NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: This thread will be used to chart the victory of the National Liberal government and the backstage manoeuvres that will see the current National Democratic Party's highest members transform into an altogether different leadership. Contributions welcome, but the story's largely decided.

Hiro Tonagato's small, mountainside hut was spartanly-appointed, with only a single room, containing several chairs, a sink and a small kitchen. Not even a radio disturbed the silence, though the wind did its level best to intrude. Sitting on the porch, reading the Island Telegraph and periodically pausing to look out over the expansive bay beneath his retreat, Tonagato's sun-beaten, brown-tanned skin was pleasantly warm in the light of spring. His skin was warm, but his heart most certainly was not; it felt like a piece of ice within him, a piece of ice that never melted and never became any warmer.

“CAPITAL HALTS AS 300,000 PROTESTERS MARCH
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Andrei Sodak, Home Affairs Editor
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Krasniy Novgorod’s central streets were brought too a halt yesterday as anti-war protesters surged in record numbers to protests in the capital. An estimated three hundred thousand anti-war protesters crowded roads and pathways, bearing placards and banners calling for reductions in defence spending, withdrawal from foreign commitments, and inquiries into the reasons behind the recent near-war with Roach-Busters.

The protests began at around 11:30, when significant numbers of students began gathering in Krasniy Novgorod’s Central Square for an apparently spontaneous protest against the current aggressive climate and actions of the government. The demonstrations soon swelled in numbers, and riot police were called to the scene to maintain order. However, the demonstrations remained mostly peaceful, with a few isolated criminal actions the only events to mar their otherwise civil nature. The protests continued for some five hours, with several speakers on subjects ranging from excessive defence spending to Prime Minister Jones’ “increasingly Stalinist” style of government.

Political commentators have been analysing the day’s events with interest…”

Tonagato sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed. The newspapers had seized upon those unruly students like a wolf on a runted sheep, and the political commentaries had only just begun. His job as Minister of the Interior was not becoming any easier. The native population, still clinging tenaciously to the old religions and customs, had risen to anger once more, demanding greater political representation; the discovery of the Great Temple seemed to have roused their dormant sense of “racial nationalism” to an extent he had never seen before. Tonagato was still trying to work out a way to use their foolishness against them, but was so far meeting a singular lack of success. What was needed was some sort of vent, something that would channel the nationalism to the government’s favour, but it simply wasn’t there. What was there was the festering wound of the National Liberal Party, promising everything people wanted: defence cuts, affirmative action, reductions in foreign commitments, more open government. Tonagato could see the glory that his country had won slipping away; they all could, especially Jones, but it was too late to stop it now. The Liberals would bribe the electorate, promise them everything for nothing, and they would win. They would win, and their victory would be the most emphatic defeat imaginable of everything for which their small, skilled group had worked all these years.

Tonagato gazed out over the rainforest beneath his small mountainside hut, and gave a long and weary sigh. He muttered, “we’ve failed,” and went inside to telephone Jones. The defeat was inevitable now; the Liberals’ election propaganda had already taken hold. All they could do was attempt to save the most important things, that they might be put to good use by another, more fortunate leader.

A cackling, hoarse voice echoed around the rooms of an unassuming house in suburban Arthurswick, filled with the mirth that comes of knowing one’s victory to be assured.

“They’ve failed! Ha!” The voice disintegrated into a long and dangerous laugh. “The damn fools think the people are stupid enough to accept all their rubbish about the “harm we’ll do to the country” – luck they’re wrong eh?”
The subsequent, self-congratulatory laugh was joined by a chorus of others, varying in pitch and tempo, but all uniformly smug with sneering satisfaction.

“They’re finished!” proclaimed one.

“Completely washed up!” added another. “Five years, we’ll all be wondering who they were.”

“People know who they are now?” enquired a third, dissolving the room into further paroxysms of laughter. “No, seriously; we can’t just dismiss them yet. They may have a few tricks up their sleeves; God knows they’ll have support from the defence people.”

“Ah, but we have the support of the people.”

“And so we damn well should have!” the first speaker exclaimed. “Their little cabal’s run this country into the ground. We can make a difference; we can make this country work again.”

“And if not,” commented the second speaker, “at least we’ll give them a bloody nose tomorrow.”

“Yep.”

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Tonagato, holding a large glass of whisky, shook his head dismissively. “They’re going to give us a bloody nose, Marcus,” he growled, “like it or not. We’ve spent God alone knows how much money on wars and the military in general. Even this NATO thing’s costing a small fortune, and people are sick of it.”

“Defence will support you to the last,” promised Kazakov, indulging in another vodka. “So will the Ministry of the Interior,” Tonagato added. He fixed his eyes on the window and the rain-sodden sky. “We’ve done a lot of good during our administration.” A phone next to him rang, and he picked it up wearily. “For you,” he said, handing it to Jones.

Jones’ reaction to the phone call was mixed. He said a mere seven words during the entire conversation. “Jones; yes; what? – are you sure?...right.” He slammed the phone down and looked to Kazakov and Tonagato.

“Schützer!”

“What about him?”

“The treacherous little shit!”

“What’s he done?” asked Kazakov, urgency entering his voice.

“He’s put his support behind the bloody Liberals! He’s crossed the House!” Stunned silence ensued, punctuated only the by swishing rain.

“But…why?” Tonagato frowned, looking into his drink. “It just doesn’t make sense. He’s been with the Party for years – are you sure?”

“That was Abramov,” replied Jones, referring to the Minister Without Portfolio. “He just heard from a source in the Liberals that Schützer will give them his support in the House tomorrow; he’s going to say that he’s seen too much war or some other load of tripe.” He spat angrily, setting up a sizzling crack as it hit the hot grate. “Bloody peacenik!”

Tonagato muttered, “we might be able to win him back.”

“Ha!” Snorted Kazakov, his face reddening. “The bugger always was a bloody liberal peacenik! Convinced you can just be nice to everyone and they’ll somehow be nice back to you! Bloody fool,” he concluded, and sipped at his vodka. “It’s people like him who lead to crap like appeasement!”

Jones scowled mightily. “I’ll drink to that. Still, it’s not all bad I suppose.”

“Oh?”

“Well, the Libs want to implement Defence cuts, plus affirmative action programmes and that kind of thing, don’t they?” The others nodded. “Well, for a start they’ll be facing huge unemployment. RSI has a workforce of more than two hundred thousand people, don’t forget, and that’s just in the shipbuilding sector. The cumulative effect of big defence cuts is going to be big unemployment – and if you combine that with resurgent nationalism and a collapsing benefits system…” he flashed his most wolfish smile. “Of course, the electorate won’t believe that.”

“Let them find it out themselves?” grinned Tonagato knowingly.

“Exactly. When half of them are out of work and we’re being labelled a weak nation by everyone else, we’ll see how they react then. Who knows? They might be happy to be liberated from our ‘Stalinist’ regime.” Jones laughed and began flicking through his address book, looking for a certain telephone number. They couldn’t stop the Liberals now, but he would make them regret that they ever took power from him. He would make them pay.

Marcus stood, gulping down the cool night air, and watched the city pulsate below him, a giant, insomniac organism with electrically lit veins. A long and world-weary sigh left his tired body; the day had been more eventful than any he could remember in the last four years, and his body was trembling a little as the last of its energy ebbed away. Lucy approached behind him and rubbed his shoulders gently, in just the right place, making him groan slightly. He turned around, smiling despite his exhaustion, pulled his arms around her waist and kissed her tenderly. If he had nothing else left, even after all these years of work, he at least had Lucy, and that was, in the end, enough. She glanced into his eyes and gave him a small, half-hearted sample of the smile that had never failed to flatten him since they day he’d first met her, prompting another tired, defeated sigh.

Lucy shook her hair out a little and stroked a circle on his chest. “What happened?”

“Hrrm?”

“What happened when you met with the others?” she repeated, and poked him hard in the chest. “Or is it secret?”

“Oh. Well, some fella from the Order of the Heavenly Orb came along, wanting to discuss something with us.” Lucy frowned at him.

“The Holy Order of the Heavenly Orb?” she replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah. You know, sun-worshippers.”

“Oh, them!” She grinned. “I don’t think the robes’d suit you.”

“They might be good on you,” Marcus chuckled. “Anyway, he wanted to tell us about something he’d been thinking about concerning the Liberals. Nice bloke, but bit weird.” He turned to look across the city again. “Besides, he can’t help us now.”

Lucy tugged at his shirt, hauling him back around to face her. “Stop thinking about it,” she urged him softly. “There’s nothing you can do now anyway.”

“Except get ready to be in opposition, I suppose.” He gave her the best smile he could. “You’re right. And hey, if I’m gonna lose, I may as well have a good night beforehand.”

Lucy laughed playfully, dragged him towards the bed, and reached for the light switch.

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The clock’s dimly fluorescing hands indicated 3:42 am. Marcus peered at them from the edge of the bed as a cold draught snicked at his vision, wishing they were wrong. Why can’t I just get a break? His words, he reflected, were addressed to a God he didn’t believe in, and hoping for a miracle that couldn’t happen. With a long and downcast look at his dear Lucy, he walked to the door and quietly slipped downstairs, sweating under the oppressive, muggy heat, and poured himself a liberal measure of vodka. Scraping a chair towards the modest, wooden table, he knocked back the clear, icy spirit, savouring the burning sensation it caused as it ran down his throat. Dawn was slowly approaching outside; the darkness was percolated with sprinkled light, like fine dust scattered over the sea, but his mind was elsewhere, remembering every detail of the afternoon.

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They had met too often now. Always the same trio of desperate men, seeking to forge some sort of victory from defeat, coming together in some sheltered, verdant glade and thinking on their problem. This night, they were to be joined in their cool, windswept lodging by another.

Marcus’ leg bounced up and down involuntarily. “Who is he?”

Hiro’s head turned in a vague sort of way, still hidden beneath a large Fedora. “Who?”

“Our visitor,” replied Marcus, pouring himself a generous measure of freshly-squeezed, very cold orange juice from a nearby carafe.

“A representative of the Divine God Taiak-sho, apparently, who is here to bring us a message from his God.” Hiro chuckled. “And, not entirely coincidentally, the leader of the Popular Front for Native Rights.”

“Oh GOD! Not that one?”

“The same,” replied Hiro cheerfully.

“Why am I getting an awful feeling about this?” Marcus groaned. “You know what they’re like! They combine religious idiocy with nationalist fervour. Never a good combination,” he insisted, pouring another drink.

“Not usually,” Hiro smiled. “But this fellow you may find a little different.” A bell rang tinnily somewhere in the house. “Shall I?”

“Hey, sure. I’m not gonna get up unless I need to. Where’s Mikhail?”

“Had to dash off to some MoD thing.” Hiro jogged through a small doorway, leaving Marcus to stare at the skyline. When he returned, a hooded figure was with him. Bowing slightly, he gestured to the stranger. “Hashio, High Priest of the Order of the Heavenly Orb and Vice-Chairman of the Popular Front for Native Rights.” As he sat down, Hashio pulled back the blood red, perfectly smooth hood that hid his face, revealing slightly close-set, fiercely penetrating eyes that searched his hosts for the slightest clue as to their intentions and preconceptions.

“Marcus Jones, soon-to-be former Prime Minister,” replied Marcus dourly, reaching for Hashio’s hand. The latter shook it purposefully and, unbidden, took a seat after he had given a short bow. “Drink?”

“No Thankyou,” Hashio replied politely. “I avoid drink.”

“A religious obligation?” Marcus asked, slightly amused.

“I got blind drunk once too often and haven’t been eager to do it since.” Hashio gave a wry smile. “I am here to discuss with both of you a certain proposition, one which I think you will find most…interesting.”

Hiro gazed upon their guest. “Explain.”

“As you know, I represent the PFNR, which has been lobbying your present government for some time for an extension of self-determination to the largely native population of the islands.”

“Yes, and we’ve always opposed such a move on the grounds that it would cause unacceptable racial and societical tensions, probably resulting in the dissolution of the Republic into a set of small, tribally-conflicting islands, not unlike 150 years ago,” Marcus responded testily.

“That has been the government line, yes. And we have always replied that it would not, since the majority of the population would in fact have no reason to antagonise the minority.”

“People aren’t quite so rational as that,” said Hiro.

“Ah yes, this is true. But that is always an advantageous fact, if you can wield their irrationality to your benefit. And I can wield that irrationality to your benefit, mister Jones.”

“And how, might I ask, will you do that? How will you convince your members to vote against a government promising them everything your movement has wanted for decades?”

Hashio shrugged, reclined in the chair. “The majority of the movement is not about nationalism or anything of the kind. The majority of the movement are there because we promised to improve the position of those who worship the Heavenly Orb, make it an official religion and that sort of thing.”

Hiro frowned. “I didn’t think you had that many followers. I’ve not noticed many of your characteristic golden spheres in the cities lately, for instance.”

“The cities are a bad place for the Sun. Many are the days where it can hardly penetrate the thick clouds of darkness that industry produces. And besides, we have to get planning permission, and that’s hellishly hard, so we build most of them in more rural areas.”

“Fair enough.” Marcus raised the ghost of a smile. “I suppose this then would be a simple quid pro quo – we improve the position of the Order, and you in return improve our electoral position.”

“To some extent – that is, if you wished to keep it that simple. The Liberal government which will shortly come to power is doomed to fail, and cause great discontent in doing so – no doubt this has already occurred to you.”

“As a matter of fact, I was counting on it.” I believe that’s how one usually wins elections, after all. “But it will be necessary to let the NLP destroy itself first.”

Hashio gave a minute nod. “Precisely.”

“I wonder how long it will last…how much damage they will do?” Hiro stared out to the jungle mournfully. “All that has been constructed over the last thirty years stands to be lost by this stupidity.”

“True, my friend, but we have the consolation of eventual victory.”

Hashio coughed. “That may not be quite certain.” They looked at him, puzzled, wondering if they were about to be double-crossed, and he hastily went on: “The Order is tolerant of other religions, but nonetheless, it would reflect badly on your….character, if others were to be given priority over the faith of a vast swathe of the people. Furthermore, there might be distinct unrest if the faith were still seen as being unofficially kept out of the political realm.” He checked their faces, wondering if they would be willing to alter the bargain.

“The church and state must be separated – that principle has been accepted for the last two hundred years. Not separating them stands to cause more problems than it solves. Remember the Soldiers of the Holy Cross?” Hiro asked, a cautioning tone to his voice. “If we were to officially endorse the Order, it could be a disaster. We…”

Marcus cut him off, abruptly, his expression stony. “I will have to consider that question further. Is there any pressing reason why it must be answered now?”

“No, no. Of course, you must decide in your own time,” Hashio replied with slightly oily magnanimousness, glancing to his watch. “I must leave now; the duties of the Order are many and varied, as are the works of Tashki, the Lord of all.” He bowed, eyes closed. “Go with the light, friends.” Marcus and Hiro looked after him as he padded down the corridor and out of sight.

“We should discuss this elsewhere.” Hiro stood up. “Your office?”

“Yes.” The two men left quietly as the sun burst through a blanket of cloud over the distant, lofty mountains.

Tashki Temple, Krasniy Novgorod

The Tashki temple appeared larger within than without, an unintended result of its design. The temple’s central room was an enormous circle, at least 50 feet in diameter, surrounded by antechambers; so that, from above, the building looked uncannily similar to one of those diagrams that illustrates the earth’s orbit of the sun, but for the fact that here the earth’s orbit was circular, as though someone had compressed the diagram to fit a more aesthetically pleasing shape. At the room’s centre, shrouded by incense fumes, stood the defining features of all Tashki temples: an enormous golden sphere, eerie in its shining perfection, watching over the building’s delicately patterned floors from its perch atop a perfect tetrahedral pyramid. The pyramid, black but for a small splash of brilliant white at its peak, seemed to merge with the shadow of the giant globe it supported, giving the impression that the sphere was somehow floating, despite its immense size and weight, in the centre of the building. The impression was completed perfectly by the small holes in the elegantly domed roof, through which watery sunlight cascaded onto the polished orb, reflecting off it as a gentle haze that diffused to even the most reclusive parts of the chamber, giving the ancient walls a faint luminosity.

Hashio shook his head furiously as he emerged from the rain-sodden streets, spraying water in a fine mist and letting out an involuntary sigh as the temple’s airy warmth and light embraced him. An aide removed his sodden, dark red cloak from his shoulders and slipped back into the background unobtrusively; the Evening Prayers were some time off yet, so Hashio had plenty of time to think. He bowed dutifully towards the bright golden globe and headed for his cell. With the blessing of the Gods, this might just work. He closed the door behind him and addressed the figure sitting before the blazing fire within with a smile.

“Welcome, sister.” He shook the stranger’s hand warmly, and bowed quickly. “It is done.”

“Excellent.” The stranger’s husky voice faded into the walls quickly. “We must move quickly. Set our Brothers and Sisters in motion at once. We will have to destroy them quickly, before they can pamper the masses too much.” Hashio nodded solemnly.

“What shall be their orders?”

“Do not give them orders, for now. Tell them to await our command, and to be prepared.”

Hashio bowed again, clicked his heels, and went to make some phone calls.
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Krasniy Novgorod, Six months later
The Offices of the United Democratic Party

Hiro peered from the window of his office at the dull, rain-sodden street outside, gradually looking out over the smoky, weather-beaten city of Krasniy Novgorod and the dirty, grey-streaked port beyond. The cranes, he noticed, were still, as they had been now for the last week. The Navy’s dockyard workers were out on strike again, protesting angrily over NLP pay and labour cuts. He shook his head and went back to reading the Island Telegraph, whose front page was emblazoned with a large spread showing doleful faces in an endless queue for some benefit or other, and waited for Kazakov.

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“Got a penny to spare, mate?” Mikhail looked down to the grubby doorway beside his left leg, pausing in his stride to peer confusedly into its wretched gloom. He had to peer for some seconds more before he finally spotted the face that had begged him: a young man, barely nineteen, if that, his features haggard and dirt-encrusted, bloodshot and lifeless eyes sunken slightly due to malnutrition, hands shaking uncontrollably. One his bare left arm, a tattoo stood out, its ink still bright and fresh against the background of dirty greyness on his thin, papery skin; an anchor, around which a mythical sea-dragon had wrapped itself, superimposed over a rising sun. Kazakov smiled sadly, stopping at his eyes, and pressed a crumpled fiver into the man’s hand with a formal nod. With a reply of “cheers, mate,” the former sailor dissolved into a fit of coughing. One of the unlucky ones, Kazakov thought, shaking his head and pulling his large, worn black trenchcoat higher to keep the driving rain from his neck.

This, he remembered fondly, had not too long ago been a thriving place. The docks had always been crowded with activity when he had walked through here, no matter what the hour of the day, with mighty ships loading and unloading as far as the eye could see, men and women running to and fro on their various tasks, the constant rumble of engines all around, ringing in everyone’s ears, and a hazy cloud of smoke and steam and dust covering the area. He had always compared it to a Sauna, only with rather more purpose to it. Even in weather such as this, covered with a slick layer of wet that made everything slimy to the touch, the place had had majesty about it as the ships gleamed wetly through the mist. But now, there was nothing; although it remained open, Krasniy Novgorod’s river-based port was now a ghost of its former self. Hard to believe, Mikhail thought, that as little as half a year ago this had been a bustling port providing work for at least three thousand people, and that was just directly. But worst of all, worse even than the skeletal shapes of idle cranes, and the pitiful emptiness of the long stone wharves, and the closed and shuttered doors and windows of the low red-brick warehouses, were the ships. They had been proud denizens of the seas; now they were nothing more than hulks, rusting idly at their moorings where they waited for the scrapman’s torch. As he passed one, an old Sovremennyy-class destroyer, it gave a great, mournful groan, as it begging him to set it free upon the seas again. He looked to the ship’s faded decks, her cracked windows, her rust-streaked bridge, and turned away, unable to bear it. It took thirty years to make this Navy one of the strongest to be found around here, and a mere six months to reduce it to this.

The National Liberal Party had won a landslide victory, reflected Kazakov as he trudged through the withered landscape, on promises to reduce defence expenditure, fund massive social welfare programmes, provide better labour laws, reduce the presence and power of the military and police. That they had no idea what they were unleashing was grimly evident. Over the six months that had elapsed since their election, there had been improvements; even Mikhail had to admit that. A new Tashki temple had sprung up not far from here, for a start, and there had been some improvements; in particular the public transport system was now better than it had been for years, as was the Health Service. And it was also true to say that people seemed, on the whole, to have it a little easier – well, those who had managed to keep their jobs, at least. And therein lay the rub. Those fools hadn’t realised just how crucial Defence had become to the economy; it was, indeed, pretty much the one thing keeping a fair portion of it above water. That and government subsidy, which the NLP had also done away with. “We must not allow the old model, of an economy subservient to the paranoid demands of Defence, to restrict us,” their leader had said (what’s that damn fool’s name again?), and of course the proles, that great majority of fools, had lapped it up, their eyes already glittering with the promise of making a fortune by some mystical universal force or other. And now, oh look, the plan was already unravelling. Still, it was best to be cautious. He strode away from the idle, almost empty wharves and towards a nearby railway station, making mental notes of a profane nature about…well, everything, really.

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Hiro spun round as his door clicked open quietly, to reveal Mikhail standing, drenched and irritable, dripping onto the threadbare hallway carpet. He didn’t smile, not even slightly.

“Where the hell’ve you been”, Hiro barked, motioning agitatedly for Mikhail to enter. “I’ve been waiting half an hour.”

“You know the public transport network?”

“The one that now runs more reliably than it did under us?”

”Yep – well, it took half an hour for the train to get us this far thanks to a points failure at Black Cross Junction. Eventually they herded us all onto a bloody bus, but I felt like a walk.”

“In the pissing rain?” Hiro enquired sceptically, adjusting his reading glasses with a twinkling eye.

“Yes, in the pissing rain. Happy?”

“Fair enough.” He walked to the window and shoved it open, glancing down at the raindrops as they spattered over sheets of paper filled with columns of figures. “Any news?”

“An old colleague of mine and I had a quick lunch yesterday. He told me that the Ministry’s up in arms over it, as it has been ever since the NLP attained office; no surprises there,” Kazakov said. “He also informed me that, although it’s been kept pretty quiet in the press – you know, page seven with a bottom-left column an inch wide, that sort of thing – there have been several rather worrying outbreaks of…rioting at a couple of Naval bases and at Star Point.”

Hiro kept looking out of the window, but his voice became puzzled. “They kept riots at Star Point quiet? How? Surely it was all over the news?”

“Apparently not. It seems that the NLP threatened to invoke the Official Secrets Act or somesuch on the newsies.”

“Mmm. I thought they might have done so. Probably argued it was ‘not in the national interest.’” Both men went silent and the sound of rain pattering against the walls and windows took control of the room.

Kazakov shuffled uncomfortably. “You know, Hiro… we do still have the Order on our side.” Hiro groaned quietly.

“The Order cannot be relied upon. They will probably just as soon turn on us as on the NLP.”

“Ain’t necessarily so, you know.” He fiddled with his cufflinks absently. “I met Hashio last week, just before noon prayers. Seems they’re not entirely happy with the various reforms. The NLP’s been saying they’ll grant increased representation and possibly self-determination to the native majority, but they’re stalling, and it seems that the present AA programmes have caused something of a--” Kazakov stopped as Hiro reached over the desk to grasp his buzzing telephone. After a brief and entirely monosyllabic conversation, he put it down and turned to Kazakov with excited eyes.

“It’s beginning!”

“What? What’s beginning?”

“Agh…here.” Hiro thrust the remote control at Kazakov. “Switch the TV on and turn on the news channel. I’m going to fetch Marcus.” And with that he was gone, bounding up the nearby stone stairs three at a time. Kazakov shrugged, turned on the television, and dutifully turned to the 24-hour News Channel, 24N. By the time Marcus had arrived, he too was smiling broadly. Maybe it has begun, after all.

The light of the Sun shines more brightly,
When around lies only darkness. - Anon.

“I don’t believe it.” Kazakov stared mutely at the screen, chewing on his lower lip as he fumbled a cigarette from the silver case he always carried. “A rebellion aboard a Navy warship. Christ, it wouldn’t have happened in my day.”

“Might be an inaccurate report,” Hiro mumbled, leaning on the back of Marcus’ chair. “Free press doesn’t mean accurate press.” But Marcus shook his head.

“There’s definitely something pretty damn big going on down there. Look, sailors sprinting about all over the place, ships actually starting up for the first time in about six months.” His lip twisted angrily. “Not that many of them’ll run. Can’t just remove the effects of that much neglect in an afternoon, you know.” He gave a flinty half-smile.

“That’s useful, isn’t it?” Hiro was smiling again. “Quite an embarrassment – losing a ship to rebellion, and then having a Fleet so poorly-maintained it can scarcely give chase. Doubly so when they claimed that their defence cuts wouldn’t actually affect the fighting capability of the Fleet.”

”Yes… yes, indeed.” Kazakov was frowning shrewdly. “Hiro: phone Hashio. Tell him that we would like an immediate audience.” He turned next to Marcus. “I reckon, Marc, that we can kill two birds with one stone – allow this rebellion to look bigger than it is, and maybe keep Hashio and his Order friends on our side. We know that the Order’s now established a strong presence within the forces--

“And everywhere else,” said Marcus, rather pointedly.

“--and we know that we can be…fairly sure of getting them on our side after that conversation you told me about.” He looked back to the TV, currently screening a report on a man who found bludgeoned to death in one of the capital’s seedier quarters. “Assuming the man was truthful, of course.”

“He was truthful,” Marcus replied evenly. “So - we ask them to quietly interfere with the mobilisation to catch the rebel ship, and preach the odd sermon about how the Lands of the Sun must be defended at all costs.” Marcus nodded, smirking a little. “As they used to say in the war – Freedom gives the enemy freedom to attack you.”

“Indeed, something people are quick to forget.” Hiro had already picked up the phone. “By the way... oh, yes. Hashio?” It’s Hiro. We met… yes, that was it.” Kazakov and Jones turned back to their conversation as Tonagato worked on their only real high-level contact within the Order.

“So, Kazakov continued in a subdued voice, “I think we might be able to slow down their mobilisation a little, if Hashio can pull the right strings. And even if not, we can let him know we’re prepared to engage in some quid pro quo.”

“He says he’ll see what he can do,” reported Hiro as he returned to his seat. The chair groaned in a muffled fashion as he leaned back. “Which could mean anything from doing nothing to inciting religious crusade, I suppose.” Nobody laughed.

”I wonder what it is they want.” Marcus was staring at one of the many paintings lining the wall, specifically a rendition of the battle of Trafalgar. His phone rang testily in the background, unheeded and unwanted; nothing was as important, right now, as what was happening on the mutineers’ ship.

“They want a fighting Fleet, my friend,” said Kazakov, turning to look at the picture also. “They’ve gone through a gut-wrenching six months, and they’ve had enough of seeing this Navy going the way of the Russian Navy in 1991. It wouldn’t surprise me if they gave up the ship without a fight, to preserve her.”

“They’d do that?”

Kazakov nodded, snorting slightly with dark amusement. “They may hate the government, but by and large those men and women will love their country and their service. They’ll try to preserve the ship,” he repeated, and fell silent.

“Will they have much support?” Hiro asked, still watching the silent television. The picture had changed now: another scene of revolt, this time at another Naval base somewhere in the South; one of the ringleaders was addressing the reporter. She turned around as a great cheer rose up behind her, shouting mutely at the sailors as they stood and rallied with their far-off comrades in tattered, slightly faded uniforms. Behind them, the miserable decay of the Navy manifested itself in a scene of broken windows, silent hulks and empty boxes strew on the gravelled ground.

“Plenty. Much of the Navy will sympathise, if that is their grievance.” He mulled this over for a moment. “I would.”

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Hashio was watching 24N, as indeed were many people who had little else to do, but he wasn’t really watching it. No, his mind was elsewhere; it was imagining what could be if this opportunity were used correctly, it was scheming out ways to achieve the goal that suddenly blazed brilliantly at the forefront of his thought. Unexpectedly, he wished Jenny were there; she was always so much better when it came to manoeuvres and dealings, which was why she was a diplomat. At present, she was in Samtonia, quietly working to try and gain the Order a foothold in that heathen land, having accepted a demotion to a mere priestess in order to serve overseas in the diplomatic corps. So much for total religious freedom, he thought, grumbling. Not that he’d ever actually expected total freedom; with total religious freedom came a degree of power that no government would happily tolerate. But the people, the unthinking masses who looked to the Order for their illumination; they had expected freedom, only to see it withheld, as always. The voice of God is the voice of the people, he thought, sniggering quietly. A pity the NLP did not appreciate the simple truth in that statement. But Jones, and the triumvirate; they appreciated it. And regardless of whether they themselves were Illumined, realpolitik applied as much to the Order as to any other faction in this world. So he picked up the telephone and began giving Jenny’s orders to his various subordinates, trusting in the Deacons, the Bishops, the Priests of the Order to fulfil them to the best of their ability in the service of the Sun.