Farmina
21-06-2005, 14:45
The knife slid gracefully through Doctor Steiner’s flesh. “Now tell me what happened to the file belonging to Doctor Larios,” repeated Dan Rickhart. The doctor remained silent. Dan Rickhart responded by slamming the knife deeper into Steiner’s arm, tearing a nerve. The doctor let loose a most hallowing scream. Twisting in agony, he begged, “Please no more.”
After a brief pause Steiner answered the Moralist’s question, “I gave it to a Conservative yesterday. By now word will have reached Aston.”
Dan Rickhart pulled out the knife before ramming it into the doctor’s heart. The doctor slumped and died, blood spurting out of his chest and oozing out of his arm.
Dan Rickhart, dripping with blood, picked up his phone, and uttered the three words, “The doctor danced.”
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Through wires and interchanges these the three words traveled half way across Farmina, from Verica to Ricco, straight into the ear of Tobias Grey, Moralist, the head of the government and acting emperor. “So there is no turning back,” thought Tobias, “Oh how I had hoped to avoid this.” But Tobias knew he had been fooling himself; no matter what the doctor had said, the next words of Tobias Grey would be the same. “Wash them down the river” he ordered. The fate of Farmina was sealed.
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In Eastern Farmina, the city of Aston was abuzz with Conservatives. Over two million Conservatives had flocked to Aston for the annual Conservative Convention. It was the largest turnout ever, the hotels were booked out and camps, full of tents, had appeared in and around the city.
What the Conservatives didn’t know was that their enemies were watching them, waiting to strike.
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“Being ordered to work on a Saturday,” muttered Field Marshal Richard Jefferson, “The world really is going down hill.” As to prove Jefferson’s proposition, everywhere Jefferson looked all he could see was graffiti. “Fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work”, “Surviving a day’s work is too good a deal according to the Conservatives”, and “Death to the Conservatives,” littered the Ricco streets. Richard Jefferson had never seen such flaunting of the law, and all the graffiti had appeared in under two days. “Who would have thought the Conservative veto would have stirred up so much anger? Who would have known the Moralists would have used the veto to their advantage so well?” Jefferson asked himself, the answers struck him to be the Moralists themselves.
And if the Moralists had planned to stir up so much community anger two days before the Conservative convention, it left Field Marshal Jefferson with one conclusion, “I’m walking straight into a trap.”
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Justinian, Emperor of Farmina, was not in good health. He had just finished eating breakfast and found himself in his pajamas, with a closet trying to eat him. He tried to focus, but the room continued to blur. The closet was trying to reach him, stretching across the room towards him, trying to swallow him. “I reject this reality,” he whispered to himself, “Closets do not stretch, they are a constant.” The illusion did not stop, but at least he could still tell what was real.
Justinian was amazed at how badly his mental health had deteriorated in the last two months, “Its been worse since the diagnosis. They must be unable cure me.” He could understand why he had been confined to his quarters. The closet he had seen everyday for the last two years, he could tell how that should be, but outside the world was vast, it changed, and he had not learnt it as he had learnt his own room. Out there he feared he would not know what was real or what was fiction; a very dangerous thing when in the public’s gaze.
Sweat trickled down Justinian’s neck. “Real?” thought Justinian. He felt his neck, and then rubbed his hands together and smelt them. The smell, the feel, it all seemed real. Being a warm summer morning provided further evidence to Justinian that the sweat was no delusion. “This is ridiculous, I am doing an analysis of whether I am sweating or not. That must be a sign of madness.”
Justinian promptly decided to stop examining the cabinet and his sweat, and began unbuttoning his pajamas before throwing them into the basket in the corner, ready for the cleaning staff to wash. He looked over to the clock, “9AM, I overslept again. By four hours this time. The medication must be taking its toll. That is of course if that is what the clock really says, or if that is in fact even a clock and not just the mind being deceived.” The thought struck Justinian as absurd. Time was of no significance to him, he had nowhere to be, especially at five in the morning. Each day since his confinement he got up, had breakfast, exercised, had a shower, get dressed up at eleven because the cleaners come at five past, have lunch, be visited by Doctor Larios at one, exercise more, have dinner and go to bed. Being locked in a room by himself didn’t strike Justinian as a great way to spend his youth, perhaps his life, but he had been given very little say in the matter.
And so Justinian dropped onto all fours, and began doing push-ups, hoping that the day would pass quickly, but more importantly his confinement as a whole would come to an end.
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Thomas Goth looked out the conference room window, perched high in Walter Castle, looking over Aston from the city’s very centre. The bright morning sun illuminated his suit dark black suit, not an expensive brand, although fine in its own right. “Turnout is excellent; wouldn’t want to be a Moralist caught in Aston,” commented Robert Brie Senior as he allowed the sweet scent of the coffee for treat his sense of smell.
“I think not,” responded Andre Cirtus, patrician as ever, “The sudden interest in the future of the Conservative block is just a reflection of our problems; the Moralists are in power and there is nothing we can do about it.”
“If there was nothing we could do, we wouldn’t be here. The presence of so many shows that our righteous cause will succeed,” added Gregory Vanstone, a short fat man who was Chancellor of the Treasury in the previous administration.
“Such optimistic thinking is complacent. The gathering of so many is a sign of the peoples desperation, not their hope,” responded Cirtus.
“Listen here Andre,” began Robert Brie in a rather harsh tone, “I have been in politics since before you were born, so don’t go…”
“Silence,” ordered Thomas Goth, turning away from the window, “I have heard enough of your squabbling. The Moralists must love the thought of us tearing ourselves apart. Bob, I respect your experience, but Andre is right; Conservatives across the nation are panicking. It has been a very long time since we have been out of power. We must provide the hope that they came here for. The convention begins in six hours and I want to hear every idea you have.”
The room fell silent, as the elite Conservatives waited for someone to suggest a course of action.
The silence was quickly broken by a knocking at the conference room door.
“Enter,” ordered Goth, an order promptly followed by the Conservative on the other side.
“We have just received this, you will wish to see it,” said the entrant, who promptly walked across the room to Thomas Goth and handed him a file.
Upon opening the file Thomas Goth read the first few lines and asked, “Are you sure this is right Mick? It can’t be, can it?”
“The file originated from Doctor Steiner himself,” responded the man by the name of Mick.
“Tom, what is that file on? asked Robert Brie.
“If this is accurate,” began Thomas Goth in a most somber tone, “The emperor’s doctor is a Moralist who has been drugging him. The emperor isn’t mad; he’s off his face.”
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“What do you mean I have been labeled a security risk, I am the second highest ranking person in the Farminan military,” growled Jefferson into his mobile, trying to buy an air ticket to Parthia, “May I ask who labeled me a security risk?”
To that there was no reply, but as he hung up he had a very good idea who was responsible.
The Field Marshal knew he was out of options. In the middle of Ricco, in front of the very heart of all Farmina’s military operations, there was no way he could possibly escape the military. And so walked into the Central Military Command Complex, took the lift to the third floor, went through the second door on the right, just as was supposed to.
He walked through the door to find Supreme Commander Arnold Bashar was sitting, waiting for him, just as he was supposed to. “Ah, Richard, glad you could make it on a Saturday. Now would you be so kind to inform me where General Simpson is?”
“Dumpsterdam, I believe, perhaps Roach-Busters, sir,” said Jefferson, “He is dismantling our bases in foreign countries, as required by Tobias Grey’s new directives. Did you call me all this way to ask…”
“That should have been finished weeks ago,” interrupted Bashar, “You have failed me Jefferson. I have the feeling that you and Simpson failed me, stalled me, on purpose.”
“What makes you have such a pessimistic cognation?” asked Jefferson.
“You know what,” responded Bashar in a cold, neutral tone.
Jefferson and Simpson had both been loyal and open Conservatives, in a military that was dominated by Moralists. In fact Jefferson and Simpson had been stalling the dismantlement of foreign bases; as they had given overseas deployments to known Conservatives, where they would be out of harm’s way.
Arnold Bashar stood up and walked over to the map hanging on his office wall. “Tell me what you see,” asked Bashar.
“A small city,” observed Jefferson, “The red markers seem to be defending it, the blue ones encircling it. There seems to the greatest concentration of the blue markers on the west of the city, as thought they are going to head east smashing through the city. Just like we used in Sinear.”
“So you recognize the tactics, your invasion force exploited so well in Sinear,” said Bashar, “But can you name the city?”
“We passed through so many of the Sinearan cities using this tactic. The hills in the west make me guess Arsville,” said Jefferson, with another thought in the back of his mind; but so strongly he denied it.
“So close,” said Bashar, giving a dramatic pause before adding, “Its Aston.”
“It isn’t,” exclaimed Jefferson, stepping backwards, “It can’t be.”
“You know its true,” said Bashar, laughing darkly at the cowering Field Marshal.
“You won’t get away with this,” warned Jefferson, desperately grabbing a worn out clique.
“I suppose I should say, ‘I already have’. It’s been planned to the finest detail. I have been given the order to ‘Wash them down the river’ and I will, but I wanted you to die first traitor; to know what is coming and be unable to stop it,” mocked Arnold Bashar, calmly pulling out his pistol and aiming it at the Field Marshal.
“Forgive me father for I have sinned,” prayed Jefferson, dropping to his knees.
Bashar pulled back the safety on his pistol, as his dark laugh drowned out the desperate man’s pleas.
“Watch over my wife and our unborn child. Please deliver Farmina from…”
The pray abruptly ended by a gunshot as Bashar fired his pistol. Jefferson fell to the floor, trying to use his hands to cover the hole in his bleeding chest. Bashar continued to laugh, enjoying his personal victory as he fired twice more, before leaving Richard Jefferson in a pool of his own blood.
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Dustan Brand felt fear ever so strongly as he approached Aston. His black Moralist uniform made him stand out, and he was about to enter a city overflowing with Conservatives. “I reckon they won’t listen to us,” said Charles Rinar, “They won’t even let us near the big house.”
Brand looked over to Rinar, “Fool, that’s the point.”
Rinar’s face showed no sign of comprehension, and Brand wasn’t really in the mood to enlighten him.
“Black-shirt,” was suddenly yelled out, breaking Dustan Brand’s thoughts of Rinar’s stupidity and Operation River.
The five Moralist enforcers had just entered the one of the camps that encircled Aston. “Shut it you,” yelled back Sanders.
“Make me black-shirt,” responded the Conservative.
“Keep driving,” said Brand calmly, an order which Saunders obeyed without question.
The Conservative heckling continued all the way to Castle Walter. Upon arrival the five men got out the jeep and went quite logically to the front gate. “And what do the likes of you want around here?” asked the Conservative guard at the front door.
“I am here with an arrest warrant,” said Dustan Brand, handing over a small piece of paper, “By the power invested in me, by Emperor Tobias, I request that you hand over these persons on the charges of arms smugglings, treason and aiding vigilante movements.”
The guard looked as though he was going to burst out laughing, “This is the entire upper echelon of the Conservative Block.”
“Please let us in,” said Brand sternly.
“Not going to happen,” said guard.
“I suggest you check with Mr. Goth if he wants to follow this course of action. Failure to do so could be classed as a rebellion,” warned Brand.
“As you wish,” said the guard, before speaking into his two-way, “Could you ask Mr Goth if the Moralists may arrest the entire Conservative council. They’re threatening to call any resistance a rebellion.”
For a minute there was silence before the two-way made a brief noise, audible only to the guard.
The guard looked up at the Moralist, “He said ‘no’..”
“So be it,” responded Brand, who turned and lead the five Moralists back to the vehicle as he began dialing on his mobile.
Once safely back in the jeep he spoke into the phone, “General Reilly, the Enablement Act is now if effect. You have a go.”
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“If the Emperor is doped out of his mind, we must tell the palace, even if it is a false alarm,” said Andre Cirtus, looking over at Thomas Goth.
Before Goth could respond the intercom beeped and said, “Mr Goth, there is a black-shirt outside trying to arrest the entire council. He is threatening to declare the Conservative block a rebel threat, which means the Enablement Act comes into effect. What should we tell him?
Thomas Goth looked across the table, “This has to be a bluff. I say we treat it like a bluff.”
“And if it isn’t?” asked Cirtus.
“Then we can expect an army to knock down the door and arrest us by force,” said Arthur Whitinger.
“If we do allow them to take us, who says that they won’t come and arrest more, and more, until every known Conservative crams the jails,” said Robert Brie.
“I agree with Bob,” said Goth, “These Moralists never stop wanting more. Anyone who thinks I am making the wrong decision, you are more than welcome to hand yourself over.”
After a brief silence, Goth pressed the speaker button on the intercom and said calmly, “Tell the black-shirt to go sodomize his sister.”
“So are we going to tell the palace?” asked Cirtus, considering the interruption complete.
“Ah, yes,” said Thomas Goth, his thoughts going back to the medical file, “In fact, I shall do it myself. Then we must decided what to do if the military storms Aston.
Goth pulled out his mobile phone while giving Mick a hand gesture to indicate he could return to his duties.
After briefly dialing he began talking, “Ah, Colonel Zander, its Thomas Goth. I have evidence that implies elements loyal to the Moralists have been drugging the emperor…yes I’m quite sure, it seems his medicine is not medicine…”
The comment was cut short by a wail followed by an explosion, which shook the entire castle.
“That was an artillery shell,” yelled out Jonathon Water.
Andre Cirtus, who was under the table at the sound of the wail, rolled his eyes at the Water’s observation, “Thank God there are White Guard stationed only a couple hours south of here. They should be able to do something.”
“As if White Guard or DFF will be interested in a law enforcement issue,” sniped back Robert Brie.
Thomas Goth paid couldn’t believe the two men’s behavior. Moving to stand under the safety of a doorframe, he said, “Shut up, the pair of you…no not you Colonel. I’m afraid we are under attack...”
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Jonathon Briggs, Justinian’s personal aide, walked the halls of the White Palace with a sense of accomplishment. Briggs was also secretly a Moralist, and had used his powers to ensure Justinian’s doctor and chefs were also Moralists. That had given the Moralists the power to, say, ‘change the Emperor’s mind’.
“Colonel,” began Briggs, but a raised hand from the head of the White Guard indicated the Colonel Peter Zander was on the phone.
“…under attack, are you sure? Yes, I suppose you would be Mr. Goth. Move the Emperor, I suppose that is a good idea, I’ll check with the Dumpies first mind you. Good day Mr. Goth.”
As Colonel Zander began dialing, Jonathon Briggs knew all too well how defensive the Dumpsterdamians were of the Emperor, well the old Emperor. But the Dumpsterdamians weren’t the only ones who needed Justinian.
Time was of the essence. Briggs moved swiftly to his room, grabbing his switchblade and placed it up his sleeve. Then he pressed a small button hidden within his lamp, giving the signal to his fellow Moralists, that they might soon lose Justinian.
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“…1263, 1264, 1265…,” said Justinian, pushing himself up and down, his near-naked body dripping in (real) sweat.
“My Emperor,” began Justinian’s aide entering the room in blur.
Justinian collapsed onto the floor before standing up and yelling, “What are you doing in here? I told my guards I wanted privacy.”
Justinian’s blurred vision made it hard to recognize even his own aide. The voice however gave Justinian some certainty that the man was in fact Briggs.
“I have some very important news,” lied Briggs. He could feel the knife in his sleeve, ready to make sure the White Guard and the Dumpsterdamians didn’t take Justinian alive.
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Jonathon Briggs signal had set in motion another plan. Moralists and military men had taken position not only outside Aston, but at vital sites all over the nation in case anything went wrong. Around the White Palace one such group was now active. Military snipers were now moving into position, silently and slowly, lining up the White Guard that patrolled the palace wall, one by one.
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An artillery shell smashed into a tent. Anthony Breaker dived to the ground. A man to Breaker’s left wailed; the man’s family had been in that tent. More shells wailed down all around the camp, seemingly from the west. The shells mostly didn’t seem to be falling on the camp, but further east; no doubt on other camps and more yet, on the city of Aston itself.
Conservatives were running around the tent town in a terror. No one seemed to know what to do. Men panicked, women cried and children tried to cover their eyes and ears to make it all go away. Anyone who could get their hands on a weapon had one, while others fled east into the city where their barrage would be the worst. Breaker certainly had his rifle, and he held it to his chest as though it would mean the difference between life and death.
Then the barrage on the camp stopped altogether, the artillery re-aimed further to the east. It didn’t stop the suffering. Arms and legs were torn off bodies as though they belonged to toy dolls. Men, women and children lay dead indiscriminately. Others were wounded; some would live and others would die agonizing deaths. More looked for loved ones, or mourned them, or just simply wandered dazed. Others however were taking cover in artillery craters, suspecting a barrage to be followed by an attack.
And they were right. Over the horizon poured soldiers and black-shirts supported by tanks, moving towards the city. Breaker fired and was not alone. The roar of rifles and machine gun fire from the Moralists and the military far overwhelmed that provided by the Conservatives. Breaker kept firing but it was no good. The enemy was too numerous. It seemed as though half the Farminan army was charging straight at the tiny camp. The unarmed tried to flee east but were chained down by the swarm of bullets that filled the air.
Other tried to crawl to the east, from cover to cover, many fired intermittently to try and slow the Moralist advance. Some escaped, others weren’t so lucky. As Breaker reloaded his rifle, he suddenly felt a warmth, a searing pain, as red liquid poured out his chest. Then the world went black.
Any wounded Conservative that the Moralists found was shot dead without a hint of mercy. This camp was the first of many that would meet this horrific fate. Tanks and feet rolled over the camp that reeked so badly of death. Bullets flew through the air as the one sided gun battle saw more and more of the retreating Conservatives go into the meat grinder. The bodies of men, women and children were trampled and crushed by feet and tracks without concern or care in the advance; their bones shattered, their blood smeared across the ground; left to rot under the scorching Farminan sun.
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Tobias Grey swirled the red wine in his glass, “Hell shall be born in Aston. The hand of Satan shall tear open the ground, reach out and drag the Conservatives back into his dark lair. And through this great carnage, the land shall be wiped clean, and the nation of Farmina shall be renewed.”
He brought the glass up to his lips and sipped the sweet red liquid.
OOC: Dumpsterdam is taking over my White Guard from here.
After a brief pause Steiner answered the Moralist’s question, “I gave it to a Conservative yesterday. By now word will have reached Aston.”
Dan Rickhart pulled out the knife before ramming it into the doctor’s heart. The doctor slumped and died, blood spurting out of his chest and oozing out of his arm.
Dan Rickhart, dripping with blood, picked up his phone, and uttered the three words, “The doctor danced.”
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Through wires and interchanges these the three words traveled half way across Farmina, from Verica to Ricco, straight into the ear of Tobias Grey, Moralist, the head of the government and acting emperor. “So there is no turning back,” thought Tobias, “Oh how I had hoped to avoid this.” But Tobias knew he had been fooling himself; no matter what the doctor had said, the next words of Tobias Grey would be the same. “Wash them down the river” he ordered. The fate of Farmina was sealed.
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In Eastern Farmina, the city of Aston was abuzz with Conservatives. Over two million Conservatives had flocked to Aston for the annual Conservative Convention. It was the largest turnout ever, the hotels were booked out and camps, full of tents, had appeared in and around the city.
What the Conservatives didn’t know was that their enemies were watching them, waiting to strike.
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“Being ordered to work on a Saturday,” muttered Field Marshal Richard Jefferson, “The world really is going down hill.” As to prove Jefferson’s proposition, everywhere Jefferson looked all he could see was graffiti. “Fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work”, “Surviving a day’s work is too good a deal according to the Conservatives”, and “Death to the Conservatives,” littered the Ricco streets. Richard Jefferson had never seen such flaunting of the law, and all the graffiti had appeared in under two days. “Who would have thought the Conservative veto would have stirred up so much anger? Who would have known the Moralists would have used the veto to their advantage so well?” Jefferson asked himself, the answers struck him to be the Moralists themselves.
And if the Moralists had planned to stir up so much community anger two days before the Conservative convention, it left Field Marshal Jefferson with one conclusion, “I’m walking straight into a trap.”
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Justinian, Emperor of Farmina, was not in good health. He had just finished eating breakfast and found himself in his pajamas, with a closet trying to eat him. He tried to focus, but the room continued to blur. The closet was trying to reach him, stretching across the room towards him, trying to swallow him. “I reject this reality,” he whispered to himself, “Closets do not stretch, they are a constant.” The illusion did not stop, but at least he could still tell what was real.
Justinian was amazed at how badly his mental health had deteriorated in the last two months, “Its been worse since the diagnosis. They must be unable cure me.” He could understand why he had been confined to his quarters. The closet he had seen everyday for the last two years, he could tell how that should be, but outside the world was vast, it changed, and he had not learnt it as he had learnt his own room. Out there he feared he would not know what was real or what was fiction; a very dangerous thing when in the public’s gaze.
Sweat trickled down Justinian’s neck. “Real?” thought Justinian. He felt his neck, and then rubbed his hands together and smelt them. The smell, the feel, it all seemed real. Being a warm summer morning provided further evidence to Justinian that the sweat was no delusion. “This is ridiculous, I am doing an analysis of whether I am sweating or not. That must be a sign of madness.”
Justinian promptly decided to stop examining the cabinet and his sweat, and began unbuttoning his pajamas before throwing them into the basket in the corner, ready for the cleaning staff to wash. He looked over to the clock, “9AM, I overslept again. By four hours this time. The medication must be taking its toll. That is of course if that is what the clock really says, or if that is in fact even a clock and not just the mind being deceived.” The thought struck Justinian as absurd. Time was of no significance to him, he had nowhere to be, especially at five in the morning. Each day since his confinement he got up, had breakfast, exercised, had a shower, get dressed up at eleven because the cleaners come at five past, have lunch, be visited by Doctor Larios at one, exercise more, have dinner and go to bed. Being locked in a room by himself didn’t strike Justinian as a great way to spend his youth, perhaps his life, but he had been given very little say in the matter.
And so Justinian dropped onto all fours, and began doing push-ups, hoping that the day would pass quickly, but more importantly his confinement as a whole would come to an end.
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Thomas Goth looked out the conference room window, perched high in Walter Castle, looking over Aston from the city’s very centre. The bright morning sun illuminated his suit dark black suit, not an expensive brand, although fine in its own right. “Turnout is excellent; wouldn’t want to be a Moralist caught in Aston,” commented Robert Brie Senior as he allowed the sweet scent of the coffee for treat his sense of smell.
“I think not,” responded Andre Cirtus, patrician as ever, “The sudden interest in the future of the Conservative block is just a reflection of our problems; the Moralists are in power and there is nothing we can do about it.”
“If there was nothing we could do, we wouldn’t be here. The presence of so many shows that our righteous cause will succeed,” added Gregory Vanstone, a short fat man who was Chancellor of the Treasury in the previous administration.
“Such optimistic thinking is complacent. The gathering of so many is a sign of the peoples desperation, not their hope,” responded Cirtus.
“Listen here Andre,” began Robert Brie in a rather harsh tone, “I have been in politics since before you were born, so don’t go…”
“Silence,” ordered Thomas Goth, turning away from the window, “I have heard enough of your squabbling. The Moralists must love the thought of us tearing ourselves apart. Bob, I respect your experience, but Andre is right; Conservatives across the nation are panicking. It has been a very long time since we have been out of power. We must provide the hope that they came here for. The convention begins in six hours and I want to hear every idea you have.”
The room fell silent, as the elite Conservatives waited for someone to suggest a course of action.
The silence was quickly broken by a knocking at the conference room door.
“Enter,” ordered Goth, an order promptly followed by the Conservative on the other side.
“We have just received this, you will wish to see it,” said the entrant, who promptly walked across the room to Thomas Goth and handed him a file.
Upon opening the file Thomas Goth read the first few lines and asked, “Are you sure this is right Mick? It can’t be, can it?”
“The file originated from Doctor Steiner himself,” responded the man by the name of Mick.
“Tom, what is that file on? asked Robert Brie.
“If this is accurate,” began Thomas Goth in a most somber tone, “The emperor’s doctor is a Moralist who has been drugging him. The emperor isn’t mad; he’s off his face.”
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“What do you mean I have been labeled a security risk, I am the second highest ranking person in the Farminan military,” growled Jefferson into his mobile, trying to buy an air ticket to Parthia, “May I ask who labeled me a security risk?”
To that there was no reply, but as he hung up he had a very good idea who was responsible.
The Field Marshal knew he was out of options. In the middle of Ricco, in front of the very heart of all Farmina’s military operations, there was no way he could possibly escape the military. And so walked into the Central Military Command Complex, took the lift to the third floor, went through the second door on the right, just as was supposed to.
He walked through the door to find Supreme Commander Arnold Bashar was sitting, waiting for him, just as he was supposed to. “Ah, Richard, glad you could make it on a Saturday. Now would you be so kind to inform me where General Simpson is?”
“Dumpsterdam, I believe, perhaps Roach-Busters, sir,” said Jefferson, “He is dismantling our bases in foreign countries, as required by Tobias Grey’s new directives. Did you call me all this way to ask…”
“That should have been finished weeks ago,” interrupted Bashar, “You have failed me Jefferson. I have the feeling that you and Simpson failed me, stalled me, on purpose.”
“What makes you have such a pessimistic cognation?” asked Jefferson.
“You know what,” responded Bashar in a cold, neutral tone.
Jefferson and Simpson had both been loyal and open Conservatives, in a military that was dominated by Moralists. In fact Jefferson and Simpson had been stalling the dismantlement of foreign bases; as they had given overseas deployments to known Conservatives, where they would be out of harm’s way.
Arnold Bashar stood up and walked over to the map hanging on his office wall. “Tell me what you see,” asked Bashar.
“A small city,” observed Jefferson, “The red markers seem to be defending it, the blue ones encircling it. There seems to the greatest concentration of the blue markers on the west of the city, as thought they are going to head east smashing through the city. Just like we used in Sinear.”
“So you recognize the tactics, your invasion force exploited so well in Sinear,” said Bashar, “But can you name the city?”
“We passed through so many of the Sinearan cities using this tactic. The hills in the west make me guess Arsville,” said Jefferson, with another thought in the back of his mind; but so strongly he denied it.
“So close,” said Bashar, giving a dramatic pause before adding, “Its Aston.”
“It isn’t,” exclaimed Jefferson, stepping backwards, “It can’t be.”
“You know its true,” said Bashar, laughing darkly at the cowering Field Marshal.
“You won’t get away with this,” warned Jefferson, desperately grabbing a worn out clique.
“I suppose I should say, ‘I already have’. It’s been planned to the finest detail. I have been given the order to ‘Wash them down the river’ and I will, but I wanted you to die first traitor; to know what is coming and be unable to stop it,” mocked Arnold Bashar, calmly pulling out his pistol and aiming it at the Field Marshal.
“Forgive me father for I have sinned,” prayed Jefferson, dropping to his knees.
Bashar pulled back the safety on his pistol, as his dark laugh drowned out the desperate man’s pleas.
“Watch over my wife and our unborn child. Please deliver Farmina from…”
The pray abruptly ended by a gunshot as Bashar fired his pistol. Jefferson fell to the floor, trying to use his hands to cover the hole in his bleeding chest. Bashar continued to laugh, enjoying his personal victory as he fired twice more, before leaving Richard Jefferson in a pool of his own blood.
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Dustan Brand felt fear ever so strongly as he approached Aston. His black Moralist uniform made him stand out, and he was about to enter a city overflowing with Conservatives. “I reckon they won’t listen to us,” said Charles Rinar, “They won’t even let us near the big house.”
Brand looked over to Rinar, “Fool, that’s the point.”
Rinar’s face showed no sign of comprehension, and Brand wasn’t really in the mood to enlighten him.
“Black-shirt,” was suddenly yelled out, breaking Dustan Brand’s thoughts of Rinar’s stupidity and Operation River.
The five Moralist enforcers had just entered the one of the camps that encircled Aston. “Shut it you,” yelled back Sanders.
“Make me black-shirt,” responded the Conservative.
“Keep driving,” said Brand calmly, an order which Saunders obeyed without question.
The Conservative heckling continued all the way to Castle Walter. Upon arrival the five men got out the jeep and went quite logically to the front gate. “And what do the likes of you want around here?” asked the Conservative guard at the front door.
“I am here with an arrest warrant,” said Dustan Brand, handing over a small piece of paper, “By the power invested in me, by Emperor Tobias, I request that you hand over these persons on the charges of arms smugglings, treason and aiding vigilante movements.”
The guard looked as though he was going to burst out laughing, “This is the entire upper echelon of the Conservative Block.”
“Please let us in,” said Brand sternly.
“Not going to happen,” said guard.
“I suggest you check with Mr. Goth if he wants to follow this course of action. Failure to do so could be classed as a rebellion,” warned Brand.
“As you wish,” said the guard, before speaking into his two-way, “Could you ask Mr Goth if the Moralists may arrest the entire Conservative council. They’re threatening to call any resistance a rebellion.”
For a minute there was silence before the two-way made a brief noise, audible only to the guard.
The guard looked up at the Moralist, “He said ‘no’..”
“So be it,” responded Brand, who turned and lead the five Moralists back to the vehicle as he began dialing on his mobile.
Once safely back in the jeep he spoke into the phone, “General Reilly, the Enablement Act is now if effect. You have a go.”
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“If the Emperor is doped out of his mind, we must tell the palace, even if it is a false alarm,” said Andre Cirtus, looking over at Thomas Goth.
Before Goth could respond the intercom beeped and said, “Mr Goth, there is a black-shirt outside trying to arrest the entire council. He is threatening to declare the Conservative block a rebel threat, which means the Enablement Act comes into effect. What should we tell him?
Thomas Goth looked across the table, “This has to be a bluff. I say we treat it like a bluff.”
“And if it isn’t?” asked Cirtus.
“Then we can expect an army to knock down the door and arrest us by force,” said Arthur Whitinger.
“If we do allow them to take us, who says that they won’t come and arrest more, and more, until every known Conservative crams the jails,” said Robert Brie.
“I agree with Bob,” said Goth, “These Moralists never stop wanting more. Anyone who thinks I am making the wrong decision, you are more than welcome to hand yourself over.”
After a brief silence, Goth pressed the speaker button on the intercom and said calmly, “Tell the black-shirt to go sodomize his sister.”
“So are we going to tell the palace?” asked Cirtus, considering the interruption complete.
“Ah, yes,” said Thomas Goth, his thoughts going back to the medical file, “In fact, I shall do it myself. Then we must decided what to do if the military storms Aston.
Goth pulled out his mobile phone while giving Mick a hand gesture to indicate he could return to his duties.
After briefly dialing he began talking, “Ah, Colonel Zander, its Thomas Goth. I have evidence that implies elements loyal to the Moralists have been drugging the emperor…yes I’m quite sure, it seems his medicine is not medicine…”
The comment was cut short by a wail followed by an explosion, which shook the entire castle.
“That was an artillery shell,” yelled out Jonathon Water.
Andre Cirtus, who was under the table at the sound of the wail, rolled his eyes at the Water’s observation, “Thank God there are White Guard stationed only a couple hours south of here. They should be able to do something.”
“As if White Guard or DFF will be interested in a law enforcement issue,” sniped back Robert Brie.
Thomas Goth paid couldn’t believe the two men’s behavior. Moving to stand under the safety of a doorframe, he said, “Shut up, the pair of you…no not you Colonel. I’m afraid we are under attack...”
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Jonathon Briggs, Justinian’s personal aide, walked the halls of the White Palace with a sense of accomplishment. Briggs was also secretly a Moralist, and had used his powers to ensure Justinian’s doctor and chefs were also Moralists. That had given the Moralists the power to, say, ‘change the Emperor’s mind’.
“Colonel,” began Briggs, but a raised hand from the head of the White Guard indicated the Colonel Peter Zander was on the phone.
“…under attack, are you sure? Yes, I suppose you would be Mr. Goth. Move the Emperor, I suppose that is a good idea, I’ll check with the Dumpies first mind you. Good day Mr. Goth.”
As Colonel Zander began dialing, Jonathon Briggs knew all too well how defensive the Dumpsterdamians were of the Emperor, well the old Emperor. But the Dumpsterdamians weren’t the only ones who needed Justinian.
Time was of the essence. Briggs moved swiftly to his room, grabbing his switchblade and placed it up his sleeve. Then he pressed a small button hidden within his lamp, giving the signal to his fellow Moralists, that they might soon lose Justinian.
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“…1263, 1264, 1265…,” said Justinian, pushing himself up and down, his near-naked body dripping in (real) sweat.
“My Emperor,” began Justinian’s aide entering the room in blur.
Justinian collapsed onto the floor before standing up and yelling, “What are you doing in here? I told my guards I wanted privacy.”
Justinian’s blurred vision made it hard to recognize even his own aide. The voice however gave Justinian some certainty that the man was in fact Briggs.
“I have some very important news,” lied Briggs. He could feel the knife in his sleeve, ready to make sure the White Guard and the Dumpsterdamians didn’t take Justinian alive.
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Jonathon Briggs signal had set in motion another plan. Moralists and military men had taken position not only outside Aston, but at vital sites all over the nation in case anything went wrong. Around the White Palace one such group was now active. Military snipers were now moving into position, silently and slowly, lining up the White Guard that patrolled the palace wall, one by one.
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An artillery shell smashed into a tent. Anthony Breaker dived to the ground. A man to Breaker’s left wailed; the man’s family had been in that tent. More shells wailed down all around the camp, seemingly from the west. The shells mostly didn’t seem to be falling on the camp, but further east; no doubt on other camps and more yet, on the city of Aston itself.
Conservatives were running around the tent town in a terror. No one seemed to know what to do. Men panicked, women cried and children tried to cover their eyes and ears to make it all go away. Anyone who could get their hands on a weapon had one, while others fled east into the city where their barrage would be the worst. Breaker certainly had his rifle, and he held it to his chest as though it would mean the difference between life and death.
Then the barrage on the camp stopped altogether, the artillery re-aimed further to the east. It didn’t stop the suffering. Arms and legs were torn off bodies as though they belonged to toy dolls. Men, women and children lay dead indiscriminately. Others were wounded; some would live and others would die agonizing deaths. More looked for loved ones, or mourned them, or just simply wandered dazed. Others however were taking cover in artillery craters, suspecting a barrage to be followed by an attack.
And they were right. Over the horizon poured soldiers and black-shirts supported by tanks, moving towards the city. Breaker fired and was not alone. The roar of rifles and machine gun fire from the Moralists and the military far overwhelmed that provided by the Conservatives. Breaker kept firing but it was no good. The enemy was too numerous. It seemed as though half the Farminan army was charging straight at the tiny camp. The unarmed tried to flee east but were chained down by the swarm of bullets that filled the air.
Other tried to crawl to the east, from cover to cover, many fired intermittently to try and slow the Moralist advance. Some escaped, others weren’t so lucky. As Breaker reloaded his rifle, he suddenly felt a warmth, a searing pain, as red liquid poured out his chest. Then the world went black.
Any wounded Conservative that the Moralists found was shot dead without a hint of mercy. This camp was the first of many that would meet this horrific fate. Tanks and feet rolled over the camp that reeked so badly of death. Bullets flew through the air as the one sided gun battle saw more and more of the retreating Conservatives go into the meat grinder. The bodies of men, women and children were trampled and crushed by feet and tracks without concern or care in the advance; their bones shattered, their blood smeared across the ground; left to rot under the scorching Farminan sun.
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Tobias Grey swirled the red wine in his glass, “Hell shall be born in Aston. The hand of Satan shall tear open the ground, reach out and drag the Conservatives back into his dark lair. And through this great carnage, the land shall be wiped clean, and the nation of Farmina shall be renewed.”
He brought the glass up to his lips and sipped the sweet red liquid.
OOC: Dumpsterdam is taking over my White Guard from here.