the bulding. She had not yet been identified, no one had, but the concensus was that she would receive a check mark next to her name once the dental records had been obtained. There were 8 corpses as best as could be determined, though corpses might have been too charitable a characterization of the greasy black shapes they had discovered deep within the still smoldering pile of bricks and twisted steel girders. Oddly, the sign facing the street had emerged unscathed and still swung gently in the breeze in front of the wreckage, it's gold lettering flaring intermittently from the pulsating glow of strobe lights atop the gathered fire trucks and police vans.

Catherine Cleek was sick. In her 8th month of pregnancy, no one expected her to don a turnout coat, helmet and boots to carry out her duties as Senior Arson Investigator for the City of Cornelius Fire Department. "I'm going in" she had said in a firm tone that left no room for argument, "Arson investigations take place at fire sites; this is a fire site and I am the senior investigator." Now, after a preliminary assessment of the scene, Catherine clutched at the scorched signpost as her stomach roiled in queasy protest. "Royal Palavian Reproductive Services Center" read the sign, though Catherine did not need it to know where she was. Her appointment had been for 8:00 am; had she not cancelled because of the Chief's budget meeting, she too would have died. Shaking her head impatiently, she straightened up and let go of the post, ignoring the wave of nausea that rolled over her. "Brinks" she commanded "get a list of all the anti-abortion protesters who've been here, we'll start there."

tag

tag

I've TGed some quality RPers - so I'll wait for some more responses before proceeding. I know its a lot to read through just to start - but it'll be worth it.

Cheers,
W.

tag

tag

12 months ago
Deep in the secret labs of KixlerCross National Bio-Consortium, outside Hereford:

“So, how are things going Diane?”

“Pretty good now sir, now that we have some good subjects to complete the tests with.”

“Yea, it was about time they let me grab some healthy ones. Those damn homeless were just pathetic. Even the prostitutes usually had health problems. How is the newest batch coming along?”

“We are still looking at a 100% fatality rate, its amazing, the engineers really out did themselves. Theoretically, any virus, even genetically engineered ones, will find immune systems that can fight it off. But this one is horrific! I can hardly believe how…it almost seems like it has a mind, thinking of how best to kill its victims.”

“What do you mean exactly? I thought it just attacked their immune systems, like an advanced AIDS.”

“At first, that’s what they were working for, than they got the good idea to make it something more. As you can see with these test results, death is achieved in an average of 65 days, verses the 6 months we were shooting for. The virus attacks the immune system, killing it from the inside out. Than after that’s done, in approximately 40 days, the virus spreads out, attacking very similarly to the flu virus. Without the immune system to fight it of, and no medical knowledge of the new virus to provide drugs, no one will make it. Very effective!”

“Perfect, the quicker death rate will help insure it works! I think I will have to give them engineers a bonus.”

“They would probably appreciate that Mr. Cross.”


10 months ago

“Flight 2491, you are clear for take off, have a good flight.”

“Tower, flight 2491, copy clear for take off. See you in a week.”

The engines roar to life and propel the large 837 passenger plane down the runway at speeds that push its nearly 300 onboard lives into the back of their seats. As the aircraft begins to clime it turns slightly to the north and its landing gear starts to retract.
Below, somewhere in the blur of houses and cars a streak of light begins to pursue the 837.
Alarms sound in the cockpit as the Captain almost freezes in his seat.
“No way!”

“SIR!” The co-pilot screams looking out his window which is facing down a bit due to the turning of the large craft. “I SEE IT, IT’S COMING RIGHT AT US!”

“SHIT!” The captain flips a switch on his console and pushes down on the aircraft controls. From the back he hears screams, some from the sudden rapid decent, some because they see the incoming messenger from death.
“MADAY, MADAY, London tower this is flight 2491, we have what appears to be an incoming surface to air missile heading straight at us! Do you copy, do you co…”

The fireball lights up the pre dawn night; there will be no survivors


4 months ago
In the hills around Kendal:

“How’s it coming?”

“Ah, Senator. I was not told you would be coming today.”

“I wanted to make sure everything is going as planed…is it?”

“O-yes sir. We will be ready on schedule. In fact, it looks like we are going to be ahead of schedule by a month or so.”

“Not as far as anyone else is concerned. This resort can not open this year, next year it will be too late anyway.”

“Yes, I do understand that Mr. Senator. We will make sure we do not announce that fact. Look around some, this “resort” as we call it can house, feed, and protect over 25,000. The secret areas underground were very hard to make without no one noticing, but it will provide for all.”

“Good, I think I will look around.”



Yesterday
In the Office of the Vice President of The Newer England:

“Well, Mr. Cross, I think everything is working out as planed.”

“That’s easy for you to say, you know how it’s working. This is very frustrating for me.”

“I do understand, you have been a very large part of this project and it is not right how you have been left out so much…(deep sigh) I promise you, you will know soon enough what’s going on.”

“NOT GOOD ENOUGH DAMNIT!”

“Remember who you talking to here, I can easily cancel your stay at the resort!”

“Of-course Mr. Vise President, I apologize.”

“That’s better. The plan is on track, don’t worry!”

The wheels of the trolley squeaked, and the sound echoed through the hot, dank air. Krieg held the flickering lamp higher and peered ahead, watching for any obstructions on the rails that ran down the centre of the rough-hewn passage. The miners had been evacuated early that morning, on the grounds of a gas leak. With the drilling machines throwing off sparks by the dozen as they bored through the tough rock, the threat of gas had been enough to get the men out with no questions asked.

The wheels encountered a lump of rock and slid from the track. The canvas-covered bundle atop the mining trolley slipped, almost falling. Paige jumped back with hands shielding his face, barely muffling a scream before Krieg grabbed one end of the bundle and heaved it back into place, righting the trolley on the tarnished tracks. Paige lowered his hands, looking somewhat shamefaced as Krieg turned a contemptuous scowl on him.

"Idiot. These things are built to take punishment - you could drop the ceiling on this baby and she wouldn't go off." Krieg patted the canvas almost affectionately. The covering had slipped to one side, and polished metal showed beneath, gleaming in the low light. Paige looked away and stuck out his lower lip. "I know, I know... it's just... I'm just nervous, OK?"

Krieg rolled his eyes as he turned and pushed the trolley into motion. Why the hell I got stuck with this rookie I do not know... Christ, all we gotta do is push a damn mining trolley down a passage and walk out. Frickin' kid... Krieg shut Paige and his many shortcomings out of his mind, and began mentally reviewing his preparations. He had already sent Alice down to her mother's place for a few days, and everything in the flat had either been shipped out of the city or sold. The rest of the cell had left weeks ago - only him and Paige left to do the job, then they too would leave.

The small black box at Krieg's belt emitted a loud beep, and the two men pulled the trolley to a halt. Krieg looked at Paige. "Let me do this, OK... I don't want you coming over all nervous in the middle of it and setting the timer short. " Paige nodded fearfully. Condensation from the roof of the tunnel dripped onto his face, mingling with the sweat that ran from his brow - more the result of fear than the oppressive heat in the passage. This far underground the heat from the planet's core raised the temperature in the mine to nearly 50 degrees. Four miles above lay the city of New Cavanagh with its fourteen million inhabitants, all unaware of the danger that lay below.

Krieg ripped off the tarpaulin. The device lay there, encased in its smooth metal shell, the display blinking green. He flipped open a small panel recessed in the shell, revealing a keypad, and tapped in a series of numbers. Another beep. He drew a key from a pocket and motioned Paige over. Paige came, holding a similar key in a hand that shook with barely-repressed fear. The two men inserted the keys in the small slots either side of the keypad. "Three... two... one... mark." Krieg and Paige turned the keys. Another beep. The display on top of the device flickered, and when it began flashing again, it was red light that danced on the rough stone of the tunnel walls.

"24-59-59... 24-59-58... 24-59-57..." The numbers ticked past. Paige stood staring with a kind of horrified fascination until Krieg caught his shoulder and pulled him away.

"It's done, Paige. We leave now. You have some place to go?" Paige nodded. As they walked up the passage, red light fading and ticks no longer heard, he grew visibly calmer and more relaxed. "Yeah... my sister lives in Madiseille - I'm gonna go stay with her for a while 'til I find a flat, a job. She's got a new boyfriend, works as a line manager in one of those computer assembly plants, he should be able to get me some work for a bit..." Their voices faded as they walked up, up and out of the shaft, and away from the ticking, flickering thing that lay beneath the city, fourteen million souls all unaware of what waited below.

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

"00-00-03... 00-00-02... 00-00-01... 00-00-00..."

The bomb detonated, and within milliseconds the shockwave had excavated a huge cavern half a mile wide. Cracks spread above and below the blast - up to the city, where the sound and the trembling earth had already caused fourteen million heads to snap up in alarm, and down. Down from a blast that was already four miles below the surface, towards the molten rock of the planetary core. With the stone barrier between the city of the surface and the magma of the core now just so much vaporised rock dust, it was only a matter of time.

Minutes after the explosion, several of the larger buildings in New Cavanagh shook, groaned, and then dropped crashing and roaring into holes in the earth which appeared to open up and swallow them from nowhere. City blocks began to follow soon after.

One hour after the nuclear device had undercut the city, the first hissing tendril of lava reached the surface, the immense pressure of miles of rock forcing it up through the newly-excavated cavern below. The temperature above ground had already reached nearly 65 degrees as the cavern below filled with molten rock. People had begun to flee after the first skyscraper was swallowed by the earth, but the highways out of the city had quickly reached saturation point and were now jammed with helpless citizens.

At half past four, one hour and fifteen minutes after the detonation, the city of New Cavanagh dropped into the earth. With her went nearly fourteen million men, women and children, into the bowl of fire that lay below. The great city was eaten by the pit of flames. Many of the buildings and people dropped straight into the red-hot liquid stone, and were consumed instantly. Others landed atop great plates of tarmac or turf, fallen whole from the city above, and lasted a few more boiling minutes before they burned, hair, clothes and flesh spontaneously combusting in the intense heat. New Cavanagh had been banished, exiled to Hell with her population of the damned.

At five o'clock, Krieg's pager beeped. Keeping his eyes on the road ahead and his ears on the hysterical news reports flooding in across his radio, he pulled the pager from his pocket and held it up to read the message.

Good job.

A grin spread across his face. Leaning over, he switched the radio away from the news channel, tuning until he found an old rock station. As the news helicopters whirred across the sky, heading for the pillar of smoke that rose behind him, Krieg drove on, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as Arthur Brown's voice filled the small car.

Tripp Maxwell walked out of the chamber with a smile on his face - it had gone far better than he had expected.

Too often people spoke the words - but didn't have the strength or courage to act on those beliefs.

He had no such issues.

"Sir - a message has arrived," said the young breathless man - obviously one of the minions who by virtue of their dedication to the cause would not die.

"Very good," he replied tersely as he rounded the corner to his office.

As he sat down at his desk, he turned his attention to the large manila envelope on his desk.

Ripping it open he saw aerial photos of the destruction in New Cavanagh. A broad smile spread across his face, as he picked up his phone.

“Hello?”
“It has begun.”
“Where.”
“Just turn on your TV – pick a channel – it’ll be on.”

The line went dead and he hung up the phone.

“Martha,” he called to his assistant, “Tell the kitchen that I’d like Champaign with dinner.”

Office of President James Todler, Wolfish, 7 a.m.

The senior staff walked into the President’s office right on time.

James sat behind his massive desk – across its length the ceremonial sword he’d used to mobilize Wolfish citizens in the Tuttsville conflict. Its inlaid gold gleaming in the morning light as the staff took their seats for the daily issues briefing.

“Good morning Mr. President,” said Mike Schnell, Todler’s Chief of Staff.

James nodded an acknowledgment and got right to business, “What’ve we got today?”

“Well Sir, the Ministry of Agriculture is going to report today on the status of this years crop.”

Todler didn’t even look up from his papers for this item, “Um-Hum. And what’s the news?”

“Well Sir – it seems – it seems its quite bad – corn crops in the Eastern states have been infiltrated by locust…”

“Locust?” Todler interrupted. “Like from the bible?”
“Yes Sir.”
“How bad?”

“Sir – it seems that this came out of no where. Usually our scientists can tell at least a year in advance if there is going to be an invasion – but this year – we didn’t see it coming until a couple days ago. Seems millions of these locust hatched on the same couple of days and took to eating all the corn.”

Todler was fully engaged now, “Okay – so basically some big grasshoppers have come out of no where and eaten all our corn – other than the obvious economic cost to the farmers – what’s the damage to the nation?”

“Sir – its possible that this will have a ripple effect. Hundreds of farmers will go broke – others will make claims onto their insurance – either way – millions of dollars will be sucked out of the economy. These farmers won’t buy new equipment – go on vacation – buy luxury items…it’s the multiplier effect in reverse.”

“How do we fix it?”

“We don’t yet know Sir. Perhaps in isolation we can handle this – but if anything else goes wrong…”

“Yeah. Got it,” said a shaken Todler. “What’s next?”

Date: April 4th, 1984, 12:11AM
Place: ChuangTzu Memorial Library, GaiGai, WuWeiWu.

Little Charlie Baldwin was an extremely intelligent twelve year-old. A few years ago he had grown tired of the Young Adults section and decided to investigate the larger Adult section of the ChuangTzu Memorial Library.

He had started with Dickens and moved on to the smaller works of Tolstoy. Today he was looking for something else. Something about the bigger picture. Something he could really sink his teeth into.

Even so, he was feeling a little sluggish and bored. Nothing seemed to catch his eye as he wandered up and down the aisles. He reached the end of one ailse and noticed a book lying open on the study table. Curious, he began to read,

"...For perspective,it should be remembered that the ideology of Lowered Expectations arrived on the historical scene immediately after the upsurge of Rising Expectations. That is, after the Utopian hopes of the American Declaration of Independence and the French Declaration of the Rights of Man, almost as if in reaction, an employee of the British East India Company, Thomas Malthus, created the first "scientific" argument that the ideals of those documents could never be achieved. Malthus had discovered that at his time world population was growing faster than known resources, and he assumed that this would always be true, and that misery would always be the fate of the majority of humanity.

The first thing wrong with Malthus's science is that "known resources" are not given by nature; they depend on the analytical capacities of the human mind. We can never know how many resources can be obtained from a cubic foot of the universe: all we know is how much we have found thus far, at a given date. You can starve in the middle of a field of wheat if your mind hasn't identified wheat as edible. Real Wealth results from Real Knowledge, which is increasinng faster all the time.

Thus the second thing wrong with Malthus's scenario is that it is no longer true. Concretely, more energy has been found in every cubic foot of the universe than Malthus ever imagined; and, as technology has spread, each nation has spontaneously experienced a lowered birth rate after industrializing.

Unfortunately, between the 18th century inventory of Malthus and the 20th century inventory of Fuller et al., the Malthusian philosophy had become the pragmatic working principle of the British ruling class, and a bulwark against French and American radicalism. Malthusianism-plus-Machiavellianism was then quickly learned by all ruling classes elsewhere which wished to compete with the British for world domination. This was frankly acknowledged by the "classical" political economists of that period, following Ricardo, which led to economics being dubbed "the dismal science" Benjamin Jowett, an old-fashioned humanist, voiced a normal man's reaction to this dismal science: "I have always felt a certain horror of political economists since I heard one of them say that he feared the famine of 1848 [in Ireland] would not kill more than a million people, and that would scarcely be enough to do much good." In fact, the English rulers allowed the famine to continue until it killed more than two million.

In the 1920's, Karl Haushofer studied Malthusian-Machiavellian political economy in England with Prof. H.J. Mackinder--whose coldblooded global thinking coincidentally inspired Bucky Fuller to begin thinking globally but more humanistically. Haushofer took the most amoral aspects of Makinder's geopolitics, mingled them with Vrill Society occultism, and forged the philosophy of Realpolitik, which Hitler adopted as part of the official Nazi ideology. the horror of the Nazi regime was so extreme that few ruling classes dare express the Malthusian-Machiavellian philosophy openly anymore, although if is almost certainly the system within which they do their thinking.

As expressed openly by British political economists in the 19th century, and maniacally by the Nazis, Realpolitik says roughly,"Since there isn't enough to go around, most people must starve. In this desperate situation, who deserves to survive and live in affluence? Only the genetically superior. We will now demonstrate that we are the genetically superior, because we are smart enough and bold enough to grab what we want at once.

Since the fall of Hitler, this combination of Malthus and Machiavelli is no longer acceptable to most people. A more plausible, less overtly vicious Malthusianism is needed to justify a system in which a few live in splendor and the majority are condemned to squalor...."

Charlie looked up from his book and tried to process what he had just read. He didn't quite understand it all. At the same time, he knew it was true and that the world he was living in was tragically, seriously, and cruelly messed up. He decided then and there to read all he could about Malthus, Machiavelli, and... and... Bucky Fuller? Who was this Bucky Fuller guy? Charlie swore to himself that he would find out.


http://www.rawilson.com/sitnow.shtml
http://www.bfi.org/operating_manual.htm

ooc: Interesting angle.

Time: August 14, 1990ce 2:35pm
Place: Charlie Baldwin’s bedroom, 652 Sheraton Rd. GaiGai, WuWeiWu

Charlie had recently graduated at the top of his class at GaiGai Community High School. Soon he would enter LaoTzu University in the largest city in WuWeiWu. He was both nervous and giddy with excitement at the prospect of learning from the greatest scholars of his nation.

His interest in Malthus, Machiavelli, and Buckminster Fuller had not waned since he first encountered them six years ago. He had read their books and studied history in an attempt to understand them in context. He had come to the conclusion that his life would be dedicated to science, engineering and the pursuit of a more humane existence for all human beings.

His meditation classes in school had brought him to the realization that the only way for him to do this was to continue his studies in college, become a noted scientist and eventually enter the world of business and politics. He would use his understanding of Machiavelli and Confucius to rise to the highest levels of government. Once this was achieved, he would use his understanding of Fuller and Lao Tzu to redirect his nation’s energies toward changing the world.

Charlie was full of hope for the future, but he had no idea what was in store for him at the University. Members of the ultra-secret Malthusian Conspiracy had noted his interests and success in school. They too could not wait for Charlie to arrive at LaoTzu University.

The man found the place sickening. Heaps of flesh shredded and then dumped into vats, processed, and fed to a population demanding more than it could sustain in the future. He had worked the job for years, it paid well for unskilled labor, but since a few months ago, he was thinking of it in a new way. He looked at the vial in his pocket, one of thousands. He nodded to the workman at the processor where the preservatives were dumped into the ground beef, and the workman left. As he exited the door, the man took the vial out once more. He unscrewed the top, and dumped it's clear, slightly yellowish liquid into one of the chemical tanks, where it mixed with the preservative and was injected into the beef. His mission over, he worked his assigned job for the rest of the night, knowing all across BBTML the same thing was happening.
--
At the table in the fast food joint, one of hundreds across the nations, the man bit into his burger. It was fairly late, and he had eagerly taken the oppurtunity his boss gave him to grab a bite before the meeting resumed. Licking his lips, he tossed the wrapper into the trash. It jumped hosts.
--
The next day at work, the man sat at his computer, looking over the reports on the new Accounting systems. He was feeling queasy, but convinced himself he was well enough to do his job. He leaned over his desk, grabbed the mouse, and vomited crimson all over the keyboard. In shock, he looked at the pool of red over his desk. As a workmate walked by the cubicle, paper towel in hand, he vomited again. It was his blood, now dark and clumpy. His nose began bleeding profusely, his pupils dilated and he broke into a sweat. He went unconcious, and 3 coworkers carried him to an ambulance, covered in his gore. He died in their arms. It had taken it's first victim.
--
It was a freak outbreak, people all across the nation dying days around they had eaten hamburger, fast food, and ground beef. The Federal Bureau of Health and Disease Control worked with the National Emergency Bureau and declared a state of emergency. Fast food all over was shut down, and ground beef was recalled by every major outlet. Not knowing the source, thousands of cattle were put to death. Stocks in Agriculture plummeted like rocks, and thousands found themselves unemployed from rounds of layoffs so farms could make ends meet.
And to them, watching and hearing it in the news, it was satisfying.

The content of the conversation still lingered in the back of his mind. It stayed after his binge at the bar last night, and remained while he awoke with a throbbing headache.The population grows bigger, and space become scarcer and scarcer... Craig rubbed his head and stuggled to listen to the professor.War,disease, and famine reduce population, but it's not enough. The tall, bearded man made a coment on the book Craig was reading at the coffehouse, and soon a conversation bloomed. Millions died in World War Two...and now the world has grown by billions...Why don't you meet me here tommorrow... He talked slowly and looked Craig right in the eye. Soon Craig realized people were shuffling out of the lecture hall, and he grabbed his books and walked out. That was his last class for the day, and he walked out of the building, heading down the tree-lined street. He looked into the coffehouse, and sure enogh, the man was sitting in the corner booth, as promised. Craig opened the door and ordered an espresso at the counter. He slid into the booth. "Hello Craig, I thought you would come." He fully pronounced his words. "I didn't tell you my name, did I? It's Marcus." He offered his hand, and Craig shook it. "Now, to continue where I left off yesterday, only large, unplanned events trully lower the population, and they still aren't enough." "Troubling," Craig concurred. A waitress come and gave Craig his coffe. "Indeed. I think, people need to...give it a push. Thin the population every so often. Don't you agree, Craig?" "Um, uh, yeah, yes." Craig didn't really know how to respond to that. "Tommorrow there is a meeting of peole like us. I'd like you to come. It's at 27 Jakersty Street, apartment 7D, five P.M.. I'll see you there." Marcus stood up and walked out of the coffe shop. Craig stared inot his coffe. What had he gotten himself in to? He sat for a moment, then took out a pen and wrote down the adress on a napkin.

Today; Day 1, 0935
Two high ranking intelligence officers talk.

“This is getting weird Kyle, we are intercepting more and more traffic that is pointing to something, something very big! But they’re using code words and phrases mostly, we just can’t figure it out.”

“Do you think we should alert the President?”

“I really do Kyle. This…it’s just too much.”

0955
An assembly of high-ranking government officials meet in the Presidential Office.

“What’s going on gentlemen?”

Kyle speaks up first, “Well Mr. President, we have reason to believe something is going to happen in The Newer England, something very, very big! Along the lines of a terrorist attack.”

“How so?” The others in the room; 3 Generals, the Secretary of Defense, and 2 advisors, perk up a little. The Air Force General seams a bit squeamish!

“Well, we have been following intelligence for a while now, mostly intercepted communications, that point towards an event in approximately 1 and a half months. The communications we have intercepted have come from many nations, some of the more interesting were from Wolfish, Hatchibombitar, and Trinis. Some of the communications include speak of the group known as the Malthusians.

“Sir,” The Secretary of Defense interjects. “Sir, we need to go to our allies with this immediately! These nations are not known to harbor terrorist, and if they are in all of our nations we must coordinate our efforts to find them!”

“I disagree.” General Lightington, of the Air Force speaks up. “We need to investigate this, of-course, but we can not go to these other nations, many of which we have little political contact with, before we are sure of ourselves! We could end up starting a panic, and all for nothing. That would be an enormous embarrassment for our country!”

“Politics aside, this is an obvious threat to national security.” Army General McGreagory states. “Hell, the way it sounds it could be an international threat. The dangers of doing nothing far outreach the possible embarrassment of being wrong on something this large. We must find those that are assisting with this, if it is true, and stop them with whatever force is necessary!”

“You always want to blow things up, don’t you John?” General Lightington says sarcastically.

“First off, General” General McGreagory replies with obvious disdain, “this is an obvious situation that requires immediate action. And secondly, I said whatever force is necessary. That does not mean I want to blow things up!”

“Gentlemen!” The President holds up his hand. “Please.” He looks at the two intelligence operatives standing in his office. “Are you two the only ones working on this?”

“Yes sir.” Kyle replies.

“That’s not good enough, get more. I want every intelligence organization in the government working this one out. Coordinate with them, make this number one on you priority list…no, this is all you do until we figure it out! Send a request to those other nations for communications that they might have intercepted. Use keywords and phrases to make possible links. Find out if they know anything while trying not to revel what it is we are looking for! I want you to be the central link for all intelligence. Anything anyone knows on this subject, you are to know!”

“Sir,” the Air Force General interrupts. “if we do that, it could tip off these other nations that we are looking, make them think that we think there is a problem.”

“AND? We do think there is a problem! If they catch on, it means they are already noticing a pattern, it means they are already wondering themselves. If that is the case, let them know. If that is the case we all need to know!
“We will have daily briefings on this with our number one question every day being weather or not we tell our allies. Mr.…Kyle is it? I did not catch your last name.”

“Holtzman Sir.”

“Very well, Mr. Holtzman. You are in charge of this. Be in my office every morning at 0820 for a briefing, understood? Good. Dismissed.”


1037
“But they know something is up! What happens if they figure it out?”

“They won’t, they can’t. Not in time at least.

“I don’t think you understand. I was in a meeting not 30 minutes ago in the Presidents office. They have been intercepting communications, they are on to us!”

“They are not “on to us,” they just have a few clues. Are you on schedule?”

“Yes. The inspections of the new Anti Missile Systems on commercial aircraft is to start in a little over one month. That’s when we will switch out the packages. But if they start getting more intelligence…”

“If they do, it will just make everyone welcome the inspections more. And it will be easier for your people to make the switches. Right?”

“Yea, I guess. It is just worrying me.”

“I know. General Lightington, I promise you have nothing to worry about.”

“Very well. Thank you for your time Mr. Vice President. Have a good day.”

“You too General.”

The General leans back in his chair and lets out a deep sigh.

Many of the workers in the mines were of little skill and experience. Their main responsibility was to run the machines that drew the precious materials out of the Antarctic water under the Ross Ice Shelf. Some however, were of a little more education. Tom, the main mechanic involved in reparing the machines, was one of those. He processed all of the machines, and inspected all of them. A little modification to the machines during those inspections went unnoticed to the others. The modification was many tiny little sheets of plastique, adhered to the little parts that made up the insides of the machines. He knew little of the big plan of why he was doing this, but he knew enough. If all the little bombs were set off, the repercussions would be horrible. The ice shelf would seperate from the continent, and currents would take it into more northern waters. The entire ice shelf, consisting of billions of tons of ice, would be a moving iceberg. As it approached more equatorial waters, the ice would melt, flooding and completely destroying many nations and cities, with the death toll being in the billions. Tom, knowing some of this, went about his job making modifications. All he knew of when, however, was that he was to get a message from someone, or something, called Malthusia.

OOC: This is the set-up for two threads, in semi-coordination. I'll put the link to the other here when I get it. The Malthusian part will spring from this segment...

Ten Years Ago
Isis Vector Labs
Project Mind Blade
"Okay, we're ready to start." Sub-Director Kerrik turned to Director Iams. He glanced down one last time at the sheets of paper in his hand, detailing every projected angle of the Mind Blade agent.

Nearby, observers from the Armed Forces waited, looking through the one way glass window into the observation chamber. General Wolthy asked Iams, "You're sure these are volunteers?"

Iams, his thinning gray hair combed over, rested back on the desk, his cane propped next to him. "Of course. Mostly bums, looking for their big high. They get a free high, we get data. Everyone wins."

In the corner, SD Kerrik winced. Unless you're wrong about Mind Blade... He shook his head, clearing it. The chimp tests were fine. There's no reason any human should exhibit the symptoms we saw in the rhesus... He turned to look at the seven people in the room. Four men, three women, all of them ragged, glancing about... perhaps rethinking their agreement. He snapped his gaze away, returned to Dr. Adrow, who was describing the unpredictable reactions of Mind Blade among the rhesus.

"...so, the amount required is only 24ppm, breathed in, ingested, or contact with skin. Mind Blade then triggers deep connections to the subconcious, linking neurons that lay dormant. As this happens, part of the forebrain is burned by the reaction and the biochemistry alters to induce a dreamlike state. Within ten seconds, they have a rush of blood as vessels dialate, then the chemical changes take effect. Within thirty seconds, they have begun to suffer vivid hallucinations, loss of time sense, motor function failure. By forty seconds, they are completely in a dream state, reacting to their subconscious and removed of any controls. Test subjects were seen to stumble about in a zombie like state, interacting with non-real objects and people. Approximately seventy-four percent demonstrate psychotic episodes during this time, lashing out at others and themselves. After a five minutes and a thirty seconds, they are comatose. After seven minutes, they are dead. Continual exposure is not needed. Once begun, this process is irreversible."

"How likely is this?" Wolthy asked.

"Hardly. Though we have seen this before, it was conceived to be a fluke, and further tests have shown Mind Blade as nothing more than a knockout agent with psychotropic effects." Adrow answered.

Test Cycle Commencing

Kerrik asked suddenly, "Were they", he pointed to the subjects, "informed of these effect?"

Iams rolled his eyes, "Of course not." The others nodded, and Kerrik quietted. Do not say any more, Anderas, our you will end up dead.

There was a hiss, and gas entered the test chamber.

The subjects looked around for a moment, then began to visibly slump. Kerrik watched one man, about thirty, with a scraggy beard and wide eyes. The man's eyelids drooped, his eyes glazed. One pupil dialated, then the other. The man's face turned red, and he leaned against the wall. His jaw fell slack, and he raised a hand limply to brush his hair. It froze in midmotion, then fell back to his side. The man's eyes closed, and he toppled forward, smashing through the lab table like an iron bar. He lay on the floor for a moment, then began to convulse violently. These calmed, and he dragged to his feet, his eyes glued open, his pupils huge. He opened and closed his mouth at random, his tongue moving through his lips. His teeth came down, and the tongue fell to the floor, blood shot from the mouth. The man walked smack into the wall, rebounded, and ran into it again. He wheeled about, swung a punch at no one. As he spun, he saw another subject, also staggering about, making coffee in midair. The first man simply walked up behind the second and snapped the other's neck. Then the man staggered towards the glass, snot running from his nose, blood shooting from his mouth. He impacted the glass, spiderwebbing it. He toppled backwards, lay still. Abruptly, he began to shake again. He twisted and contorted, bones snapping, breaking. He began to bleed from his nose, his ears, his eyes. Then, as abruptly as it had started, he was motionless. He simply lay there, bleeding and frozen in that horrendous pose. A life support monitor buzzed, breaking the silence.

Kerrik turned, zombielike, from the window to the buzzing. All dead. In a trance, he turned back to the room. The first man lay in rigor mortis, another with a broken neck, another impaled herself on the table, another had died masturbating in the corner, another slumped across a table, lacerated with bite marks, the sixth was snapped almost in half, and the last lay against the glass, his expression frozen in that nightmarish contortion, glaring accusingly at Kerrik. Kerrik watched the man slide down the glass, leaving a bloody trail, and he stumbled back, reeling.

"What have we done?" someone asked. Was it me?

General Wolthy was pale and sick looking. "Destroy it." he whispered. "Destroy all of it!" his voice returned in a yell. He turned, wretched into a trashcan.

Iams stared in disbelief. "This project is closed." he stated, abstractly, coldly.

Already, shredders were kicking up, and cleansing fires activated in the test chamber. Kerrik glanced into the flame, seeing the ghoulish face wreathed in fire. He swallowed the terror that shook him to the core. This should never have happened. He looked away, walked from the room, trying to put it behind him, to forget what he had seen. It shall not happen again.

Ten Years Ago
Isis Vector Labs
Mind Blade Test Day Plus Two

The labs had been seared with fire, the documents shredded, the creators had been shifted to other projects, buried from public or government oversight. The ashes floated through the lab, the missing window was testament to the thoroughness of the ISA teams. Even now, pieces of the walls were being removed with acetylene torches, chunk by chunk, to be scoured in another location. Nothing remained of Mind Blade, not even a whisp of ash (which had been vaccuumed clear) or a rumor in an ISA break room.

But a pair of feet disturbed the evolving clean room, a pair of wingtips that clicked on the pure onyx floors. The man looked around, gathering in what had happened two days ago. He touched the breast of his Armani suit, rubbed his thumb across a vial beneath, and a disk in his pocket. This is what was predicted... a loss of control, a destruction springing from within...

The man faced the pure test chamber, placing the bodies back in with his mind. But we can control this... like clean burning a forest. This is the perfect way. The man turned, brushing his gray hair, his cain tapping on the floor as he walked away. This could remove the excess from the lower classes, thus sparing the rest the pain.

Director Iams closed the door.

Three days later...
Jose Guitarez, one of the biggest druglords in Columbia, held the vial up to the light, watching the light trickle through. What is this... this Blade? He turned to the papers that had been delivered with the vial. He smiled. This could be profitable...

I've set up a link for ooc discussions. This is a complex RP - and having a place to discuss possible plot issues is important.

http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?p=2593892#2593892

Cheers,
Wolfish.

Two Weeks Ago, following Insect Briefing

James Todler was not a happy President. Soon the news would be out. The locust were eating everything in sight.

Already some more rural newspapers had covered the story – but news was really made in the cities – and for the most part – they didn’t care what happened in the more remote areas of the nation…that is until the price of an apple jumps from a quarter to $3.

“Scott,” he said to his always present Chief of Staff, “We’ve got to do something. The scientists say we’ve got to wait the locust out – the farmers are going to scream for help – and the urbanites are going to go broke buying a week’s worth of groceries.”

“Sir – its worse than that. Lastest poll numbers are in – and – well Sir – you’re not very popular. Numbers are solid – the people don’t trust you to handle a crisis. They think you’re weak.”

Todler stood frozen in the middle of his office – seconds before he’d been pacing back and forth – but the poll results stunned him.

“But – we’ve done so much – we’ve got one of the strongest economies in the world – we are respected – we – we rebuilt after the civil war….”

“All true Sir – but the fact remains that nothing new has happened – so the people haven’t seen you governing.”

“But isn’t that good – shouldn’t they be happy nothing is going wrong?”

“You’ve been in this game too long, Sir, to believe that. If there isn’t a crisis – if you’re not in the news fixing something – then their not happy.”

“So,” said a now anxious President, “What do we do to get some attention.”

Scott smiled and pulled a map out of his briefcase.

“Ever heard of Rebeland or Rotovia?”

Today

President Todler walked briskly back into his briefing room.

“Can this day get any longer Scott?” he asked his Chief of Staff.

“Yes Sir – it can. We’ve got our Chief Diplomat on the line. She’s been involved in the negotiations in Rebeland.”

“Alright, Gwen? Gwen it’s James. How’s it going?”

“Well Sir,” said the voice over the speaker phone, “Its not promising. The Rotovian Delegation is refusing to honour the DMZ, in spite of the fact that we’ve already hit and sunk those five ships. They refuse to move their vessels until we offer a public apology.”

“Well, from where I sit Gwen, that’s unlikely.”

“Yes Mr. President.”

“Have they given us a firm death toll?”

“Yes Sir – 4,211 servicemen from Rotovia. That was the total crew of the five ships – there were no survivors.”

“Alright – have we offered the families compensation?”

“Yes Sir – but it was refused by Rotovian officials. They want an apology – nothing else.”

“Gwen,” said the now agitated President, “That’s the only thing they can’t have. I’ve got…Gwen…I’ve got issues at home to deal with ---without having to look bad on the world stage,” his voice grew louder, “Now – I pay you a lot of money to get the job done – so GET THE JOB DONE.”

The phone went dead as Todler slammed his fist down on the buttons.

“Dammit Scott – It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“Yes and No Sir.” Todler gave him a warning glare. “Hear me out,” the brave Chief of Staff continued, “Your popularity has soared since we took action – sure Rotovia didn’t back down like we hoped – and yes – many more people are dead because of our actions – but the fact remains there was going to be war in that region anyway – perhaps we limited the engagement. And again Sir – your approval rating is as good as its ever been.”

“Alright – now what about these locust?”

“Tomorrow or the next day we’ll start to see the stories.”

Todler didn’t look surprised….he just looked tired.

http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?t=114867&highlight= The Rebeland War.

The Minilopian Office was a large, gray, fortresslike building. The sky above it was also gray, rain pouring down. A military jeep drove around back the building, and a man, clad in olive drab raincoat and field cap, exited. A pair of soldiers, submachine guns at the ready, saluted as the figure returned it. One turned to an armored door, typing in an access code. The figure walked inside to an elevator, where another soldier stood.
"SubLevel Three, please."
The soldier nodded, pressing the appropriate button.
A whirring and a click signaled the descent of the elevator, and the doors opened. Another pair of soldiers stood outside the door, saluting as the man walked out. The room was large, spartan of any elaborate furnishings, but it made up for it in TVs, computers, displays, chairs, desks, and people.
"General Theosell," the speaker was slim, clad in an unadorned gray uniform. His hair was blonde, and was in a buzz cut.
"Marden, I'm pleased to see you here. Now, about the situation."
"Of course..." he walked over to a large screen with red blotches on a map of BBTML. "You see, the plants infected have largely been feeding the East area, hence the large amounts of infections. So in all, our dispersion method has worked very well-"
The General rose his hand, "But the death rate has gone down. Most people were dying within the first few days of the infection, but now we have a bunch of sick and criticals on our hands."
"Well sir," Marden began pacing, "That's the problem. We had to design Scalpel so it wouldn't become unstable and burn out. After a week, it's supposed to delay the lethality rate so it can have more time to reproduce."
The General was not pleased. His hard blue eyes looked at a report on the virus.
"And now we have cities full of sick, taxing our Healthcare and Emergency systems in morale, money, and time. We cannot handle a bunch of sick people, we need dead ones."
Marden looked down from the screen, shaking his head. "So you're going to go with plan B? Are you sure we can pull it off?"
"It's a state of emergency, I'm sure I can get someone to convince the President."
Marden became nervous, speaking quickly, "But, the amount of men necessary, the force, don't you understand how-"
"Maybe you've forgotten, but I am in command of I Corps, and we know for sure the commander of the Second Air Force is Malthusian. I will get it done, don't the rest of you worry. Plan B is in action, first stop-Togria."
[Togria, 0630 Hours]
The crowd of outgoing refugees, none with the mandatory armbands required for those infected, stared at the column moving from the west. The clouds of dust and vehicles were silhouetted by the rising sun, as teh rumble grew louder and louder. The first vehicle to reach the outskirts was a modified Boxer Armored car, with a 15mm MG turret on the top. Also on it were NBC suited soldiers, in full combat gear, helmets, gasmasks, and armor over their hazard suits. Following it were more armored cars, APCs, trucks full of soldiers, jeeps, and at the tail end were menacing looking tanks. Within moments, martial law was declared in Togria. The city looked like a scene from a post-apocalyptic movie, garbage and overturned cars, fires, ruined buildings, and bustling with those too poor, sick, or weak to try and escape or pay their way out. In parks, squares, and plazas, the remaining people were rounded up in makeshift "camps" surrounded by soldiers. The tired and hungry people stayed in these areas, under the watchful eyes of the guards. The BoxerUK armored car configured for command lay at rest, and then opened as two officers came out to relay their orders to the troops. Within seconds, machine guns and automatic cannon ripped through the mass, people crumpling like tin cans as holes walked through them, blood, gore, cranial matter, coating the area. The guns quited, the only sound the tinkling of spent brass and the occasional moan, which was soon silenced by a shot.
A Colonel walked towards the scene as an M113 APC rolled behind him, opening up to reveal more soldiers, this time with flamethrowers. Like the "Firemen" from the Bradbury novel, the NBC suited, gas masked soldiers torched everything in the area, sterilizing the bodies of the diseased. Each man was glad they had their gas mask, the stench of burning flesh reeked, the smoke and smell rising above the horizon, and more plumes rose throughout the day. There was some armed resistance, the occasional crazies who hid in buildings and took potshots at the men, but the soldiers responded with cannonfire and grenades. As the soldiers left the dead city, helicopters flew over, dispensing napalm over the ruined metropolis. While security was tight, nobody caught the two HAZMAT suited reporters that had footage of the whole ordeal. By the end of the day, every major news network had the tapes of what was being called the "Togria Massacre" running.

John Rimault's face was grey and haggard, his suit rumpled and lived-in. The strain of the last week had taken its toll, the sleepless hours of unanswered questions leaving their mark. But here, now, perhaps some of those questions would be answered. If they were not, it would likely be his head on the platter offered up to the mob.

He looked around the room, savouring the few moments of peace before the others entered. If only walls could talk... the dark mahogany panels had overheard many a crisis council during the decade Rimault had been in power, and seen countless policies made while brandy fumes and cigar smoke permeated the stuffy air. Lives had been bought, sold and ended from the cracked leather armchairs that stood in a rough hemisphere before the heavy desk. But never - certainly not during Rimault's time, and likely not in any other - never had a blow like this been struck against the nation.

Someone will have to pay. The mob will demand blood appeasement, and they will expect me to make the delivery. And if the messenger comes bearing bad news...

A knock sounded on the door. Rimault's eyes flickered, lost for a second in his thoughts before he shook himself back to a semblance of calm.

"Come."

They came. The generals, the ministers, the intelligence officer, the nervous-looking academic... the President called and they entered the room, sinking into armchairs with barely-concealed sighs of relief. The last seven days had drained them, physically and emotionally. Rimault regarded them over steepled fingers, eyes reddened but still sharp.

"So. It has been a week since New Cavanagh fell, and the people are beginning to talk. They begin to question, to ask 'What' and 'Why' and 'How'. And, perhaps most importantly, 'Who'. They want answers to these questions, and it is my duty - our duty to provide them. What have you learned, gentlemen? What happened? Why and how did it happen? And who did it?"

Symnal cleared his throat quietly. Rimault's gaze swung and locked onto the intelligence chief, one thick eyebrow raised in question.

"The few who escaped from New Cavanagh prior to its... demise reported hearing a muffled explosion some few minutes before the collapse began. Apparently the miners in the lower shafts of the Canber mines had been warned of a gas leak and cleared out earlier that day, which would seem to account for the initial lack of alarm at the explosion. We have a copy of the warning message sent to the mine foreman, but the sender's address and the message's route don't match up. The address is correct - the Ministry of Public Works in the city centre - but the actual path the message took to get to the foreman runs through three different cities and stops at an automated mailing service in Aylshire. The explosion itself... Dr Gill, if you please?"

The academic levered his slim frame up from the cavernous old armchair with some difficulty. He was - unusually for an academic - dressed in an impeccably tailored suit, immaculate even after a week of non-stop frantic investigation. A half-forgotten sheaf of notes hung from one thin hand, covered in stress-fracture diagrams and sonar readings. Birdlike features acknowledged Symnal before turning to Rimault.

"Good morning, Mr President. As you can see," he waved the scribbled notes vaguely, "I have been engaged in studying the disaster site, with the aid of my colleagues at the Institute. Our conclusions have been interesting, to say the least. May I?"

He gestured towards the wall and Rimault nodded brusquely. The doctor pulled a large sheet of paper from the pile he carried and propped it against the wall. It showed an outline of New Cavanagh, and the mine shafts laid out beneath her. Gill began to gesture at the diagram, his voice faintly lecturing.

"Mr President, earlier you asked what precisely had happened to New Cavanagh, aside from the obvious. That question I can answer for you; an explosion undercut the city, forcing large cracks downwards towards the planetary core. Subsequently, pressure built up and forced magma into the cavern created by the explosion. When the city dropped under its own weight, it landed in molten rock."

Rimault sat back in his chair slightly. It had been reasonably clear what had happened to the city, but to hear it expressed in such clinical terms jarred with the horrific scenes broadcast from the news helicopters... all those people, buildings amidst the flames... His attention snapped back roughly to Gill, who had continued speaking.

"We dismissed the possibility of a gas leak and subsequent explosion immediately. Such a detonation would have resulted in very few audible above-ground shockwaves, and the resultant cavern would have been far smaller. The damage caused could not be accounted for by such a phenomenon, and I believe Mr Symnal's falsified warning message confirms this."

Rimault leant forward. "So what was it then, Dr Gill, if not a gas explosion?"

"We believe... we believe it was a nuclear device. A bomb. The use of such a weapon would allow for the crater size and residual radiation..."

Gill continued to explain, but Rimault was no longer listening. A nuclear bomb. Hostile forces had brought a nuclear bomb into his nation, into one of his very cities. The thought terrified him, and the terror he felt only served to enrage him further. A deliberate attack then. And one carefully, meticulously planned - the warning message, the bomb yield and transportation, the location of a suitable shaft... all would have required a thoroughly professional operation.

Who the hell are we dealing with? What did we do to deserve this?

Rimault cut Gill off in mid-sentence, rising to his feet. The stricken looks on the other faces in the room showed that his deduction had not been his alone. He turned again to Symnal, and uttered a single word.

"Who?"

Symnal's face, already pale, whitened further. "We don't know. No terrorist group has claimed responsibility, we have no nations overtly hostile towards us. The motive... Christ, John, there is no motive. Fourteen million people are dead and there isn't a single bloody reason why. Of course, we'll follow up on the warning message and anything else we find, but I can tell you now that's a dead end - anyone professional enough to sneak a nuke into a city unnoticed will know how to cover their tracks."

Rimault's face somehow contrived to harden further. "Find them. I don't care how much it costs or what you have to do. Find them. Because if you don't, we may well find ourselves taking their places."

As the pensive silence his remark had engendered settled over the small group, John Rimault turned to the men who had not yet spoken. His Minister of Interior Affairs, Minister of Homeland Security and Minister of Foreign Policy shifted nervously in their seats as one.

"Gentlemen. What have you to report?"

Craig stood at the corner of Jakertsy and Hill. Expensive apartments and up-scale shops lined the streeet. He pulled his coat over his face and jogged down the sidewalk as a bitterly cold wind stung the street. He saw ahead 27 Jakertsy Street, as announced by the green canvas over the door. He walked into a small foyer where a uniformed man stood. "Yes, may I help you?" Craig took out a crumpled napkin. "Yes, I'm here to see Mr. Marcus?" "Yes, Mr. Marcus is expecting guests. Apartment 7D." "Thank you." Craig opened another set of doors and walked into a lobby. He looked down to realize he stood on the red carpet with dirty shoes. He turned around to fae the doorman, who gave him a glare. Craig stepped back a little and wiped his feet on the floor mat. To his left was a pair of French Doors, with the sign 'Cafe Romero closed today.' near it. To his right was a door marked 'Private'. At the end of the lobby were a pair of elevators. Craig walked into one and pushed the button for the seventh floor. The elevator doors *dinged* open. Craig searched the hallway for 7D. When he did, he knocked. Almost immediately it was answered by a short red-haired woman. "Oh, you must be Craig. Come in." Craig walked into the room. People sat around the well-furnished room. They were all grim-faced. On a coffee table lay a large book with the title 'The Malthusian Dream'. Marcus sat up from a sofa. "I'm glad you came, Craig. I thought you would come. I was just telling my colleagues how dedicated you were to our idea of helping humanity. Please sit." Craig looked for an open seat and decided on a rather small, but available, settee. Everyone sat in silence for about half a minute. Finally, a gray-haired man spoke up. "Marcus was telling you about the population problem, correct?" Craig nodded. "And he merely touched upon the idea of us helping decrease the massive overpopulation, I'm sure. That's what we are all about. Ridding the world of the many people who are unwilling to accept the truth." "Inferior." someone piped up. The old man hushed him. "Yes. We must all forceibly destroy those who are cluttering up the world. Read this," he snapped his fingers and someone picked up the book that lay on the table and gave it to Craig. "It will really clear things up. We will meet here again next week, same time." The meeting was dismissed.

Day 25, 0820
Daily Presidential briefing

“Well Mr. Holtzman, what do you have this morning?” The President asks as they all sit.

“Well sir, yesterday was pretty good. We have some responses from other nations including Wolfish and Bun-Bun the Mini Lop.
They all have intercepted communications that mention the Malthusians. Tuttsville has reported the arrest of an individual who had blue prints of many of their nuclear reactors, as well as passwords and other security information that should be very classified.”

“How did they get him?”

“That’s the great part, he was speeding. As you know, they do not have as many rights in Tuttsville and the police there can search a driver’s vehicle as long as they have a decent reason to have pulled them over. They found it all and arrested the guy.
“We also have some new info coming in from law enforcement agencies across the nation talking about hearing the kind of stuff we are looking for in gang meetings and stuff. Now that we have the word out on what we are looking for, we are getting a lot of good feed back! One thing we know for sure, whoever this is, they are getting around!”

The President ponders for a moment. What is going on around this crazy world? “Suggestions?”

“We must be cautious here sir.” General Lightington again starts out. Slow and steady, we must not alarm the nation and cause panics!”

“Good God man,” General McGreagory states with surprise in his voice. “You want to just stick the knife in your own throat? Sir, we must act! Let me interrogate these people we are arresting. Let the military take care of them. Even if it has to be covert and these people need to disappear, you and I both know it won’t be the first time this nation has done that to save the world! Tough times need tough reactions. For once, I agree with General Lightington over there. We can not tell the people! But we must act! Quickly, and immediately!”



Day 34, 0600
Southhampton International Airport

The Air Force inspection team showed up about 30 minutes ago and started preparing for their “Surprise inspection” of the emergency countermeasures installed in the passenger jets. At this point, only international flights and those with more than 100 passengers have the new system installed, which includes chaff and flair systems, an upgraded radar, and emergency tracking and transmitting devices-to instantly send information on any possible incoming missile, like where it came from, to the military. The inspection team informs various airliners what aircraft they will be checking throughout the day, and how long the checks should take. The scene has repeated itself at several other airports that morning, and no one knows the real reason for the inspections.

“I wonder why we were told to change these out without telling anyone. Any thoughts Lieutenant?”

“I don’t know Sergeant. My guess is they realized something was wrong with these and they don’t want the embarrassment of admitting that. Either way, I don’t care! I just want to get this over with and get home.”

“I hear that sir!”

As the pair continue, they do not even realize what they are doing. The new Flare dispensers were made for the military, but made a side trip to the labs of the KixlerCross National Bio-Consortium where they were altered.



Day 35, 1445
The Office of the Vice President

“Listen to me dammit! Everything is on schedule!”

“You say that, but I have no idea what’s going on Mr. Vice President, and it’s suppose to happen in one week!”

“Mr. Cross…fine! Fly down here, I want to tell you in person for safety.”

“I agree, we should not have even said this much over a phone line.”

“It’s a secure line, but…just in case.”

“Agreed sir, I will be on the first flight there in the morning.”



Day 36, 1025
The Office of the Vice President

The Vice President sits in his chair, going over some paperwork when the phone rings. His secretary tells him that a Mr. Cross is here to see him. He says to let him in.

“Mr. Vice President. It is so nice to finally meet you sir.”

“Sucking up will get you nothing Mr. Cross. Please, have a seat.” The Vice President looks at a guard standing outside his door, and casually walks over and closes the door securely. “Well, Mr. Cross, your efforts in this situation have not gone unnoticed, which is the only reason why you are here.”

“I know sir. Thank you.”

“So, what exactly is on your mind?”

“Well sir, I am sure you could figure it out. I know our overall plan is to us the virus, but…you are sure it’s safe to talk in here, right?”

“Mr. Cross, I am not a stupid man. I check this room for bugs on a regular basis, and in anticipation of you coming today, I had them recheck this morning. Everything is fine. You were saying?”

“O-course, the virus. How are you going to deliver it? The traditional thinking is a bomb, but that would destroy the virus in this case. So...how?"”

“It is really quite simple. Do you remember the tragedy of flight 2491 not quite a year ago, that was us.” An obvious look of surprise came over the face of the Vise Presidents guest. He had known the basics of what they were planing, but never thought for a second that taking that aircraft down was anything more than a terrorist attack.
“The hoopla that came from that attack caused the whole nation to embrace the new emergency systems we are installing onto civilian aircraft. In fact, the voters demanded it.” The Vice President stands up and walks over to the bar along the far wall. “Would you like something?”

“Please,” he answers with a slight smile growing onto his face. “Whatever you have sir.”

“Anyway, those canisters you guys filled for us, perfect replicas of a flare from that system.” He hands the drink to his guest and they toast. “Good stuff. So, we started quote unquote inspections yesterday on many of those aircraft. The inspections will continue for another 5 days across the country, with many of the dispenser units being replaced with our own. To insure a visual inspection reveals nothing, the first, and last flare in each dispenser is real. We replaced the middle 4 in each one. Seven days from now, as each of those aircraft make their ways across the sky, those dispensers will receive their commands to drop five of the six flares. The first ones, the ones that are real will fall to the ground. By the time anyone figures out what they are, where they came from, and what to do about it, it will be too late. The other four will spray out their contents into the air as they fall. We have a total of 623 aircraft that are, or are going to be given the new dispensers. 138 of them are international flights. All of them fly over some of the most populated cities in this and other countries, as well as several capitals. If your virus is half as good as you say it is, there will be over 2 billion infected in the first day!”

All Mr. Cross can do is smile and sip on his drink. “This is good!” he tells himself.

Rimault stepped up to the podium. The cameras were pushed into place in front of him, and the autocue rolled down. He had no need of that - the speech he was about to make had occupied his thoughts for days, and every word was engraved upon his brain. Behind him stood the green and blue tree symbol of the nation. It was a copy of the official emblem, made from fibreboard and plastic, and painted to look like metal. Something of a parallel with his forthcoming speech and the reassurances it contained - from the outside it looked good, but go behind the scenes and it was not nearly as solid as it seemed.

"Sir, you're on in five, four..." As the fingers counted down, Rimault raised a solemn gaze to the camera. Almost the entire nation would be watching this broadcast. His ministers and aides had picked and pored over every vowel and consonant of the speech - it was vital the public be given the correct message. Something had to be said, some reassurance given that the situation was, if not completely in hand, then at least getting there. But equally, they simply could not afford to release too much information. The people could not be allowed to panic.

"Fellow citizens. Ten days ago, our nation suffered the greatest tragedy in its history. The citizens of New Cavanagh were struck down in a brutal, unprovoked attack by an unseen foe. I know that every citizen of this great nation shares my feelings, the desire for justice, for revenge against the evil that left so many innocents dead, to root them out and destroy them wherever we find them. To this end, an investigation has been launched, and our intelligence service is devoting every resource at its disposal to hunting down these terrorists.

I know that for all of us, this is a hard time. It will become harder - the investigation will take time, and it will be easy to become impatient as the search goes on. But we must be strong. We must not doubt. Have no fear, the criminals will be hunted down, and they will be brought to justice. In this dark time, the indomitable spirit of our nation will light the way. I thank you for your time."

---------

Rimault's convoy left the broadcast centre and headed for the government offices in the centre of the city. As they drove, Rimault pulled up the vidphone and called Symnal, Interior Affairs Minister Rutherford and Coutts, the Minister of Foreign Policy.

"Symnal, get your men talking to the international contacts again. We need more information on the events in Wolfish and BBML - more detailed information than their governments are currently releasing, anyway. Has there been any progress in tracing the movements of the attackers?"

"Negative, sir. No traces, leads, clues... nothing. We've begun to co-ordinate with the neighbouring countries' intelligence services, see if we can get access to their camera footage of border crossings and the like, but it's all going pretty slow. We'll start contacting the international sources, but it looks as though Wolfish and company are starting to expand the scope of this a little... apparently there have already been feelers put out to other intelligence groups about a concerted effort on this."

"Alright. Get to it, and if there are any proposals made about an integrated effort call me at once. Oh, and one other thing. Keep an eye on the media. If they get wind of the 'outbreak' situation they'll spread it all over the country... it's just the kind of sensationalist doomsday story those leeches thrive on. Anyone gets too close, persuade them otherwise - gently, but firmly. I will not have this get out of control any more than it already is. We have part-ownership of HABC, don't we?"

"Yes sir, a fifty-three percent stake in the company is government-owned."

"Right. Lean on the chairman. Tell him that we need things promoting patriotism, national unity, that sort of thing - if I see a single blockbusting disaster movie someone's head will roll. Oh, and tell him no documentaries on volcanoes either. Coutts, I need you to contact the ministers of the other affected countries. We need to try and play down the 'outbreak' to stop the people putting two and two together and making twelve... likely they've already taken similar measures, but make sure. I don't want some junior ambassador coming over here and whipping up mass hysteria with a few ill-chosen remarks. Rutherford... I need opinion polls on popular feeling about the situation and our proposed solution. Tell me what kind of public confidence I'm going to be working with. We'll also want to step up police patrols, give people a feeling of security. Make sure the general security measures on all entrance points are kept at current status too. Tell one of your committees to do something useful for once, and get an ad campaign going, something patriotic and stirring."

Plans were made, and orders given. The convoy rolled on.

OOC:
At the suggestion of Wolfish in the OOC thread, I'm backdating my first post five years. I'll use this current post to make it work and fill in the intervening time. Thanks for your forbearance.

IC:
The baby was crying again. Catherine rose heavily from the table and walked down the hall to the nursery. Pausing in the doorway, she surveyed Eben's room. By now, it should have had pictures on the walls with toys and books scattered everywhere. Instead, the blue walls and soft curtains looked exactly as they had the day they had finally brought Eben home. Crossing to the oversized crib, she gazed down at her five year old child. One eye stared straight back, while the other milky orb showed no focus or direction. He had soiled his diaper, but she expected that. Eben thrashed his one good arm towards his mother while the stumps of legs (that ended above where his knee would have been) quivered excitedly. A guttural moan came from the crib and Catherine reached in to pick up the freakish child.

It started the day of the fire. Scarcely had her investigation begun before word began to filter in, first as a trickle, then as a flood. Within a week, the damage was complete. Every womens health center, burned to the ground. Every doctors office that dealt with reproduction, burned to the ground. Every maternity ward, burnt or damaged beyond repair. More harrowing still were the shootings. In one month, every OB/GYN, every neonatal specialist, every pediatrician was dead. The few that were left, the retirees, the generalists, hired personal guards or left the country.

Into that void had stepped Dr Hardin. Garrett Hardin, MD, arrived in Hatchibombitar to great fanfare, most of it self-generated. Within three weeks of arrival he had purchased a newly built clinic with cash and hung out a shingle: "Total Maternity". Soon, the distinctive "TM" logo began to appear in other cities, on other clinics and in hospital wings. Dr. Hardin was everywhere, and so were his well guarded clinics. He refused extra police protection, relying instead on young men dressed in baggy blue seersucker suits who accompanied him everywhere. Dr Hardin was the savior of Hatchibombitar.

Or would have been, if it hadn't been for the babies. Armless, legless, blind, malformed genitals, it seemed every baby born in Hatchibombitar suffered from severe birth defects. Dr. Hardin went on tv to announce a privately funded intitiative to study drinking water, and then released another study demonstrating the impurity of the baby formula used for generations in Hatchibombitar. His own brand soon followed, sporting that distinctive "TM" logo.

Privately, there were whispers that Dr. Hardin was a monster, that he himself was singlehandedly wiping out a generation. If he heard the rumours, Dr. Hardin showed no sign of it. Catherine didn't know what to think. She had seen the great man himself shortly after the fire; soon after his arrival and before Eben's birth. He had been brisk but kind; concerned that she was under too much stress, he had ordered a prescription of a new drug for her, one he had synthesized and patented. He called it Thalidomide Malthusiam.

Once more the group had gathered around the oaken table. As before, it was the man in the high-backed chair who spoke while the others listened silently. "It progresses. As surely as was planned, it progresses." His voice became quieter and heads tilted to grasp the words that floated like sunlit motes of dust across the room. "From every nation, from every corner of the earth, from every ditch and field, from every back alley and university library, the Plan progresses. When last we met, I told you that you are here to ensure The Plan is followed. I told that only two would know the implementation. This is the way of the Collective."

The man rose, and his voice, growing softer still took on a steely tone. "And what is the Collective? It is a community of the like-minded, a means by which individual purpose can be fused into common purpose. Together we stand, divided we shall surely fall. Therefore, there can be no division, for division ultimately can be no more than treachery to the Collective." Abstractedly, the man reached for a small bronze bust of Thomas Malthus, and weighed it idly in his hands. "Fidelity is what binds us, fidelity to a cause and fidelity to each other." Abruptly, he turned to the man seated to his right and held up the bust. "do you see the face of Malthus? Do you see our purpose?" The seated man nodded solemnly, "I am here, I am faithful" he intoned.

The standing man smiled, and turned away, then brought his arm around in a sweeping motion that viciously drove the heavy bronze bust into the left eye socket of the seated man. "Do you see the face of Malthus?" he roared. Again his arm swung back before dropping into a second arc that pulverized the right eye socket of the seated man. "Do you hear the voice of Malthus?" was accompanied by a third clubbing blow that landed sqarely on the seated man's ear as he fell forward onto the oaken table. Striding swiftly around the dying man, the leader grabbed him by the collar and raised the gory head, before driving the bust into his other ear. "Let all in the Collective understand that fidelity is what binds us, and that the wages of treachery are death. One man, this man, tried to betray the Collective. Let all make note and remember." The speaker roughly released his hold on the collar, and his victim's head thudded dully back to the table. A slow red stain began to form.

Tag: Will post my "Disaster tomorrow!"

<bump>

He finished the book in a week, the price that he payed being suffering work in his classes. Craig didn't care about that, though. He had a higher purpose in life. To end the pitiful existance of those inferior. Craig felt a little bad for them, as they were made that way form birth, their weaknesses programmed in genetics. But that meant they couldn't be talked to, as they were too embedded in ignorance. Marcus' letter made everyrhing clear. Craig was closing the book, feeling a bit unsure about what he had just taken in. Then the envelope fell out of the back of the book, with 'Do not read until book is finished' written on it. it reinforced Craig's beliefs and informed him of the group's next plans: The new baseball stadium in Dvernsik had just been completed. Sports were an opiate for the inferior person, and they were going to destroy them, while covering their tracks: Marcus had a plan to make the group appear dead. Craig couldn't wait for the oppurtunity of a life time.
The Next Day.
"And pitching for the Dvernsik Dragoons, Henry O'Shey!" The roar of the crowd took on a strange quailty from under the stadium, as Craig and the others pushed carts along the maintinence tunnels. As they came to a fork in the tunnels, Marcus motioned to the right, which a sign announced was directly beneath the seats behind the home plate. Eventually Marcus stopped, and so did the others. Three men started taking out plastic explosives form one of the carts and placing on the wall. "Craig, give me a hand withh this." Marcus pulled off the cover of his cart. Craig gasped, then recomposed himself. Inside was bruised, gagged man, squirming and moaning. "This is a man who betrayed us, who didn't follow the ideal path. And yet, he still has a use to us. The police have records on some of our group, him included. They still think he is with us. When they search the stadium ruins, they will find him, and others"-he motioned towards the other cart, where some were lifting out tied-up people."-and think us dead. They will let there guard down, and then, we will be able to carry out more operations. Now come, we have work."
One hour later.
"Up to bat, Thoma-" Suddenly the seats behind home plate erupted in flames. A collective scream was heard for a second, and then died out. It was two days before eleven bodies were found in the tunnels, and the Maltusian Collective of Trinis was delcared disbanded by the National Police. But Police Director Hitchins wasn't so sure. "3,475 dead. That's too little for them. The body of Marcus wasn't even recovered. I don't like this." He picked up his phone. "The assistant director please. Yes. Henry, hello. I know. Yes. But it doesn't seem right. Don't let our guard down too much."

Jonathan Maker had been a farmer for 40 years – his father and his grandfather before him – the family farm had been build with care – supporting them all in good times and in bad.

But no longer – Maker stood on the edge of his fields. Where once stood corn, wheat, canola and soybeans, now lay dust – swirling in the wind – blowing to the mountains laying to the north.

It was over – his future – the family’s future – all blowing away on the wind.

“Jon?” his wife called from the house, “Jon you coming in?”

“Yes Dear,” his automatic response. “Be right there.”

He turned and walked.

It didn’t used to be like this, he thought. Now farming was as much a business as a computer factory.

In his grandfathers day – before the ECONs took over the government – there was the hope of a government bailout for farmers. Or, at the very least, a farmer could get insurance for a decent price.

Now, without government support, the farmer bet fate every time he planted – he bet that the weather would hold – that the rain would come – that the sun wouldn’t cook the crop – that there wouldn’t be hail – that…well a thousand bets.

And his chips had run out.

The locust had eaten his past and his future.

He opened the door to the farmhouse – his wife was busy at the kitchen counter. He unlocked the gun cabinet beside the door, and took up his 12-gauge and loaded two shells.

“Whattya doing honey?” his wife asked without turning.

She never heard the bang. Her body slumped onto the floor as Jonathan turned his head away.

He walked into the living room, and looked at the picture of his wife on the mantle.

No one heard the second bang.

*=*=*=

Jenna Phillips was a couple thousand kilometres away from the farm, and even if she knew the Maker’s she wouldn’t have cared at this moment.

“Jenna – any news on the agri front?”

Her boss stared across the polished oak, boardroom table at here – hope mingled with fear in his eyes.

“Ummm,” she began, fumbling with her colour handouts, “The short answer is “no”. But I think we can still bank on a recovery in the livestock markets – imports of feed will begin to accelerate shortly – but,” she paused to catch her breath, “The ‘futures’ we bet on earlier this year have tanked. There is no future in any of the cash or grain crops. The locust destroyed virtually 100 per cent of production. Our best bet right now is to bail out of the agri market, and look to foreign investments to begin to recover our losses.”

“And what’s the damage to date?”

“Early numbers – including a strong recovery of the livestock markets suggest that we will have lost somewhere in the neighbourhood of 1 trillion dollars. But – the good news is that our competitors had invested more heavily in this year’s soy crop – our
intelligence sources inside Wayland Peters Investments, for example, suggest that they may not survive this downturn. If the market calls on their ‘buys’ they’ve had it. They’ll be packing their desks before the end of the week.”

*=*=*=

Nakooda Abdula new what starvation felt like.

He remembered watching other children in his village die.

But he had gotten away.

The man had helped – had provided him with an education and a new life in this wondrous nation of Wolfish.

Now…now he was important. Now he would pay back the man.

Nakooda walked into the Wolfish Stock Exchange – glancing up a the numbers on the big electronic board high over head – the board was filled with red numbers – last time he was here it was all green….

He crossed the floor to the guarded door. He showed the man his pass – then the paper his boss had given him…the guard opened the door, and followed him in.

It was a simple patch program to increase the refresh rate for the off-site traders. But the man had asked him to do a favour – no one would ever know – just add a couple lines of code to the patch – nothing complicated. Just a couple lines…

The computer cursor blinked as he clicked “Yes” to the “download program” prompts.

*=*=*=

“The patch is in place Sir. We now have access.”

“Very good. Tomorrow morning – 10 minutes after the start of trading we crash the market.”

*=*=*=

Rimault sank down into the battered leather armchair with a creak and a sigh. A snifter of brandy stood close at hand, the fumes teasing his palate - a little something to keep him going through these interminable reports. Intelligence, Interior Affairs, Foreign Ministry... the crisp type stared up at him. Coutts and Rutherford had come through fast, producing their dossiers after a week of frantic talks and information gathering. Symnal had of necessity taken a few days more, verifying sources and checking contacts, before his folder arrived on Rimault's desk.

Right... let's see where we are now...

Rimault sipped the brandy, and opened the first folder.

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

A piercing beep sounded as the glowing digits on the clockface flipped to midnight. Rimault jerked awake with a grunt, spilling papers to the floor. He bent, cursing, and gathered them up, mentally reviewing what he had gleaned before the fatigue and the brandy had kicked in.

Hmm... those opinion polls need to be dealt with. The shock's wearing off, and since we haven't made any visible progress on tracking down the perpetrators... but hell, the ad campaign's only been running a few days, give it time. People always want to stick together in a crisis - they'll stay with us a while longer.

He poured another glass of brandy, and stared ruefully into the empty bottle. The telescreen buzzed away in the background unnoticed. A man and a woman, both very attractive, were embracing beneath a Henleazian flag and smiling happily. Rimault snorted derisively.

Christ, talk about pandering to the lowest common denominator. At this rate our public won't have any brain cells left to care if we catch the terrorists or not... anyway... the police presence seems to be working, maybe that'll boost the opinion polls some - hell, crime's gone down as well...

Rimault made a mental note to include that in his next speech - Rutherford would likely have already disseminated that through the propaganda ads, but the great unwashed sometimes needed things said loudly, clearly and repeatedly before they got the picture.

Coutts' folder was the slimmest of the three, and the most vague. After the first initial panic, the majority of affected countries seemed to be going into some kind of isolationist information lockdown mode - denials of anything wrong, ambassadors being fobbed off on junior officials as they tried to find out what was happening... everyone seemed to be trying to suppress the general air of panic, show no weakness that could be exploited.

Well, at least there'll not be any problems with mass hysteria... these countries aren't even going to admit that anything happened, and their emissaries won't let a word pass their lips on this before the order comes from higher up... we'll have to get cooperation through Symnal and his contacts though, since their governments aren't going to be of much help.

And so to Symnal. From what he had heard, the boys at Intelligence had been working like demons for the past ten days, running on caffeine and nervous energy. It showed - the report was three hundred pages thick. Rimault had skimmed it, fishing out the important points and muddling through the rest. Much of it was technical data and jargon that meant little to him, but phrases leapt out here and there; highly contagious... mass hameorrhage... plague...

Christ, they've had it as bad as us. BBTML's gone all to hell... three eyewitness reports of a civilian massacre, spreading plague and the economy creaking under the strain. And here... rumours from Kaukolastan... labs shut down and funding diverted - nothing concrete but even so. Hatchibombitar - God only knows what's happening in there. Some kind of coordinated terrorist effort perhaps... and now all the newborns are getting hit.

Rimault made a mental note to get more information on this Dr Hardin from Symnal. The rumours were unsubstantiated, but they were pervasive, and there were links enough there to make Rimault suspicious.

Wolfish's economy is blasted - maybe we should make an offer to sell our excess grain over there - I'm sure we could hike the price a little, they should be desperate enough to buy at whatever rates we set. Trinis too... that looks like an ordinary attack, but so soon after all of this? And the police seem to think it's something to do with the... Malthusian group?

His forehead creased. The name rang a faint bell, something from his Political Philosophy days at Stanford. He scribbled a note in the margin, a reminder to get more details on Malthusians and this group... wiped out, according to the Trinisian police, but it was the first solid lead they had on who might be responsible. The three extra days Symnal had asked for had been devoted to finding out about the group - they had no details as yet, but as Symnal put it, "the net is closing." The information would come soon.

They were back in the room, back around the oaken table once more. The chair to the right of the head of the table was empty. Before, a traitor had sat there. Now, the only trace of him was a small dent in the table with a rusty brown mark in it where his skull had hit. The bronze bust had been cleaned thoroughly; no trace of its deadly purpose had escaped notice.

The man at the head of the table spoke: "Many nations have joined our common purpose. They see what we have seen, they understand that many must die so that others might live." He paused, and gently ran his hand over the empty chair to his right. "The one who sat here claimed to be one of us. He spoke of destiny and history; he spoke of Malthus with a silver tongue. He betrayed us, and we must assume others will do so as well. In every nation, there are those who will attempt to betray us. We must find them; we must stop them. I call upon all members of the Collective to seek out the traitors among your own people, and to destroy them." His voice rose sharply, "Find them, stop them!"

"And now" he continued, more softly, "We have an empty chair. We have heard that other nations wish to send one to claim that chair. We will meet again soon, and we will decide who shall take that chair. Today, it is up to you to find the one who can help us. Of all the nations who share our purpose, who shall take a seat at this table? That is what we must decide"

Eastern BBTML was a wasteland. The cities and towns had been burnt and purged, with roving military patrols lead by the General of I Corps ravaged the land while ignoring the Presidential orders.
Twilight descended upon the land, and with the twilight came the orders from the President to II Corps commander General Stephen Braust.
Terminate General Theosell's command.
The armada cruised over the desertlike plains, soldiers suited up in armored HAZMAT suits, looking like sci-fi movie marines. Tanks and armored vehicles kicked up dust as they moved towards Theosells camp with orders not to fire until fired upon.

The scout sat in a foxhole with a dirt covered sheet over it. His NVG enhanced scope flickered throughout the line of advancing men. The scout turned in his hole, grabbing his radio.
"Incoming forces from the West, bearing 050, about 4 miles ahead of my position. Advise artillery over."
"Roger that, inbound."

The self propelled guns swiveled upwards and around to the west as 155mm Flechette and SmartKill AT rounds were slammed into the autoloaders. Targeting coordinates were fed into them as they made minute adjustments to shower the incoming lines. The Battery commander waved forward.

The infantryman, sitting on top of a tank, looked towards the horizon. A brief flicker seemed to cross a short area, and then again. He realized the flicker was really many different ones, and as his brain made the subliminal alert, a shrieking whistle more terrfying than a thousand Banshees filled the air.
"ARTILLER-"
The soldier never head the second part, the armored car in front of him seemed to have the earth below it disappear and leap to the sky as the vehicle's front-what was left of it-bounced skyward, the mangled bodies of it's occupants flopping onto the ground. More bursts came, this time at 20 feet above ground level. The soldier leapt from the tank as SmartKill submunitions descended on their parachutes, and then rocketed into the tops of armored vehicles, destroying them from the inside out. His hearing seemed to have fled the battlefield, and his vision shook as if someone had grabbed his eyes and shaken them like craps dice. He saw a blast crater, gouged deep by a defective HEFrag shell that exploded too late, and leapt into it. He looked down and found a piece of meat with cloth over it. He moaned and pulled off his gasmask just before he vomited.

The F-27E strike bombers flew low towards the encampment, far from the pounding of the guns. Their Vandal ARC systems guaranteed them stealth against Theosell's radars, and hopefully the napalm drops would catch them by surprise. As they neared the camp, bright arcs of orange and yellow tracers lept into their general direction, but without their radar and the F-27Es thermal masking, any hits by the guns would be pure luck.

The soldier continued to rattle off 15mm rounds at the barely visible aircraft, tracking sound now that they slowed into subsonic attack speeds. He didn't notice the napalm drop on the ammo dump until it was too late. A piece of shrapnel, the casing of a detonated 155mm shell, slammed through his torso, leaving him slumped at his gun as he looked at his flesh creep out a hole so long it nearly halved him. In his dying moments, he saw the fire illuminate the lower fuselage of the passing aircraft.

Aquaculture. Hatchibombitar had grown more and more dependent on it in recent years. “Farmed” seafood is cheaper, on average, than “wild” seafood. The catch is consistent, there are no fishing boats to maintain, and no one gets seasick. Salmon, Tilapia, Catfish and Trout are the major farmed species worldwide, and Hatchibombitar was heavily invested in all four, plus several more. Fully two thirds of the seafood in the stores of Hatchibombitar was farmed.

90% of the Hatchibombitarian aquaculture industry was clustered on, and at the mouth of, the Trunk River. The river was clean, the water was a good temperature, and most importantly, the massive earthen Trunksite Dam managed the flow. Of added convenience was the small hydroelectric plant at the dam, which provided enough power to keep all the individual fish farms running and support the neighboring communities.

Fish farmers are businessmen. The fish are a commodity, and like all commodities their production must be managed and protected. An investment the scope and scale of the Hatchibombitarian aquaculture industry requires protection. Pumps had redundant backups with remote alarms and sensors. Temperature gauges fed directly into control rooms staffed round the clock. Emergency generators stood by to take over the power for the massive automatic feeding systems in use. Every eventuality was planned for, and protected against – except one.

The Trunksite Dam Recreation Area stretched 12 miles along Lake Pompom, beginning at the dam and continuing upstream. 10 of those miles were reservoir. Boats were not allowed within 150 yards of the dam, which was cordoned off by bright red buoy lines. Nevertheless, boats did trespass within that line, and security staff on a summer day spent every waking moment chasing out interlopers. On May 5, one boat tarried a little longer, and strayed a little closer than other boats. In later interviews, the one surviving guard (who had gone home early with a mild case of heatstroke) stated that he thought he had heard a loud splash, as though someone had dropped a package close to the dam.

At 1:00 a.m. on May 6, all hell broke loose. A muffled boom was heard from the Trunksite dam, and almost immediately a series of spidery cracks began to appear in the middle of the old earthen structure. Within minutes, the cracks began to weep and spread, laterally and vertically. Engineering units responding to alarms could only stand by in hopeless frustration as first handfuls, then huge chunks of earth began to tear loose. At 2:00 am a dull roar echoed down the Trunk River Valley. The entire dam tore loose and Lake Pompom began its terrible journey to the sea.

Rocks, trees, buildings, houses and fish farms were pulverized to shreds under the onslaught. Hundreds of tons of mud followed in the wake of the first wall of water. At dawn, helicopter crews wept as they looked down to get their first glimpse of the scope of the tragedy. There was, truly, nothing to see. Where once there had been villages, fish farms, roads and homes, there was now only mud. A rich brown alluvial fan spread to the horizon at the delta. Fish by the millions floated on the surface, mixing and mingling with the detritus of a whole region condemned to a watery death.