NationStates Jolt Archive

The Hague

The rustling noise and the murmur of voices died as the defendant entered, surrounded by a small phalanx of guards. He was led to the docket and seated by himself - he had given up his right to counsel, since that would have been recognition of the authority of the court. Once he was seated, the presiding judge - an Englishman wearing his country's traditional judicial garb, complete with white powdered wig - rapped his gavel and instructed the defendant to rise.

"The defendant shall rise," said the judge.

The defendant smiled and just sat there. After a minute, the guards stepped up and gently but firmly forced him to stand.

"Khieu Chea, the International Criminal Court has found you guilty of genocide. In accordance with international law, this panel has decided that you shall be executed by lethal injection.

"Since there is no appeal from the verdicts of this panel, sentence shall be carried out one week from today. Do you have anything to say?"

The defendant looked around the court, a look of cool malice on his eyes. Finally, he spoke:

"Since this court is illegitimate, I will waste no time in commenting on your act of judicial lynching."

The judge looked at his fellow jurists with a dismissive expression. The rest of the panel seemed equally unimpressed by the statement of the newly condemned. He then issued his orders to the guards: "Remove the prisoner to his cell, where he shall await transportation to the site of his execution. He shall be given the rest of the week to put his affairs in order."

He then rapped the gavel. "This court is now adjourned."

That Evening

Khieu Chea sat in the dark, brooding. He always tried so hard to be calm - even smooth - on the outside, but inside he was a caged tiger. How could they do this to me? The bourgeois filth! he thought. What did they know?

Genocide ... idiots! How could you remake society if you weren't willing to get rid of people who were simply never going to be able to be reforged? To make a socialist utopia, you have to be willing to rework society completely, to make a new people out of the old! These counterrevolutionary scum who opposed him were simply components in the oppressive scheme of global capitalism. They had given up their humanity - and with it their right to live - a long time ago.

The lights outside his cell dimmed momentarily. Khieu Chea looked up.

The door opened.

Three people, dressed in black from head to toe and wearing ski masks, entered his cell. One raised a weapon with a laser sight and pulled the trigger.

The dart struck Khieu Chea in his abdomen. Almost instantly his skin began to burn. He reached for the projectile, but found his head swimming, his vision rolling. The other two figures rushed to his side and grabbed his arms as his legs gave way.

The last thing that he saw was two more figures dragging a drugged man into the cell. A man who looked suspiciously like ... him.

One Week Later

The Grandmaster drew slowly from his cigarette, cradling it between thumb and forefinger in European fashion. He did not like this man, but he had no choice.

He hated not having a choice.

The dark skinned Asian man sat opposite him on the veranda, sipping a cup of tea. They sat silently for quite some time before the Grandmaster finally spoke.

"I want to make absolutely certain that you understand what is expected of you."

The man looked at him darkly. "I understand ... completely."

Yes, thought the Grandmaster, I'm sure you do. But is it the same thing we understand, you and I?

"Good", he continued. "I have assembled the people you requested. You leave tonight at ..." The Grandmaster smiled, and then said wryly, "In the movies they always use military time, something like '1900 hours'. I am not a military man, so I will simply say 7 o'clock."

The Asian grunted. I've killed men for worse manners than this one - and he knows it, mused the Grandmaster. He thinks that he has me over a barrel, and maybe he does. But I am not utterly without resources here. The old man smiled. It was a wolfish smile, and his guest noticed that. His own look was brooding, lethal. Like a tiger, thought the older man.

They sat quietly for a few more minutes. Then finally the Grandmaster said, "I will give you a few hours of rest before your departure. When I next hear from you, I trust that it will be good news."

"Of course," said the dark man, who then rose and left, without excusing himself.

A number of minutes passed before the Grandmaster withdrew his cell phone. He pressed a few keys, waited a moment, and then spoke.

"I am putting a stop loss in place on Operation #39," he said, with just a hint of relish.

"Operation #39?!?" said the voice at the other end. "But ... that hasn't even started yet!"

The Grandmaster's tone grew more ominous. "Is it the weather? Is that the reason everyone is questioning my orders today?"

The voice at the other was instantly contrite. "No, sir. I'm sorry! You just ... it's so ... unusual."

The old man felt momentarily charitable. "It is unusual. But necessary." He paused to let his words sink in, and then said, "Send the team lead to me immediately. I wish to bring her up to date before her departure." He barely gave the man on the other end a change to acknowledge before hanging up.

We'll see who wins this battle, he thought, the Tiger … or the Wolf.

The Following Day

Cambodia, 1528

It was late morning when they rolled into Phnom Pehn. The heat was becoming oppressive, but there would still be time to find the man they wanted today. Or so Khieu Chea thought.

He looked at his comrades and saw they were gawking like a bunch of tourists. He was about to bring them up short when he realised that this worked to his advantage. They looked like a bunch of peasants who had never seen a city before, and that was exactly what they were supposed to be. He relaxed then and closed his eyes for a minute, enjoying the heat of the sun as the ox-cart trundled along

He wanted to laugh. Just a few weeks earlier he was awaiting transfer to a U.N. state that still had the death penalty, where he would be put to death for his so-called "crimes". Then the enigmatic Grandmaster and his people had pulled a switch - he had no idea how - and whisked him away from his fate. He remembered reading with some amusement his own epitaph. How was it that American humorist had put it? "The reports of his death were greatly exaggerated." Some poor look-alike fool had died in his place.

The papers had noted that he had gone mad in his last days. Khieu Chea smiled at that. He could imagine his "double" screaming that it wasn't him, he wasn't Khieu Chea, they had it all wrong, until he broke and just sat there in a catatonic stupor, resigned to his fate. That was what the papers had reported him to have done, and if it was in the papers, it had to be true.

Well, better him than me. Another martyr for the glorious Revolution. He chuckled.

They pulled up to an inn that sat near the district where Phnom Pehn's large community of foreign artisans lived. He looked at the signs in disgust. Chinese were bad enough, but Japanese?!? He would have never believed it until that doddering old _ss of a historian had shown him the old manuscripts, and then explained to him that Japan's isolation had come later, in the 17th Century. A century or two earlier, Japanese sailors had plied the waters all the way to Malacca, and artisans had lived across the whole of Southeast Asia. The more things changed...

Khieu Chea had nearly roared with outrage when the old Slavic f_rt had told him that he would need to find a Japanese artisan.

"Are you telling me a Cambodian won't do?!?" he had shouted at the old man.

Professor Advic has remained calm in the face of Chea's abuse. "The Khmer were great stonemasons," he replied, "But Japanese smithying and piecework was far superior. That is what we need, and I am terribly sorry if the facts offend you, but that is the truth."

He had finally accepted - with reluctance - the historian's verdict. But he also resolved to see every last Japanese staining the sacred soil of his homeland with their foul presence put to death, preferably as painfully as possible. As soon as he managed to train a few Khmer smithies to replace them, that is.

An hour later it had not quite gotten to the point where it was too hot to move about, so Khieu Chea and one of his companions went into the artisan’s district in search of the smith they needed. It took longer than they hoped, but they finally found an establishment that appeared to be large enough to reasonably fill the order they were planning on placing. They caught the proprietor just before he closed his shop for the afternoon and persuaded him to let them talk business over tea.

He told the man his story. He had been down to Malacca and had seen a new kind of weapon which he thought he could sell in Phnom Penh, if he could only find a smith who could recreate it. His comrade then unwrapped the large bundle he'd carried with him on this journey and laid it in front of the artisan.

Carefully, Kheiu Chea explained how it worked. The fellow was fascinated, fingering the pieces and asking a million questions. At last he agreed to do the work, assuming that Chea would be kind enough to leave the original and answer any further question that the artisan might have. How long would it take? The Japanese rubbed his chin. Six weeks at most to manufacture the first one. Then they could talk cost and volume.

They struck the deal then and there, and drank on it. After leaving, Chea went to a fountain, took a mouthful of water and spat it out.

"Do you think he'll be able to do it?" asked his comrade.

"Yes," replied Chea. "And before we get the first ones, he'll have started selling them on the side."

Alarmed, his companion said, "What do we do about that?!?"

"Nothing," Khieu Chea replied with a smile. "We want him to do that. We're just making sure that the proper historical explanation for the spread of firearms across East Asia - among the two competing theories of our day - is the one that serves our purposes."

For a moment, his companion looked at him puzzled. Chea clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, I'll explain."

One Week Earlier

The Present Day

Milan Advic looked at the angry Cambodian. Fortunately, he'd learned to deal with outrageous behaviour during his many years at the University, especially when someone's pet theory or antiquated notion of "what really happened back then" got run over by cold, hard facts.

"Young man," he lectured - although his pupil was scarcely young, "There are two competing theories of how firearms got to East Asia - or at least to Japan."

"Everyone knows that it was the Portuguese who brought them, in 1543. They got washed ashore near Nagasaki..." began Khieu Chea.

"What everyone knows," said the dowdy academic, "or think they know - is most frequently wrong."

"But it was the Portuguese, right?" asked Chea.

"To tell the truth, we don't even know that," answered Advic. "Yes, it could have been the Portuguese, but then it could have been the Muslims."

"The Muslims?!? But Europeans invented guns!" snapped the Cambodian.

"Maybe - but again, we don't know," said the professor, showing the patience of a saint. "The Turks had guns as early as anyone in Europe did. They could have come from there."

"But the Turks never visited Japan..." argued Khieu.

"No, they didn't," replied Advic, "But you're assuming that the Japanese had to have firearms brought to them, in Japan. That's an assumption, and like most assumptions, it's quite likely to be wrong."

"Fine!" Chea shot back. "If you're the expert, tell me how they got to Japan, then."

"Some historians believe that the Muslims brought them to Southeast Asia, and that the Japanese encountered them there. Remember, we've already established that Japanese artisans lived and worked in Champa, Kampuchea, and Ayutthaya - that last kingdom was in Thailand, remember? In fact, we know that the Thai king was already training his army in the use of muskets in the first quarter of the 16th Century."

"So why do you need me to do what you're asking?" huffed Khieu Chea.

"Because among the two competing theories of how firearms got to Japan," said Milan Advic with pedantic calm, "We need to make sure that the right one is the one we prefer. That, and make sure that the Khmer had ready access to firearms, something we've never really been able to ascertain."

Three Days Later

The Present Day

Hourame listened to the Grandmaster quietly, and when he was finished sat for a while longer. Finally, she spoke.

"Would it be disrespectful for me to ask a question?" One did not make a habit of questioning the Grandmaster.

"Not at all, my dear", replied the old man, lighting another cigarette. With Hourame, he was often quite indulgent.

"If you don't trust Khieu Chea, why did you send him on this mission?" Hourame asked.

"Because we have no operative in situ with his capabilities," the Grandmaster replied.

She paused, and then pressed the point.

"But surely," she offered, "we could find someone from within the milieu who would be willing to work for us? Wouldn't that be safer?"

The Grandmaster smiled.

"Sweet Hourame," he said, "That is precisely what you will being doing. And yet," he continued, pausing to draw once more on his cigarette, "There are still thinks Khieu can do for us that no local can."

Hourame cocked her head slightly, a quizzical expression. The Grandmaster smiled broadly. Such a bright girl. I so love it when I get a chance to mentor her by leading her to see the truth with her own eyes. "Can you guess what that might be?" he asked, teasing slightly.

"It can not be knowledge," she said, readily accepting the game. "We could teach any operative anything of that nature. No," she thought aloud, "It must be something that no one from that period in Khmer history could possibly have."

"Correct," he said approvingly, "So ..."

She paused for a minute, thinking. "Khieu is a genocidal maniac. He was a ranking leader in the Khmer Rouge. He represents the worst the 20th Century has to offer."

"Exactly," purred the old man. He then drew once more on his cigarette.

"Nothing we could possibly do could ever turn a 16th Century man into a 20th Century man. We could teach him nuclear physics, but he would still be a product of 16th Century society, steeped in 16th Century values," he began. Another moment passed as he sat back, looking at his cigarette before drawing on it once more.

After a bit, he continued. "Not that the 16th Century was full of saints," he laughed, waving his cigarette hand dismissively, "But in 16th Century Southeast Asia, the rules of the game were considerably different than they would be 400 years later."

She nodded. "You're thinking of the mandala system."

He smiled. "Of course. It must end for our new Khmer state to be born."

She began to see.

The mandala system, she knew, was what scholars came to call the Southeast Asian version of feudalism. The thing was, in Southeast Asia relationships between monarchs were so much more personal - and thus much more ephemeral. This is why most of the nations in the region seemed eternally trapped in a cycle of alternating empire and decay, which a periodicity of about 150-200 years. The Thai kingdom of Ayutthaya, for instance, had been sacked by the Burmese in 1767, almost two centuries after being sacked by those same Burmese in 1569. Two centuries before that, in 1365, Ayutthaya itself - as a brand new kingdom - had subjugated its predecessor, Sukhothai. Hourame wondered momentarily if it had been knowledge of this cycle of collapse-on-schedule that had led the Americans to send their young boys to battle Ho Chi Minh's Vietnamese in 1965. Probably not, she mused. Americans know nothing of history.

The same cycle had governed the rise and fall of kingdoms through most of South Asia as well. Only the arrival of the Moghuls, with their institutions of state, based in Islam and not personal loyalties among omnipotent god-kings, had broken that pattern.

Khieu Chea was being sent back to Cambodia at a crucial moment in the history of the region. The Burmese and Khmer empires were waxing (though this latest Khmer high water mark fell far short of their last), while the Thai and Lao were waning and - outside the mandala system - Vietnam was embroiled in a civil war. The next moment at which intervention might occur would come at the end of the 18th Century, and by then Vietnam would be far too strong and Cambodia far too weak to reverse the tide of history.

"Still," she said. "There must be other Cambodian operatives you could have recruited for this who would be less dangerous. What if he turns on his own people? After all, conquest of the region - not depopulation - is the goal, so why use a man like Khieu?"

"That is where you come in," the Grandmaster said with a smile. "You will discover for Cambodia among its nobility a Great King - a genuine ruler - who will take advantage of the opportunity that is to come with the arrival of the next zenith in Khmer power and take things to the next step, to the next level. As for our 'Tiger'", said the Grandmaster, using a nickname he had given Khieu Chea behind his back, "Keep in mind that we need to do more that simply crush and subjugate the Thais once and for all – or the Burmese, for that matter. There are also", he paused to draw on his cigarette, "The Vietnamese to contend with. They are not part of the mandala system, and so the only way to deal with them is through ... other means."

Hourame shivered. She did not have to ask what the Grandmaster meant. Especially given that he had selected Khieu Chea for the job.

Two Years Later

Cambodia, 1558

Khieu Chea examined the mechanism of the musket he held before him. He cocked back the armature, and then sighted down the barrel. Finally, pulling the trigger, he heard a satisfying snap.

Almost as good as Japanese workmanship, he thought. Excellent.

He looked at the smithy. "How many people would you need to hire," he asked, "To deliver 5,000 of these in the next year?"

Three Years Earlier

The Present Day

"Isn't there a danger," asked one of the Twelve, "Of changing the past?"

"No," said the Grandmaster. "You can't change the past."

"But what about the classic time paradox...?" began another.

"There is no such thing," reiterated the old man.

He paused for a minute, took a sip of water and continued. "There are an infinite number of universes. Every time something happens that could work out in more than one way, another universe is created."

They looked at him silently. Not all of them understood, which was fine with him. "When we interfere in these other universes - in centuries corresponding to our past history - all we do is create more universes."

"How can more universes be created?!?" asked the first man. "Doesn't that violate the Law of Conservation of Energy?"

"No, of course not," said the Grandmaster. "How many universes are there, again?"

They hesitated, then one answered. "An infinite number."

"And one more than an infinite number is?" he prompted.

They sat there. Then one shook his head. "I'm sorry, but this makes my head hurt."

The Grandmaster laughed.

Twenty Months Later

Cambodia, 1529

The afternoon shadows began to lengthen, promising relief from the oppressive heat. Hourame knew that the promise was a lie; night would come and be as steamy as the day. Heat she was used to, from her native Central Asia, but not this kind of heat, this oppressive damp.

Below her lay Lovek, Cambodia's imperial capitol. It looked so ... small.

But this was 1529, and across the whole of Southeast Asia there might - might - be 40 million people. Among them, maybe a million were Khmer. Of course the capitol would look like a small town to her. By 21st Century standards, it was.

Behind her, she heard one of her maidservants enter. "You have a visitor, my Lady," she said in Khmer.

Hourame turned and saw Kiko step into the room.

They embraced, like old and dear friends, speaking each other's names. Hugging her Japanese friend, Hourame motioned for the servant to bring the refreshments she'd had them prepare.

"Vindo, Kiko, meu amiga, e bebida chá com mim," she said in flawless Portuguese. Kiko laughed.

"Você está aprendendo," she said. "It took you long enough..."

They continued in Portuguese, knowing that the servants were unlikely to understand and - more importantly - wouldn't be startled by the use of a language they had never heard. What else would the Muslim woman speak to her Japanese friend, but the Iberian tongue?

"You know, some of us thought you would just stay in the 21st Century shirking your duty," jibed Kiko.

"I've been busy these last eight months," retorted Hourame with a laugh.

"Eight months?" said Kiko, startled. "We haven't been here that long."

"No, you've been here four months. But I took eight before I left," replied Hourame.

Kiko shook her head. "I am going to have a hard time getting used to this 'relative time' thing. So what did you do all that time?"

"You first," said Hourame. That was her right; after all, she was in charge.

"We've been busy," observed Kiko. "We've managed to recruit a lot of assets, and not just here."

"Have you penetrated the machi-yokko?" Hourame asked, using the medieval term for Japanese "gambler gangs" - what would later be known as the yakuza.

Kiko smiled. "We own the machi-yokko," she proclaimed with pride. "Here, and in Kompot - and in Macau. We're close to controlling them in Manila as well."

"And the Chinese?" asked Hourame.

"There are two gangs in Phnom Penh," replied Kiko, "And we control them both. We are making inroads into Vietnam and Burma as well."

Hourame shook her head in admiration. "This is better than we had hoped. Do we have a spy in the Palace?"

Kiko turned her palms upward. "Not yet, but that wasn't one of our initial objectives."

Hourame acknowledged this with a nod. "No, but now it is. What about the Cambodians themselves? Do we have good opportunities there?"

"Yes," replied Kiko.

"Then expand your influence among the Cambodian people themselves, as well as the Cham, and penetrate the Royal compound. Try to get people in place in Lan Xang, too - but not at the expense of your other objectives."

"Anything else?" asked Kiko.

"Increase your presence in the countryside, especially the Mekong delta. When Khieu Chea finally starts setting up an organisation, that's where he'll build his base. I want his organisation infiltrated from the start."

"Khieu Chea," Kiko mused. "I have to tell you, I don't like having him loose."

"Neither do I, but the Grandmaster insists that he is needed," said Hourame, curtly but with enough obvious distaste that Kiko understood how Hourame really felt. "Has he kept his end of the bargain?"

"As far as it goes," said Kiko. "Last year he introduced the first snapping matchlocks to our artisans, just like Dr. Advic wanted. They're all over the place now, and - as Advic predicted - the Japanese have modified the firing mechanism to keep the match from being extinguished by the impact with the pan."

"Keep an eye on him. He'll betray us if he can," said Hourame. Kiko nodded.

After a moment, Hourame continued asking questions. "Is Miro in town?"

"No," said Kiko, "But he left me a report. He has people from Goa to Macau and can lay his hands on a small band of mercenaries any time you need them. He can also get you access to any of the missions the Portuguese have set up, if you pretend to be Christian."

Hourame smiled to herself. I picked the right team, she thought.

"All right," she finished. "I need to get moving. We'll meet next ..." she pulled out her diary and thumbed through a couple of pages, "In five years."

"That'll be next week," Kiko said with a laugh.

"Tomorrow for me," replied Hourame.

"You still owe me a report on what you've been up to," said Kiko with a raised eyebrow.

"We'll talk about it tomorrow - next week - whenever we get together next. Over dinner," finished Hourame.

"My place, then," said Kiko.

"Deal," laughed Hourame.