NationStates Jolt Archive

Queensbury, Republic of Bennington

Against the rhythmic lapping of the ocean, against the bright white and mellow yellows of the high skyline, against the sickly sweet tincture of gasoline imparting its aroma into the floral fragrance could be heard the cascading cadences of the native insects, rubbing their exoskeletons in songs and the chirping of air serenading the night in sonnets. The city of Queensbury sat astride the Maurice River as it emptied into the Azazian Sea, and the two banks and the coast were lined with an elaborate park system, the tendrils of concrete and asphalt avenues slowing creeping away from the ferns and palms and grottoes until the first stucco hotels climbed like vines around the sky scraping pillars of commerce, shrouded in steel and glass. As the cool breeze blew off the sea the tiny district of Kensington defied the stillness of the coast as music blared from low-slung shops topped by ethnically segregated residences.

Inside one of these small apartments, Alexei Tavloski sat fingering the last piece of bread in his cramped kitchen. A quick glance around the room, Alexei could see almost all he owned: his microwave, toaster, oven, and blender all sitting on the pseudo-wood counter-top of his bedroom. In his living room sat his mattress, dresser, and floor lamp. And at the center was his table at which Alexei sat, reclining in his chair so that only the rear two legs made contact with the stained carpeting. With one stubby hand running over the hardened bread, the other through his coarse black mess hanging off his chin. He parted his mouth as if to speak – then shut it quickly, squeezing his full pink lips tight. Next to the chipped white plate sat a cup of steaming tea, its sweet aroma suffocated by the stench of dirty laundry in the corner of his apartment.

“I guess it’s like this,” Alexei finally managed. “Them Englishmen, them bastards in Imperium, they don’t give a rat’s ass about us out here. Here we is with a single loaf of bread for a week, the whole lot of us you see. The whole damn lot. And that… poor excuse of a man Tetley, he sits high and mighty in that walled castle eating all the damn caviar he wishes. Figures I s’pose. Damn Englishmen eating good Russian caviar while we Russians starve.” Alexei paused for a moment, staring far beyond the loaf in his hand. “Them there in the capital. Them not doing a damn thing for us out here.” The intense light that had previously highlighted the scars, crags, and lines of Tavloski’s aged face suddenly dimmed. He looked up at the source, “Good?”

Office of the Prime Minister, the Citadel
Imperium, Republic of New Britain

“What the bloody hell?! Goddamnit!” His head completely shaven, Howard Robertson’s eyes screamed murder with the light glaring off the smooth scalp as if a spotlight beaming from an inquisitor’s office. In the midst of his continuing string of expletives a slender, shoulder-length black haired woman strode into the office – all but ignoring the daily morning ranting. Her cobalt blue eyes, unflinching, found Robertson rummaging the stacks of papers on his desk.

“Here, Howard.” She extended her hand, giving to Robertson the blue manila folder for which he had been so frantically searching. “Interior had some last minute additions.”

“Bastards.” Robertson swore. “The staff meeting begins…”

“Five minutes.”

“Damn, alright. When I get back I want the economic report on Juristan summarized and on my desk.”

“Got it.”

Several rooms over, a balding man unafraid to show his remaining crown of white hairs sat with his grey reading glasses perched upon his nose, his face scrutinizing several satellite photographs. He shook his head at the morning shouting of Robertson, and checked his watch. Five minutes. He slid the one glossy page over, revealing another – this one an overlay with concentric circles of shades of red and orange. The next line drawings. The next a small table. He tapped the small button sitting on his desk and leaned into the speaker. “Henrietta?”

“Yes, Mr. Heath?”

“A blue folder if you please.”

Above the first floor of the three-story, tropically-designed colonial mansion the black silken sports coat lay sprawled out on the chair where it had fallen only hours before. Next to the chair, on the floor, sat the red tie with small blue and white flowers while the crumpled sheets lay beneath the slender, and uncommonly short Prime Minister – asleep in the trousers from the flight the night before.

A quick rap on the door interrupted dreams of slender, petite women doing adult things. Alistair Tetley turned his head into the soft pillow. Another rap.

“Mr. Prime Minister, it’s now 07:00.”

With horrendous accuracy – although not unappreciable given the physical fatigue and complete apathy on the throw – the alarm clock ended up shattering on the heavy wooden door. And with his face still buried in down feathers Tetley heard his childish response fail as the door opened, the shaded window across from the door flooding the previously dark room in bright morning sun.

“Sir, it’s time to wake up.”

“God, Edward, I just fell asleep.”

“Yessir, but your staff is waiting.”

“And I’m sure Howard is pissed like usual.”

Yessir. Like usual.”

The office of the Prime Minister afforded for a great deal of odds and ends – in Tetley’s case of the historical and literary variety with the antique bookshelves holding numerous hardbound copies of ancient dramas, philosophical texts, atlases, and even the odd novel or collection of poetry. On the table tops sat busts of famous Azazian statesman, authors, and other culturally significant figures. And on the stiff and entirely un-luxurious couches sat the bristly and tired staff of the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. With the door to the private hall to the residence opening, the collective staff stood and in unison greeted their boss.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, but I just woke up having just gone to bed – so I’d appreciate it if this morning we were short and to the point.”

Chief of Staff Tobias Heath smiled at the rest of his staff, signaling that he would take the lead in this morning’s briefing. He stood and placed his blue manila folder on the desk of his long-time friend and protégé. “Sir, ORNI conducted an in-depth analysis of the defence capabilities of our new friend – from whom you just arrived.”

“It’s good to see our friends in Whitehall, if anyone, enjoys the long hours of the evening during which I ought to be asleep.”

Heath smiled, “sadly, a few photographs of concern. They captured photographs of this facility under construction, and a few more sites built and with equipment being brought in during the trade talks.”

“Does the Admiralty have anything to say about this yet?”

“Yes, sir, they do. You’ll be meeting with Lord Marlborough at 08:00.”

“Alright, what’s next?”

Robertson looked at Heath, who nodded with permission – the order of the day’s business already having been assigned by Heath, the signal from the Deputy Chief of Staff merely being a gesture of civility. He too handed the Prime Minister a blue folder.

“Not more pictures, Howard?”

“No, sir. Just for you, words.”

“Words, Howard, are meaningless if not arranged in cogent sentences, paragraphs, and chapters.”

“Touché, sir.” Robertson paused as Tetley opened the file. “Early last evening the ABC broadcast a report on the increasing cost of foodstuffs and its ramifications on the lower classes. A human interest story on a Russian named Alexei Tavloski. Otherwise unimportant except his ranting and railing on the English here in the capital has sparked something in the SRP—“

“Guryev’s getting involved in this?” Tetley interrupted.

Robertson shook his head, “I don’t think so, sir. The speech on the second page came from Vladimir Velchenko from the city of Regal; and it appears that the party is beginning to fracture or at least be slipping out of Guryev’s control. With their continuing decline in election after election it’s possible Velchenko and the younger Russian generation are attempting to reignite the race issue. And I think this inflammatory interview gave this Velchenko the lighter fluid he needed.”

“Has Ivan come out to counter this Velchenko?”

“No, sir. Our guess is that things really are beginning to hit the fan in the SRP and with elections scheduled in the coming months he can’t afford to lose control of the party and lose his position. Ivan is going to stay silent, let it seem like Velchenko speaks for the party.”

“That party is a bloody thorn in our side. We twist one way, and we end up bleeding for weeks.” Tetley sighed, remembering the brutal civil war that the Russian descendants had waged for equality. The last thing the UK needed now was another race war.

“But that’s not the worst of it, Mr. Prime Minister. The report is largely true. The increasing cost of foodstuffs is sapping the wallets of the lower classes – we have queues beginning to develop in cities like Queensbury, Breningrad, and Philadelphia as more and more people head to soup kitchens because simple staples like bread and milk are no longer affordable.”

“And it won’t be a few weeks until the first grain shipments arrive.” Tetley muttered, finishing Robertson’s thought. “We need to look at a way of controlling the price. We have over three billion people to feed. We need to keep the people content for a few more weeks. And then pray that this deal doesn’t screw us over.”

Regal, Republic of New Russia

The coastal city of Regal had been an English fortification during the two civil wars on the Azazian Islands – and had yet to truly fall into Russian hands with the English majority firmly routed to keeping in office any and every English politician. Yet, the city boasted the deepest harbour in the northwest of the nation and for that very reason meant the city was the heart of the Russian republics. English blood pumping to the Russian capillaries.

Nestled in the hills and mountains to the west of the city a small compound could be found with slate and granite facades holding strips of sturdy blue glass. Atop the compound flew the flag of the United Kingdom as well as the traditional flag of the inhabitant’s former motherland – Russia. At the window of the highest floor stood an aged man with a golden cane in hand and thick coke-bottle glasses resting upon his nose. In his free hand a crumpled piece of paper, in his eyes a raging fury hidden by the frailty of his body. A timid knock on the heavy wooden door brought the elderly statesman to the here and now. “Come in.”

Into the Spartan office strode an extremely tall and slender man, his angular face betrayed no emotion his cold blue eyes devoid of any warmth and compassion. Dressed simply in a black suit, with a black shirt, and a black tie he stared down at the smaller, hunched man before him. “Good day, Ivan. You called?”

“Indeed, Vladimir. We need to talk.”

A thin smile crossed the face of Vladimir Velchenko as the two proceeded to sit across from each other in the posh upright chairs staged in front of the same bank of windows. Velchenko knew the reason for the call. Yet the old man could do little to stop him at this point. The gears were already turning.

“Vladimir, what are we going to do with you?” Ivan Guryev asked. “You do understand our position in Parliament, do you not?”

“Indeed, Ivan.” Vladimir replied with his intonation and word choice mocking the leader of his party. “The Russian people continue to slip further and further into the margins of UK politics and overall priority of the government in Imperium. Conceding point after point to the DSP and their cronies does nothing but make us appear ever more impotent in the eyes of our constituents. The elections are in mere months. We’re going to lose even more seats, Ivan. We need to fight. And to fight we need ammunition. This interview gives us ammunition.”

Guryev nodded, his face – like that of any good politician – showing none of the red he now saw. In part, his protégé’s words were true as the Socialist Revolutionary Party continued to lose seats in election after election. More and more Russians agreed with the wide-sweeping “reforms” of the UK that brought them economic prosperity with the price of losing their national heritage. Already on the table for after the election was a re-design of the national flag, styled after the Union Flag of Great Britain. Gone were any traces of the Russian designs that had for decades been prominent in any designs or images. The monarch no longer had to abide by the Russification of his name, and rumours abounded that soon the capital of Imperium and the port of Breningrad would return to their original English names.

“You are missing the point, Vladimir. If we turn against the Democratic Socialists they shall retaliate by further destroying the legally enshrined rights of our people.”

“Not unless we switch allegiances.” Velchenko smiled.

Imperium, Republic of New Britain

The brandy tasted particularly sweet on the increasingly overcast afternoon. And Daniel Collins knew exactly why. A rift had appeared between the two socialist parties in Parliament. With his colleagues and peers gathered around during the weekend break, the brandy and cigars were exchanged cordially and cheerfully. With his trademark blonde hair done to the typical exacting specifications, he raised his glass. “Gentlemen,” he began, “to the demise of the Democratic Socialist Party.” He listened happily to the choruses of “Cheers!,” Huzzah!,” and “Here, Here!” He took a soothing sip of his drink and placed it back on the wicker coaster.

“But, gentlemen,” Collins boomed, quieting the mob. “We must now work very carefully to ensure the envisioned split leaves Mr. Tetley with his back against the wall. I envision a time in the coming months when our party rules in His Majesty’s service and we can counter the innumerable insults to our grand country caused by the oaf Tetley.”

“That’s a lot of supposition, Daniel…” countered an older gentleman from the rear of the room. Perceval Caldwell had served for many years as an MP – and a few times as Minister of Foreign Affairs when the Conservatives had actually succeeded in winning an election.

“Yes, Perceval, but regardless it is a crack in the invincible armour of the DSP. And we must exploit it.”

“I wholeheartedly agree, ole chap, yet the fact remains we’re counting that Velchenko’s statements reflect that of the party – which we simply don’t know. Guryev’s staff have yet to comment and else wise we are hearing very little out of the Russian quarter.”

Collins laughed. “And that, Perceval, sounds like discord to me.” He laughed again then sipped from his brandy. “A most harmonious and joyful discord, if I may add.”

***

On the other side of the capital, a similar conversation could be heard in the offices of the Prime Minister. With the Prime Minister soundly asleep for the past hour in a short catnap, the Deputy Chief of Staff sat anchored in his reclining leather swivel chair, glancing over the reports and statements being issued from the Conservative Party and from within the Democratic Socialist Party. Robertson rubbed his brow and slammed his head onto his desk. The loud sound drawing his ever attentive secretary.

“What do you need?”

“A gun.”

“I don’t think security will let me bring one in.”

“Figures. Set up a meeting with the chiefs of staff for MPs Blair, Deveraux, Bailey, Thompson, and that new kid Bashir.”

“I’ll make sure not to call him a kid.”

A few doors over Tobias Heath read a facsimile of the report on his deputy’s desk. He too cared not for the dissent within the party. However, Howard was in charge of domestic affairs – and bitching MPs certainly fell under that category. After all, Heath had dealt with them for years. More to Heath’s own purview, however, were more intelligence reports on the alleged missile silos under construction and more concrete figures on the lethality of the weapons expected within the hardened structures. Additionally, the Royal Navy had requested more anti-capital ship cruise missiles for the fleet of battleships and the super-dreadnaughts under construction after the test on aged and decommissioned carriers proved their ability to devastate such large vessels in a single, swift blow. Too much of a bloody business for his own liking – yet the request from the Admiralty would likely run into problems on the floor as the super-dreadnaught programme had already run over initial cost estimates.

Robertson grabbed his jacket, fearing the worst as the overcast skies grew darker and darker. Heading out the door he flashed his ID to the guard at the desk and exited the building walking quickly over to the small, yet multi-storied coffee shop within the walls of the Citadel. As he found an outdoors table he glanced around at the brick fortress designed to keep out restless natives opposed to English colonization by a design heavily influenced by the successful kremlins built in the Russian colony cities. In modern times the walls kept out the hungry press – which were allowed small offices in the Office of the Prime Minister but otherwise banned from the seat of Azazian governmental power. He flagged down the underpaid waiter and ordered a cup of a tea imported from Avinapolis – one that was quickly becoming all the rage for its naturally sweet flavour. Finally, he saw in the distance the massive gates opening for a military officer – likely someone from the Admiralty. Which meant from the opposite direction would come the chiefs of staff he was waiting to meet, the big commotion serving as a distraction during which the aides could slip in relatively unnoticed.

Five minutes later, the tea having finally steeped to its perfection, the aides for the Minister of Defence, Foreign Affairs, and three other MPs arrived in their own olive to grey coloured trenchcoats. Robertson smiled and waved his arms, inviting them to sit at the wrought iron table, covered by a circular piece of frosted glass. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.”

“Good afternoon, Howard.” The men responded in unison.

“I’m here because we need to discuss what’s going on with the SRP. The media is hounding the Prime Minister’s Press Office and the silence from Guryev is only strengthening the fire – we need a way out, and this is where Tobias needs you.” Robertson paused to enjoy his tea.

“But Vladimir is right you know.” A sharply dressed man with gelled hair interjected. “Mr. Bashir is quite concerned about the deteriorating relations between the English and Russian people, especially in the northwest of the Kingdom. Race crimes in the cities of Regal and Archangel are on the rise and the vulgarities spouted by the interviewee in that ABC report only highlight the worsening the situation by bringing it to the national consciousness.”

Robertson snapped his head back. “Yeah, but we can’t exactly concede to that point right now. Listen, the Prime Minister’s policies are benefiting the Russian people. Look at the surging economic growth. Look at the increasing incomes, especially in the resource-rich northwest republics. They’re growing rapidly.”

“But the problem, Howard, is that they’re starving.”

“So is everyone else!”

The table sat in silence.

Robertson nodded. “We are acutely aware of the problem.”

“With all due, respect, Howard,” Elizabeth Lane added, “you may be aware but you’re not doing anything about it. And I don’t need to tell you how my boss is ready to side with Mr. Bashir in this case.”

Robertson smirked. “Elizabeth, the Minister of Defence and the Prime Minister haven’t seen eye to eye since Day 1 in office. Of course he’s ready to side with Bashir. I don’t need you two to come out all guns blazing in support of Tobias and myself. We just need you to stay silent on the sidelines while we come out with all guns blazing. The last thing Parliament needs is the destruction of the two socialist parties through political in-fighting and bickering just months before the election.”

“But then where do my boss and Mr. Thompson sit in on this charade?” Asked Lindsay McDowell.

“Tobias would like the Minister of Foreign Affairs to be at the head of this PR campaign to quell unrest within the United Kingdom.”

“But Howard, Ms. Deveraux is the Minister of Foreign Affairs. Where does inter-island politics fall under her jurisdiction or even concern?”

“Her job, Lindsay. Ms. Deveraux serves at the pleasure of His Majesty at the recommendation of Mr. Tetley. And I don’t need to remind you how well His Majesty and the Prime Minister get along. As for you, Rachel, Mr. Thompson as the senior non-cabinet level MP in the party needs to come out firmly behind the Prime Minister.”

“Why shouldn’t we follow Bashir? Or anyone else who has vocalized discontent with the administration? We could simply run up and down the floor with a vote of no confidence, sack the government, then win the elections and put my boss or others in the Citadel.”

“Mr. Thompson ought to be aware of the clout that the Prime Minister still wields, even if ousted. His Majesty and my boss get along quite well.”

The table sat in silence as each pondered their own place, and the place of their respective bosses. Robertson drank calmly from his tea. “Ladies, gentlemen. The DSP will not lose this election on account of this Velchenko chap shooting his mouth off to the press. The DSP will not lose this election on account of the SRP collapsing upon itself. The DSP will certainly not lose the election because of Collins. The DSP will lose the election if it begins to divide itself. We are leading this country through a historically perilous period and any sign of falter or self-doubt will oust us.” He finished his tea with one last gulp and looked at the attentive faces of his audience. “Now, I respect the balls that Mr. Bashir has got himself. Going up against the Prime Minister. Let me assure you, the Prime Minister will hear of it. Hell, he might even earn a few points for it because it shows that the DSP is not oblivious to the plight of the Russian people or the lower class in general. However, any more public dissent will damn this party. And I don’t know about you, but don’t want out of a job just yet as I’m quite happy here in Imperium. Is everything understood?”

The group nodded, each answering affirmatively slowly and deliberately while waiting their turn. No longer were they the unanimous and cheerful chorus.

Office of the Prime Minister, the Citadel
Imperium, Republic of New Britain

A clean, compact room adorned with the seal of His Majesty and the Prime Minister served as the orifice through which the head of the government of the United Kingdom spoke to its people and the people of the rest of the world. Behind the simple black podium stood a tall and slender woman in her late thirties dressed in a black suit with her black shoulder length hair falling on the pinstriped jacket, which covered the bright blue blouse beneath. Victoria Clarke smiled and turned his narrow face unblemished by lines and other marks of age as the television cameras prepared to switch to a live feed to each respective news outlet.

“Good afternoon, everybody. Thank you for being here on this wonderfully rainy day. Just a few housekeeping matters to attend to before we get on to the questions, the Prime Minister met with Lord Admiral Marlborough to discuss acquisitions proposed by the Royal Navy with regards to advanced capability missiles to outfit the new classes of warships entering service. For the rest of the morning he has been recovering from jetlag after returning late last night from his state visit to Novikov where he signed an agreement to secure foodstuffs for the people of the United Kingdom in exchange for natural resources needed by the Novikovian state. Later this afternoon, he will take a trip via motorcade to Newcastle where, as required by law, he will brief His Majesty on the particulars of the trade agreement as well as the state of affairs in Parliament. Tonight, the Prime Minister will be traveling to Islington for the opening of the new Royal Concert Hall where the Islington Orchestra will perform a selection of classical and popular music in honour of the Prime Minister and his achievements throughout his term as Prime Minister. The Prime Minister will then be returning to the capital and will prepare for this week’s legislation in Parliament. Now, are there any questions for today?”

The typical mob scene ensued as reporters and journalists jockeyed for a moment of silence in which their question could be heard. Among the din rose a single man’s voice. “Yes, Victoria, does the Prime Minister have any comment on the statement read by Mr. Velchenko regarding the quote ‘utter disregard of the Tetley administration and that of the Democratic Socialists as a whole towards the plight of the lower classes.’”

Clarke smiled. “The Prime Minister most strenuously disagrees with Mr. Velchenko as the latest economic reports from the Ministry of Trade and Industry point not to declining standards of living and/or wages but rather to rapid economic growth that is helping to sustain an increase in wages above that of the low rate of inflation. In short, Mr. Velchenko’s statements are utterly false.”

“But Victoria, does the Prime Minister deny that the Russian people are suffering?” another voice called out.

“No, Ivan. The Prime Minister recognizes the injustices and sympathizes with those struggling to make ends meet. However, Parliament will be discussing a plan to be put forth by Mr. Iain Bashir at the request of the Prime Minister to increase funding for re-education to those affected by the decline of the manufacturing industries, especially in the northwest regions of the Kingdom.”

“Why not an increase in the minimum wage?” Ivan Glokov followed up.

“The Prime Minister feels that the better long-term interest of those suffering from low income will be served by training in the new higher-pay jobs being created through the market reforms enacted by this administration. Additionally, the long-term interest of retraining funding will benefit businesses by not adding to their short-term costs of paying more to unskilled workers. Instead, they will pay fair wages to those retrained workers and can save the money now for reinvestment into the continuing economic strength of the United Kingdom.”

“Victoria,” a different reporter called out, “what you can you tell us about a lunch between the Deputy Chief of Staff Howard Robertson and the chiefs of staff for MPs Bashir, Bailey, Thompson and Ministers Blair and Deveraux?”

“Mike, I can only tell you that I’m not Howard’s mother and if he wishes to sit with his friends and eat lunch he is more than entitled to do so.”

“So that meeting bears no relation to the plans you just announced for MP Bashir’s plan for increasing funding to job reeducation plans?”

“Howard just ate lunch with a few of his university friends to congratulate them on the stunning successes witnessed by the United Kingdom under the direction of the Democratic Socialist Party in the past several years. Thank you ladies and gentlemen, I’ll have more at the wrap-up session tonight.”

Clarke strode off the stage quickly and headed back to the Communications Office where she found her direct superior Nigel Paige fretting by pacing back and forth. “Nigel, you’re going to wear out the carpet that way.”

“The taxpayers can afford it.”

“How’d the briefing go?”

“Not poorly, but could have been a little better.”

“I wasn’t expecting them to have gotten wind of Howard’s lunch.”

“It’s the press. Somehow, they know all.”

The Citadel
Imperium, Republic of New Britain

The brick façade of the Citadel stood in stark contrast to the more modern and postmodern styles of architecture to be found outside in Elizabeth Square. Around the cobbled square, which in truth mirrored more closely a pedestrian roundabout and not so much an actual square, stood a large monolith, intricately carved to represent King Onah Tupau – the first king of the Azazian Trade Confederation, the first attempt at political organization on the archipelago. Painstakingly carved from volcanic glass the large black statue stood amidst potted palms and ferns native to the island of New Britain while small low slung building sheathed in reflective blue, green, and bronze glass threw back the picturesque image all around the little plaza.

The only vehicles truly allowed on the cobbled street were the motorcade vehicles of the Prime Minister, which idled behind the lowering gates, which crossed a small moat ringed further by a wrought iron fence topped with beautiful and delicate spikes meant to impale the natives who dared assault the capital of the English colony. Inside the middle limousine Alistair Tetley briefly skimmed, once more, the abstract of the trade agreement signed with Novikov what seemed like years ago. He handed a copy over to Robertson, who always accompanied the Prime Minister in delivering briefings to His Majesty Michael I. “So what do you think, Howard?”

“Honestly, Mr. Prime Minister?”

“Honestly, Howard.”

“I think you caved, sir. I think you should never have given into their demand about monetary compensation.”

Tetley frowned and glared at Robertson above his glasses and below his eyebrows. “That simply happened to be one of their little caveats and besides, we can re-negotiate the treaty in three years. Their economy is growing and I don’t see them demanding fiscal compensation for a drop in prices.”

“That’s well and good, Mr. Prime Minister, I am merely trying to point out that you have left a hole in the treaty and that’s one that I’m fairly certain that Collins is going to try to point out as a weakness in your negotiating skills.”

“Weakness my ass, Howard. Negotiating our damn budget is far harder than that trade deal. But I do see your point.” Tetley sighed. Truth be told, the trade deal was quite shoddy in its specificity. Yet, the United Kingdom was getting the food it desperately needed at a modest cost – when it could have been far, far higher. And ultimately that had been the goal: buying food, no matter the cost. Collins and the rest of the United Kingdom were simply unaware of how drastic the food shortages were becoming.

Per tradition, and part per legal obligation, Alistair Tetley now sat in the backseat of his limousine being driven to His Majesty’s suburban residence in Newcastle, an aptly named town consisting of just the summer residence in the mountains to the west of the capital. Sitting upon a hill, partly built into the hill, the Barent Castle reflected of a need to secure the royal government from then common raids by the natives, incensed at the mandatory forfeiture of their land for the purpose of developing the then Commonwealth. The current monarch, Michael I, preferred the estate because of its relative isolation in the rampantly overpopulated state and so most of these meetings took place with a panoramic view of high above the capital.

Slowly the motorcade made its way up the cliché, but true to life, spiraling mountain road. Inside, Tetley and Robertson continued to debate the merits and demerits of the trade treaty while back in Imperium Tobias Heath rubbed his temples in sheer fatigue. The past several hours had been spent talking to Collins’ chief of staff discussing what the Conservatives would need to appropriate more funding to the Royal Navy for arms procurements. What Heath feared most would be Tetley’s rage when he learned what he had to give up in order to give the Royal Navy the funding it wanted and/or needed. Although the government had indeed begun to issue national identification cards after the nuclear incident in Carthage, the law had been a mere temporary idea set to expire ten years hence. Collins wanted the whole thing made permanent in an affront to the Democratic Socialist Party’s desire to maintain civil liberties in spite of increased terror threats at home. The only potential benefit to the move was that Heath could file away the resistance of the Conservatives to allot more money to the Royal Navy as anti-patriotism in the coming elections despite Heath’s personal word to the contrary. But then again, in Imperium, things like honour, integrity, and promises meant little more than graphite writing on paper that could be both changed or even erased on a mere whim.

In Newcastle, Tetley and Robertson found themselves in King Michael I’s private study, overlooking the New Thames River below the castle. The massive vaulted ceiling allowed for enormous tapestries to be hung in addition to massive chandeliers once lit by gas but now electricity. The walls were adorned with portraits of Michael’s predecessors and of other famous works collected from around the globe from the various centuries of history. Around a finely polished cherry table the three men sat: Tetley and Robertson dressed professionally in their suits with the King in his robes on the leather recliner and not the stiff-backed throne. The two men knew why, but dared not speak it unless the King brought it up.

Michael I was gravely ill at the young age of 35. Although he refused to comment on the illness in public, the rumor around Parliament was that he had some genetically inherited ailment that was slowly killing him – though none would speculate on how long their monarch had to live, nor even what was killing him. Nonetheless, he carried on his duties as best as possible from his more remote estates preferring to be out of the public eye. His Prime Minister, Alistair Tetley, truly did run the government and the state. And the three men in the room were well aware of that fact.

“Thank you for having us, Your Majesty.” Tetley began, handing over the official copy of the treaty to his boss.

“It’s always a pleasure, Your Majesty.” Robertson added.

“So I hear you got to go out on a little trip, Alistair?”

“Indeed, Your Majesty. Believe it or not, Tobias and Howard here actually let me leave the country to get some work done.”

“Splendid, ol’ chap. Splendid.” The King paused as he entered into a brief fit of violent coughing. “Excuse me briefly, gentlemen.” The monarch summoned one of his many butlers and whispered into his ear. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“No thank you, sir.” The two guests replied in unison.

“Very well then, Geoffrey, that’ll be all.” Michael I turned his attention once more to the matters at hand and breezed through the document. “I’m glad to see you’ve been working on this food problem, gentlemen. I need not remind you how serious the problem has become – in fact since you left the Citadel a riot has broken out in Archangel. The situation is quite dire – but I’m glad to see you’re doing something about it. What did we have to give up?”

“Natural resources and cash considerations should the price of the commodities dip below a necessary value for the Novikovian government.”

“Not unreasonable, I’m assuming that last part is renegotiable?”

“Indeed, Your Majesty.”

“Excellent. How long until the first food shipments reach the Azazian markets?”

“We’re probably looking at… Howard?”

“Roughly two weeks, sir.”

King Michael I nodded. "Very good then, gentlemen." Pausing again for another fit of violent coughing the Prime Minister and his Deputy Chief of Staff exchanged nervous glances as their last visit had not been nearly so bad. The monarch finally returned to the conversation with a sip of tea brought by his personal aide. "Alright, so I also hear there's something in the works about a new bridge for the country?"

Tetley nodded. "Yes, Your Majesty..."

“Ma’am?” One of the faceless orderlies which bustled back and forth across Gabriko leaned into the sprawling office of Prime Minister Ulyanov. Incapacitated, his post – and office – had been left to his subordinate, Monika Kacnerova. Filled with a vast collection of books and pamphlets of Ulyanov’s private possession, and doubly crowded with the unpacked boxes of his subordinate’s own collection, it took some effort to find Kacnerova in the darkened room.

Sitting in the corner, her chair turned to face a darkened window, Kacernova had a less difficult time noticing the orderly’s shadow stretching into the room. She turned and gave an aggravated sigh, setting down a lengthy defense brief. Her face seemed to be fixed in a small perpetual scowl, and a glare would usually send most of the underlings scurrying.

This one didn’t leave, but simply looked down, appearing almost embarrassed. His silhouette filled the doorway as he stepped to the side. He was brave, considering her reputation; she’d give him credit there.

“The Ministry of Economic Policy felt it was necessary to inform you that…” His voice trailed as he pulled a small notepad from his breast pocket. Moron. ”That there has been an explosion at Putlov Ironworks in Duma. Combined with the damage from the fires last month in Zvolen, this could cause a significant setback to the five-year plan.”

The news fell like a stack of bricks. Kacnerova stood up in her seat. Aside from serving as temporary Prime Minister, she had to worry about her image in Parliament. Damn fools a Putlov, why’d it happen on her watch?

“Send for a driver, and inform Ulyanov that I’ll be visiting him in an hour. Get me the files as soon as you can.” She began to move in animated and exaggerated steps, clutching up her files. “Have you told Fydorovich yet?”

“Ma’am, his office is in Duma.”

“I know that,” She was snapping at him now. This could be a disaster for her public image, and one she could not afford. “Just contact him and make sure he stays informed. I want to know exactly what this is going to cost, and I want to know when I return.” She stuffed the handful of papers into a carrying case and tucked that under the arm of her pinstriped jacket, heading for the door.

“Oh, and someone fire the idiot at Putlov.” If someone had to burn for this, she thought - and someone would - it may as well not be her.

Residence of the Prime Minister, The Citadel
Imperium, Republic of New Britain

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! The electronic noise rose in decibels until it reached a grating, annoying, irritating cadence that gave the sleeping Prime Minister the impetus which resulted in yet another broken alarm clock. Seconds later, the loud thud and crash and pattering of alarm clock debris was answered with a resounding ring on the corded telephone at the opposite side of the bedroom. A phone placed specifically so that the bachelor Prime Minister would be forced to throw off his covers, put on his robe and stand and get his blood flowing. Which he did with a grumble and a string of muttered swears.

The floor below the irritable Prime Minister, the offices and cubicles came to life as worker and soldier bees began to buzz about shifting papers and morning briefs from inbox to outbox to inbox again. Through the rear entrance strode the bald Robertson hurriedly fixing the tie thrown around his neck in his haphazard hurry to leave his flat in downtown Imperium. Meeting him at the entrance to the senior staff area was his secretary. “Good morning Annabel, what have you got for me today?”

The two paths met and they began to walk together towards Robertson’s office. “Morning staff meeting in forty-five, MP Bashir at 8AM before the morning session, at 9AM you have a meeting with the Council on Next Generation Rail Transportation, and then we’ll meet again and I’ll tell you how much your schedule has been screwed up by that point.”

“Anything else I need to know?”

“A preview of a report from the University of Philadelphia concerning race relations, specifically between English and Russian populations.”

Meanwhile, in a secure conference room, Tobias Heath had already been at work for nearly an hour being briefed on the events that transpired while he and the Prime Minister had slept. Captains from the different branches, economists, political scientists, and intelligence analysts all sat around the table handing over massive amounts of raw data to the Chief of Staff for the Prime Minister. “What’s this, Captain?” Heath asked of a satellite.

“Standard satellite recording of the latest VAU ships leaving port and heading out on patrol, there is nothing substantial to report on to the Prime Minister concerning immediate threats to the United Kingdom.”

“Alright, Kenneth, what have you got?”

Kenneth Harper worked for the various intelligence services in the capacity of collater extraordinaire when it came to reports on allies of the UK. His job was to report on the sordid affairs of friends. Their dirty little secrets and the skeletons in their closets. The Kingdom wanted to know. And Harper told their tales in silence. “Nothing too important to report, sir. Primarily, we’re continuing to monitor deployments within the territories of our NATO allies as well as Lindim and the VAU. Nothing too pressing.” Harper scanned his papers quickly, not yet allowing Heath to move on to items of foreign interest. “An item of limited interest given our newfound relations with the country. Ah, here it is, sir. We’re monitoring broadcasts in Novikov regarding an explosion at Putlov Ironworks in Duma, a city of approximately 20 million people. We’ve got really nothing else, sir. A rather quiet evening.”

Upstairs, Robertson breezed through the article on race relations. The press secretary prepared statements on the anticipated day’s events including the expected passing of a bill introducing tax credits to those corporations investing their capital into the pubic sector. The speechwriters wrote speeches for the park dedication this evening along the riverbank in Imperium. The floor above that, Tetley finished his tie and shouldered his jacket before flipping his wrist and inspecting the clock-face, trying to make sense of the blurry and fuzzy numbers. It normally took a little while before he came fully to his senses. But the time had come for the morning briefing He opened the doors and strode out into the hallways, finding his personal aide and bodyguards waiting at prearranged points with a cup of tea and the morning sports report. The walk down the stairs, railed together with wrought iron decorated with abstract little sculptures, terminated with the guards opening the doors to his office where his staff stood waiting.

“Good morning, Mr. Prime Minister.”

“Good morning, everyone. How are we this morning, any little petty tyrants declaring war on the world, arms dealers dealing death to countries that can’t afford even a scythe, any natural disasters wiping cities off the face of the planet?”

Heath shook his head. “No, sir. Rather quiet for a weekday. Just some troop movements to brief you on. Nothing too significant.”

Robertson cleared his throat. “Actually, Mr. Prime Minister, I received a report this morning on a study on race relations in the country. Not looking too good for us and we might need to get ready to spin it in case you’re asked about it tonight at the dedication.”

Tetley nodded in the direction of his Deputy Chief of Staff. “What have you got for me, Howard?”

“Well, sir, the report couples an economic progress report from last month with surveys of thoughts on different matters and voting trends. The Russian northwest continues to decline economically as the manufacturing centres all close and move to cheaper sources of labour while the better educated English people living in the more developed southeast around here prosper as high-paying information technology jobs flood the commercial sector. While we’re experiencing rapid growth, it’s concentrated here in the English sections of the country and that’s infuriating the Russian people. As evidenced anecdotally by that interview the other day. The concern in the study is that continuing decline of living standards in the northwest of the country could lead to violent clashes if not political upheaval resulting in the DSP losing the next election to a coalition between the Conservatives and the SRP – a combination theoretically possible given the Conservatives demands for regional autonomy.”

Tetley shook his head. “And that fool Velchenko only serves to instigate these problems. I wish we could pass legislation against speech inciting people to violence.”

“We can, sir.” Robertson responded.

“But then that throw our civil liberties right out the window and we all but yield Parliament to Collins and his cronies.” Tetley closed his eyes as the problem that had brought civil war years before seemed only to be rearing its ugly head once more. It had been cut off once before, but once more it rose and was preparing to bite back. There were just short of four months before he would have to call elections. He needed to solve this problem in the coming months. If it festered it could end his party’s reign in Parliament.

“Fredric?”

“Yes dove, I’m here. Come in.”

“I really wish you would stop calling me that. It sounds like I’m your lover.” Her heels echoed on the tile as she entered the tiny hospital room. He was softly chuckling and it carried him into a violent coughing fit. When his composure returned, he cleared his throat.

“Well it would seem that we are, politically speaking. Call it a marriage of convenience.”

“Ha,” she feigned laughter. “Convenience indeed. The only reason I’ve lasted in this party is because you need me to offset the Conservatives and take the minority vote.”

“And here I was thinking you a Nationalist. Damn the Conservatives, I don’t need to split their 2%. Maybe I’ll finally have to do away with you.” They both chuckled at this

“Well, either way, necessity isn’t love, and that’s all this is. You need me Ivanovich, more now that ever.”

“And it would seem you still need me. What’s this all about?”

“Well, sir…”

----------

Monika Kacnerova walked out of the hospital to her waiting driver knowing a great deal more than she had hoped, and yet still without any clear picture of what she was to do. Ulyanov was the politician still as ever, but it seemed his condition was worsening. His concerns laid elsewhere.

Nevertheless, he had advised a suitable course of action, both economically and politically. Perhaps he was not the man he once was, Monika thought as she mentally reviewed his recommendations, but it has been said that the simplest advice is often the best, and that was what she had been given.

11-09-3454. She typed the numbers into the aging phone provided top her by the State, and waited impatiently, clicking her nails on the hard leather armrest. Dmitri Fydorovich answered his State-owned telephone after the third ring.

“Da?”

“Dmitri. You know what happened at the Ironworks today, no?” Russian was not her forte, but it was essential to keep in touch with the Ministry of Economic Policy and Treasury – just one more part of the bureaucratic morass that was the Novikovian State.

“Yes.” He sounded almost sleepy. Probably half-drunk, and, though that was acceptable in Novikov, Kacnerova wished it were not the case. “You poor page, Iosef won’t stop reminding me.”

“Good. Listen, I need you to begin drafting a modified five-year plan to compensate. Tell me, how is this going to affect the market?”

“It won’t be pretty. We are predicting a 15% drop in manufacturing, which could increase if Putlov takes longer than two weeks to return to full production.”

An audible groan reached through the speakers and tried to strangle Dmitri. Well, she had a right to be upset; this couldn’t help her career anymore than it could help his.

"This wouldn’t be so bad,” he continued, “if we could actually repair the damage in two weeks, but I’ve seen the damage firsthand - blew a whole section of the wall right into the street. We’ll need a month just to rebuild the superstructure.”

“Don’t tell me the bad news is still coming?” She knew it was, and her sarcasm, she found, didn’t help matters.

“I’m sorry to disappoint, but the problem is without Putlov, Grozny, Zvolen, and Prostéjov don’t get the parts they need. In two weeks the surplus runs out, and manufacturing generally grinds to a halt until the damage is repaired. Just one of the problems with centeralized industry, I suppose.” He paused, letting the news sink in. “Oh, and any idea how we’re going to pay for this? Your decision to veto the Parliament’s request to discontinue work on that damn Kveta project seems to have run our coffers dry.”

“I suppose we’ll have to compensate so we don’t bounce any checks when the time comes to pay them off. Any ideas how we do that?”

“Normally, I would have some tricks up my sleeve, but since we can’t try the natural gas market thanks to the Zvolen fires, I’m fresh out. Unless agriculture doubles, we’re looking at a massive setback here.”

“How much.”

“Assuming we don’t sit back and do nothing, the expenses for these repairs and for lost production will amount to over 100 billion. If consumer confidence drops – and it will – we could have 10-15% inflation as a result.”

“Well get working on it. I want more options. I’m not going to let this kill Novikov, and I’m not going to let this kill me.”

Parliament House
Imperium, Republic of New Britain

Well if the Prime Minister feels the need to compensate for something, he should have just come right out and said it before the project began. Daniel Collins smirked, standing before the whole of Parliament. On the table was a proposal from the Royal Navy to increase funding for armament procurements to allow a greater stockpile of horrendously expensive anti-capital ship missiles for the newly completed super-dreadnaught HMS Prince of New Britain.

From his seat next to the podium, Tetley shook his head. He rose quickly against the jeers from the Conservative Party opposite him. I must confess, it is always amusing to see that while we Democratic Socialists come before Parliament to discuss serious matters of state, Master Collins never ceases to take the opportunity to provide us with a catalogue of his prepubescent, witty insults. Tetley glared at Collins, with both sides erupting into raucous shouting all but drowning out any words from the two party leaders.

For the next half hour, the men stood exchanging verbal arrows from opposite sides of the hall until a motion to vote was finally agreed upon. Tetley smiled as he read the official report, a vote straight down party lines. An overwhelming majority for the DSP, and for the arms procurements.

As the day session broke for lunch, Tetley gathered up his documents and notes and headed off to his office in the building, fielding off the dozens of reporters who swarmed the route everyday. He gave a half smile, recorded on video, upon the thought of the press restrictions within the Citadel. If nowhere else, but at his home and official office, could the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom avoid the press.

Office of the Prime Minister, The Citadel
Imperium, Republic of New Britain

Several blocks away, Tobias Heath crunched diligently on the hard bread that encased his ham and cheese sandwich while keeping an eye on the Parliament session just ending. The Prime Minister had done alright, but Collins always had the more skillful tongue for dishing out insults – a point that the PM seemed to care little about. Indeed, Heath even liked the leader of the opposition prattling on about phallic references. Simply more ammunition for the elections next year. Elections that would centre on the PM’s commitment to domestic reform and Collins’ opposition to the critical reforms.

A relatively light day at the office allowed Heath the time to once more read over the foreign economy reports on allies and enemies of the United Kingdom in addition to His Majesty’s Kingdom. Little new had found its way into the report, the impressive economic growth of the UK economy continued, unfortunately with it came an increasing trade deficit. Heath thumbed through the charts, only taking bare notice of the continual decline in industrial production. Surprising, however, was the 1.8% decline in agriculture output. Heath took a bite out of his sandwich and sighed. Food prices were only going to continue to skyrocket.