NationStates Jolt Archive

From lands unheard of they had cut a devastating swath of carnage, leaving death and sterility in their wake. They were micro-Mongols, wreaking havoc and chaos not upon continents or even islands, but instead upon a frail and fragile body. From birth, the body had been destined to a crippling illness, incurable and unrelenting against organ transplant after organ transplant. Livers and lungs, kidneys and corneas. But as any country nor any continent were invincible, neither could an amalgamation of molecules consisting of carbon and hydrogen amongst others stop the inevitable.

And so it was with soft voice, and lips slightly turned down that Alistair Tetley met his once vibrant friend and university colleague. The requisite pleasantries had been effected through the formal court procedures and now the two men sat opposite each other in a room well-appointed with rich reds upon the walls, adorned with gold-leaf frames containing masterpieces from the Western canon and the native Azazian canon. Yet, no ornate splendor could fully remove the grey cylindrical apparatus that stood crookedly next to the chair opposite Tetley, in which a hunched man sat with brown hair neatly combed. The hissing and popping of regulated oxygen echoing off the soundproof walls, amplified by the silence that now stood between the two. Between friends, between Prime Minister and Lord Sovereign.

So nice of you to come, Alistair, it truly is a pleasure.

Albeit a weekly one, Your Majesty. The crippled monarch nodded his head with great care to ward off the immense pain that could come from too strenuous a jerk. With great difficulty he moved his chair, for in truth the electric wheelchair had rightly become not only a mode of travel but a chair of informal gatherings as well as the throne for the United Kingdom. Tetley stood as the monarch maneuvered – clumsily by any opinion – the light chair towards an enormous window, beyond which lay a vista of the capital Imperium, her temples to commerce and trade glinting in the sun, the blue glass merging into the sky until man and nature had become one in man’s constructs.

I assume you have nothing tremendously important to discuss with me, Alistair?

No, Your Majesty, it has been a relatively slow week at Parliament. I’ve sent an envoy to the Macabees for a trade conference and we’ve been informed that the discussions within the UWP have shifted towards an unfavourable vote—

How’s that?

The Sarzonians, Your Majesty.

Hmm… you ought to try to soften your tone, Alistair. Their leaders might very well be the obstinate fools your staff purports them to be – but nonetheless the stick seldom works without the carrot.

Indeed. Tetley muttered, remembering having had this exact conversation three times in the past two weeks. Outside of those two foreign affairs, there was an explosion at a chemical refinery in Artega—

I heard about that, how’s the cleanup going?

Relatively well, Your Majesty. Interior estimates that an entire cleanup will not be possible for several years, but safeguards are being put in place to prevent further damage – as well as to prevent similar accidents at other refineries. My staff are also going to be looking through replacements to send to the Admiralty in Breningrad, the public demands a change and I think a few of the admirals over there would be better suited to retirement these days.

Any big names?

A few, Your Majesty. In particular we are looking at Lord Admiral Atkinson and Vice-Admiral Raleigh for promotion to high positions. They served well in the war, and in past conflicts, and the Royal Navy could use some positive public relations material to boost their sagging enlistment numbers. Additionally, Breningrad Shipyards lost a bid for some battlecruisers for a foreign nation earlier this week – the rejection of their approval hit the Breningrad markets pretty hard – and will likely keep the stock depressed until we release the new naval construction plans in a few months. Also—

You need to move faster than that, Alistair. the monarch interjected, raising his head ever so slightly. His eyes burning ever so coldly against the even colder dullness that had now all but blinded the man who was only in his forties.

May I inquire as to why, Your Majesty?

It’s moved to my spinal chord and my brain, Alistair. There are mere weeks, perhaps next week, as many as twelve they tell me. I’d prefer to think more along the lines of twelve – but that means a week, maybe two. Realistically, they tell me it’s along the lines of six to ten. But then again, who really knows. But listen to me ramble… the monarch paused, noting the now moist eyes of the Prime Minister. You must move quickly, Alistair.

I understand. Tetley stammered, the façade of servant to lord slowly crumbling, revealing the bond between two close friends. Is there anything I can do for you, Your Majesty.

The monarch winced in response to a burst of pain in his neck; he muttered a curse for having raised his head too quickly. No. Then, the King of the United Kingdom tilted his head for a second, perhaps… he added. Call me Michael, Alistair. It’s been so long since I’ve heard my own name.

Your Majesty? Tetley asked in confusion, for a man of formal protocol the order to forego that which had been bred into him felt wrong, as if against the very laws of nature.

It’s okay, Alistair. Let us speak now as if neither had a title, as if I were but a pauper and you but a friend. Since my father died, I have not heard my own name used except by myself. I’ve isolated myself in my palaces and my castles to stay away from the public and am deaf to their calls and clamors. Perhaps, perhaps it benefits both me and you – you are distracted not by my health but by rumours swirling my death months ago and you ruling in my stead. And although it has kept my illness a secret from all but a few close friends and family members and loyal servants… I fear it has also removed me from humanity, Alistair. I need to hear my name but once more before I pass.

Certainly, Your… certainly, Michael. Tetley rubbed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, trying in vain to remove that bitter taste from his mouth. What can I do for you?

Smile, my friend, smile. The monarch laughed, quietly, but heavily as the mucous in his respiratory system moved about. You fret too much, I’ve made peace with myself and my only sovereign, that of the Lord. And I know you’d mock me for my religion – but you’ll convert when your time comes, Alistair, I assure you that.

Perhaps, Your Majesty—

Michael.

Yes, Michael… Tetley rubbed his hands along the sides of his legs, shifting his weight to the other as his muscles tired from standing.

Pull up a chair, there are some things we need to discuss.

Tetley walked around, and hefted a chair into his arms, relocating it to the monarch’s right side, taking his place besides his monarch and his friend.

The two sat in silence, watching as the sun began to throw long shadows from the skyscrapers piercing into the reddening atmosphere. Andrew is my heir, Alistair.

The silence fell upon the two once more. Andrew was the Prince of New Britain, the traditional title held by the heir to the throne of the Kingdom, as the King controlled no republics or townships, only the Kingdom and the city of Imperium itself. The Prince had attended universities and had served as a commander of a destroyer in the Novikov War, with two subs accredited to his command. And in a world where absolute monarchies held sway over foreign affairs, Andrew felt his role to make the UK realize that sway in her own lands. He was, unabashedly, an absolute monarchist. Yet, despite the national aversion to absolute monarchies, the Prince had the gifts of charisma and charm. And the fact he was the only real possible successor to the throne made his succession all the more inevitable.

You need to introduce legislation, Alistair. Legislation to stymie his agenda.

Tetley nodded. The United Kingdom was governed by an unwritten constitution and to a smaller degree constitutional traditions, regarded to a smaller degree because of the change from Commonwealth to a far more unitary United Kingdom. Nonetheless, there were no laws explicitly checking the power of the monarch – there had been no need with a monarch so crippled and incapacitated as Michael I. And so Tetley had focused on economic reforms, which had led to a greatly improved economy that surged in its growth; he had focused on education reforms that made the UK one of the world’s best places for a solid, well-rounded education. He had even led the nation into war. But not once had he codified the powers of Parliament. Not once.

I’ve heard from my younger nephew that Andrew has already called upon Collins. It’s a good possibility he could send you packing.

Tetley nodded once more. By statute, only the monarch could dissolve Parliament, call for elections, then open the new Parliament. By statute, the monarch dissolved Parliament at least every four or five years. By tradition, the monarch did this with consent of the Prime Minister and not more often than four years. The Conservative Party had won more seats in Parliament, but had failed to gain the nascent, yet powerful, Centre Party. Daniel Collins remained popular, and the Conservative Party had maintained its favourable ratings in the polls. A new election would likely yield rather similar results as the one several months ago. Results that could tip the nation towards either party.

I’ll need a show of force as well… Tetley added. With Andrew’s active role in the war, he had gained the loyalty of the Royal Armed Forces, which technically were under the sovereign’s command, the sovereign having retained the title of commander-in-chief. Tetley, on the other hand, had suffered a precipitous drop in his ratings amongst military personnel for having led the UK into such a bloody war with Novikov. Men like Atkinson held favourable opinions of Tetley, Tetley knew so much through his private interviews with Atkinson… and so appointing loyal men to the Admiralty and command positions in the other branches would be critical. But Andrew held the loyalty of so many…

Indeed, Alistair. A salient point if there ever was one. The last thing I want to see from the afterlife is the United Kingdom divided in open conflict. And I will hold you to that, even if I need to return from the dead to haunt you in person, you will not let this Kingdom be divided.

She shall remain united, Michael.

That comes not only as a friend, Alistair, but as your sovereign. You will not let this Kingdom be divided.

She shall remain united, Your Majesty.

The two now sat as lights flickered on in the distance, the sky now dark, the sun having set behind the mountains to the west. The two looked at each other and smiled. That’s one bloody hell of a cliché, Michael.

The monarch coughed up a laugh, his smile widening from a smirk into a broad, toothy smile. Indeed, Alistair. A trite cliché if I may add. Now, let’s go see what Pierre can whip up for dinner.

Certainly. Tetley answered, standing as King Michael I slowly moved his wheelchair away from the window. The monarch smirked once more.

I think I’ll have… well something made of mush.

The return from Newcastle witnessed a silent limousine, the Prime Minister riding in rare silence, mulling over his three hour discussion with friend and sovereign. The night had begun, but the day was just beginning for Alistair Tetley as every hour that now ticked meant that the Kingdom was hour closer to the death of the King, an act that could have potentially dangerous ramifications. In his forties, the dark-haired prime minister had begun to see specks of silver appear in his gelled-up hair. Slight valleys had formed upon the plains of his face and through his be-spectacled eyes, the introvert had noticed that the process of aging was relentless against politicians – and so would it be with him like all others. And as the motorcade raced across a bridge, rising above a small tributary of the New Thames, Tetley could only grimace at the thought that such stressful times, although he smirked at the implication of a non-stressful moment of a prime minister’s political career, his appearance would only continue to wither.

The son of doctor and homemaker, he had grown up in the township of Salisbury, applying himself diligently in all aspects of academia with a particular interest in ancient history. From his classmates, however, he was frequently ostracized for his ineptitudes in athletics and the fine arts, with the exception of some slight musical talent. Without friends to call upon for weekend engagements, he settled into a chair with the likes of Thucydides and Herodotus while enjoying the lighter company of Orwell and Kafka. The time came to apply to universities, and Tetley found himself later enrolled as the prestigious Hillcrest University, where he applied he found a suitable business interest in economics while indulging himself with a double major in ancient history. It was at Hillcrest where he met the son of the King John I, an even smaller student named Michael forced to go by Mikhail who sat in several of his history classes. Despite his royal status, Tetley befriended the Prince of New Britain and managed to stay in touch even after both graduated.

From the university, Tetley had run a small but highly successful business in Breningrad while his occasional editorials in local papers and the few in national forums grabbed the attention of the Democratic Socialist Party. After the death of Salisbury’s longstanding MP, Tetley found himself asked to be the official party nominee – only to win. Despite his quiet, reserved nature, the unimposing MP forced himself into the national consciousness through his stirring oratories only to then sit quietly amongst the rancorous Parliament, fostering the perception of a high intellect that was keen to pick up the pieces after both sides laid waste to the other. And so it was with no surprise that following the victory of the Democratic Socialists in the successive elections, Tetley was chosen to fill the portfolio of Minister of Trade and Industry where he found his attempts to reform the fishing and forestry industries stymied in addition to his attempts to privatize nationalized industries. After a short stint as Deputy Prime Minister, Tetley succeeded Liam O’Neill as Prime Minister, an office that he held for the past five years, and to which he had been reelected.

But never in his time as an MP had Tetley ever considered the problems that would beset the nation if a man such Prince Andrew came to power. During the period of the Commonwealth, a time when the Azazian Archipelago was a federal state under the rule of an almost absolute monarch, the monarchs had held power under King John I, and then after his death King Michael, though under the Commonwealth’s policy of Russification the two had been respectively known as Ivan and Mikhail. With Mikhail’s declining health, the powers of the monarch were transferred to that of the Commonwealth president, which were transferred to the Prime Minister with several successive weak presidents having been elected. And so when Tetley had assumed the premiership, he had instituted the reforms which led to the United Kingdom and its reformed Parliament, the abolition of the presidency, and the limitations on the powers of the monarch. Yet, the constitution was left incomplete and unofficially codified upon Tetley’s wishes for an organic political state. Though he had never considered the problems of a monarch who would usurp tradition, he was forced to sit and contemplate the disastrous future that lay ahead of the citizens of the Kingdom.

The limousine slowed as it approached the red brick walls of the Citadel. The gates opened and Tetley slowly slipped into his sport coat, opening the door when it pulled up next to his residence. He shivered, the temperature already falling in advance of the cold front expected to move over the capital in the midnight hours. With the Royal Guards opening the door for him, he nodded to the most elite soldiers in the nation before finding his loyal Chief of Staff waiting outside the door to his office. Good evening, Tobias, how goes it?

Well enough, Mr. Prime Minister. O’Connell sent word that tomorrow’s report will show further economic growth in the services sector while manufacturing here in the Home Islands continues to decline. However, with capital investment from the Home Islands, we are seeing a turn around in Novikovian manufacturing that slightly mitigates the national figures.

Good news on both fronts for once, that’s a rarity.

Indeed it is, sir. How was your meeting with His Majesty?

Excellent, a very illuminating conversation. Tetley paused in the hallway while Tobias Heath opened the door for his boss.

The two entered the office, Heath shutting the door quietly before speaking once more. And how is His Majesty?

Not doing too well I’m afraid. In fact, that’s why I want you to call Howard in here. We need to discuss a few things.

I’ll go get him right now, sir.

Thanks, Tobias. Tetley watched his Chief of Staff depart through his own door while Tetley hung his coat and tie upon the large, freestanding coat hangar standing in the back corner of the room, adjacent to the marble mantel for his fireplace. He quick glanced at his watch, realizing that at the hour this discussion would not run into any other important affairs of state, and he’d have the two men’s full attention. As it should be with a situation of such gravity.

Tetley walked over to the small mini-bar and poured himself a glass of water, doing so for both his Chief and Deputy Chief of Staff, taking the time to place them by their customary seats. He waited between the two facing sofas until the two men entered. Good evening, Howard.

Good evening, Mr. Prime Minister. How was Newcastle?

As well as well can be. And in fact, that’s why I’ve asked you to join me tonight. We need to talk.

The Next Day

Office of the Deputy Chief of Staff to the Prime Minister
The Citadel, Imperium, the Republic of New Britain

Damnit, Annabel, I need the list!

What list?

The list for… you know… the thing that I have to do this afternoon!

Which thing? The meeting with MP Harrelson, the anti-homosexuality MPs, the briefing by Igor from the Exchequer, or the—

No, Damnit! The important one, the one with the… uh… admirals, yeah, the one with the—

Right here. The slim and attractive young secretary thrust a piece of paper into the hands of the irate Howard Robertson from the other side of the door to his office.

Thank you. he shouted, stressing the thank in jest. After staying late with the Prime Minister and Tobias, Robertson had been caught in the downpours that plagued the capital overnight, and found himself enveloped in a cold, raw mist upon leaving his apartment for work this morning. Arriving before dawn, he had plodded through his early morning briefings to find that his interviews with the prospective candidates for the Admiralty had been bumped to today. Really though, all parties involved knew there was but one choice for the position of Lord High Admiral.

Outside the offices and residences, a black armoured sedan rolled up, the flag of the Royal Navy flying proudly from the vehicles four corners. Underneath the awning, a door opened up revealing a large man, only slightly heavyset walking with the assistance of a wooden cane topped with a sapphire orb upon which rest a dry, scaly hand. With a deliberate pace, albeit slow because of the leg, the man, dressed in a thick woolen pea coat of a dark blue with yellow anchors on the lapels and yellow anchors and a crown upon his sleeves. He shrugged off the raw weather and proceeded inside, acknowledging the salutes of the Royal Guard units posted at the entrance. Inside, he was met by nameless interns who took the coat, revealing a blue suited gentlemen whose chest was weighed down considerably with medals for honours and services rendered to the United Kingdom. He was led to a small room, though lavishly furnished, where he took a seat and laid his cane upon the table holding it in place with his hands.

On the other side of the offices a shout of He’s here, Howard! could be heard from Robertson’s secretary, sending the always-pressed senior staffer to the same small room, lavishly decorated. Good morning, Lord Admiral Atkinson, it is certainly a pleasure.

Thank you for having me here, Mr. Robertson.

Alright, then, let’s get down to business.

He did what?!

With a snap of the wrist, Robertson flung the paperclipped document – some fifty pages – across his office, covering his chair and floor in white paper sprinkled with black serif letters. Rubbing his hands together furiously, he strode back and forth inside his room, the already worn carpet subjected once more to the wrath of Howard Robertson.

From the hand of his secretary he took a single leaf of paper, quickly reading through the double-spaced lines that dripped invective from the typeface and the white space between the lines. As a political party, the Communist Party met monthly to discuss their current place in Parliament and how best to achieve their aims. With a small party, it made sense. But with a senior member of the party playing a key role in the Prime Minister’s cabinet, it made headaches.

Robertson stuck his head out into the hall and spied Kent Tiran walking his way, head buried in a folder. Hey! Kent, you got a second?

Yeah. What do you need?

Tiran wrapped his frame around the post of Robertson’s door. With a loud snap, Robertson creased the paper and handed it over to Tiran. Read this.

Tiran’s eyes closed, his eyebrows shot upwards. Is he out of his bloody mind?

Yeah, that’s sort of what I said.

Tobias see this yet?

He’s down in New Corcyra, but I’ll call him later. I think we need to react to this now… not hours from now.

I agree, but what do you want to do?

Robertson shook his head. With Heath in St. Ives, Robertson was left to run the store – which meant dealing with ridiculous and inflammatory statements from the Minister of Trade and Industry. The latest news from the Sarzonia desk was of Portland Iron Works’ buy out of the rest of Sarzonia’s key defence firms and while the Citadel wasn’t going to comment – Birch had gone out at the Communist Party meeting and cried foul against the move. It was popular within his own party, crying foul against the epitome of capitalism, but with delicate negotiations underway in St. Ives the statement had made a giant mess.

I have to speak to him… when does the Prime Minister leave?

He just did, not five minutes ago.

Bloody hell. Robertson turned to face the window in his office and stared at the brick wall of the Citadel.

Over the Republic of New Ireland

From his office in the massive aircraft, Alistair Tetley could discern the swatches of green, grey, and brown that littered the sea of blue. New Ireland sat at the top of the bunching of swatches, laying in the northern section of the archipelago. Founded by Englishmen and named after the Kingdom of Ireland, the island had for years been primarily agricultural with little to no natural resources outside of its timber and offshore fisheries. Yet, as the population of New Britain, West Oceania, and Bennington all exploded, the spacious and picturesque island found itself undergoing a rapid urbanization that was pushing the grey colours of cities and town further and further inland to the mountainous and volcanic core of the island.

With the development, with the emigration of citizens from the English portions of the country had come significant amounts of money – money that demanded top-notch education systems, which a decade ago did not exist within New Ireland. The public schools were rendered impotent with small amounts of income from the primarily agrarian population, but with the sudden arrival of the upper and upper-middle class, money flowed to private schools that now boasted some of the best test marks in the whole of the Kingdom. And all the schools were privately owned and operated.

Alistair Tetley firmly believed in social welfare, hence his membership and leadership of the Democratic Socialist Party. Yet, he had also recognized before being elected to Parliament that with the population of the UK not stabilizing any time soon, more and more national resources would be drawn away for social programmes for the booming elderly population, and the booming youth population. Without redoing the system, the system would destroy the Kingdom.

And as his plane began its descent, Tetley hoped this stop would cement some support from the New Ireland MPs for his privatization of primary and secondary schools. Onboard with him was his personal aide, Geoffrey Blaine, as well as Victoria Clarke, his press secretary. He’d left Robertson at the Citadel to continue working on drafting the legislation that would solidify Parliament’s sovereignty as well as to deal with potential flak thrown up by the Conservatives in both he and Heath’s absence from the capital. But as much as Tetley loved Robertson’s youthful energy, he simply was not yet ready to run the country – and he had been forced to leave Tiran in the capital as well.

Tetley held his armrests tightly as the plane landed with a quick thump, its tires screeching as they slammed into the runway, the engines howling as they threw all their power into stopping the plane. Although not a religious man, Tetley always privately blessed himself knowing all too well that most air crashes occurred on either takeoff or landing. And even though he was the Prime Minister, his plane knew nothing of his importance.

He smiled as Blaine approached, nodding that it was time for him to step off the plane and go make his tours of the island’s school system. It certainly was going to be a long day.

Newcastle, Republic of New Britain

King Michael I coughed violently, sending pain shooting into his lungs and airways. With a trembling hand he managed to cover his mouth before his loyal courtesans although he could not help to hide the small flecks of red blood that rose from the bottom of the dying lungs. He had convened his Privy Council, sans the Prime Minister and any of his associates. After signing them to the strictest of confidentiality agreements, they had all seen the crippled king – all tearing slightly at the sight of their monarch in such a pitiful state.

Ladies, gentlemen, I have called you here today because I wish to do discuss my royal pejoratives – especially that of ennobling an individual and creating an earldom. The King spoke hoarsely, his words rasping out upon ragged breaths assisted by machinery. This meeting was important for it was all but certain that shortly, his higher brain functions would begin to erode leaving him to be a puppet monarch – though that would last only a short time because death would follow not too soon after.

Typically, he continued, I understand that it is my role to perform the official functions, but that of the Prime Minister to recommend the individuals. However, what I wish to do now is talk about creating the Earldom of Salisbury and creating Alistair Tetley, Earl of Salisbury. Is it possible to do so without his foreknowledge?

Office of the Deputy Chief of Staff to the Prime Minister

Robertson scribbled furiously upon the legal pad at his desk, his cursive more akin to illegible scratches of a chicken than to that of an adult human. Nevertheless, he knew his secretary had long ago become a master cryptologist and could now read and almost speak fluent Robertson-ese. For now, she stood in his doorway, staring, waiting for him to stop and acknowledge her presence.

Annabel!

I’m right here, Howard.

Oh, there you are, he muttered to himself loud enough that it was not truly a mutterance. I need you to get this out to Tobias, he needs to be informed as to what’s going on. Additionally—

Robertson glanced up at a knock, finding Tiran now also crowded underneath his doorway. Hi, Annabel, can I speak with Howard for a moment?

The two waited until she left and shut the door behind her. Tiran walked over and turned the television on, and changed it from the science channel to that of the 24/7 political news station, the Azazian News Network (ANN) where they saw the Prime Minister sitting amongst a group of high school students, flashbulbs popping and the Prime Minister’s lips flapping. He turned the volume up ever so slightly until the two could hear the words of their boss.

…the Right Honourable Mr. Birch was speaking solely as a member of the Communist Party…

The two men looked at each other, now only half listening to their boss. Shit. And in one word Robertson summed up the miles of trains running through both of their heads. He glanced at Tiran once more, who merely nodded, and then Robertson turned towards his shut door and took a deep breath, inhaling a large burst of air.

ANNABEL!

Calne, Republic of New Ireland

What the bloody hell was that all about, Geoffrey?

Sir—

No, I mean goddamnit! He’s been in my cabinet for only weeks and who the bloody hell does he think he is?

Well, sir—

Damnit, Geoffrey! Where the hell is Tobias when we need him?

He’s in—

DAMNIT! Tetley shouted in the privacy of his limousine, his face now bright red, rage flowing from his eyes. In the middle of his stop at the Calne school, the reporters had bombarded him with questions not over education – but over Sarzonian business news. As if he had the time to truly concern himself with Sarzonian business at a time like this.

Arthur Birch had been the pick of Leonard Coolings, the aged leader of the United Kingdom’s Communist Party, for Tetley’s Cabinet – the pick being part of the negotiated deal that brought Coolings’ party into his coalition government. The pick being that of the Ministry of Trade and Industry, a post wholly unsuitable for a Communist MP in a market-driven socialist government. Perhaps Coolings wanted Tetley to fail. That wasn’t his concern because he could always use the Chancellor as the de facto MoIT if need be, though that would cost him Communist MPs in Parliament.

He listened and watched as Blaine answered Tetley’s mobile phone, which quickly found itself in Tetley’s own hands. He looked at the small display briefly before putting his head against the phone.

Good morning, Mr. Prime Minister.

Good morning, Howard. Why didn’t I know about Birch’s speech?

I’ve been trying to get the media to downplay it from here in the capital, sir. We’d basically had the story locked as Birch’s own loud open mouth, per usual, but ANN went with the story anyway and hence the questions.

I saw “hence the questions”, Howard. Now tell me, what in the bloody hell is going on down there.

Sir, Portland Iron Works bought out the remainder of Sarzonia’s defence firms, sparking Pacitalian outrage and prompting Prime Minister Ell to inquire about recovering a Pacitalian firm bought by one of the absorbed defence firms. Birch heard about it, and while preaching to his fellow MPs, went all out on the capitalist system using this giant hyper-mega corporation as an example. Then he went so far as to say we ban Sarzonian goods and services and stop all trade. I have him on his way to the Citadel now, I’m going to try to work on a retraction statement, but I’m not sure how he’s going to like it. He’s stirred the pot to the point of bubbling over. The Pacitalians are pissed as hell and so are the Sarzonians.

I see. Well, I have two more stops before I return to Imperium, and more than likely I’m going to here about this again. A brief statement of support for the UWP and Pacitalia, how would that play?

It’ll anger the Sarzonians, but if you add some distance between yourself and Birch you might be able to put off a disaster in St. Ives. You did well with the speaking as a member of his party bit, that seems to be playing well at least here in the local press – though they’re still out for Sarzonian blood.

They always will be, Howard. And while I’m willing to ride against popular opinion on this issue, I’m not so sure if Sarzo will. So I’ll add some more distance, but qualify it with clear support for Pacitalia. I mean what can Sarzo seriously expect? I am a member of a socialist party, can Portland really just absorb the rest of the industry? Alright, keep me informed with this. Anything else going on?

Rumours that His Majesty has called a meeting of the Privy Council, sans you and your ministers. Atkinson should be calling us back today with his official acceptance of our nomination, and then we simply need to put up the Novikovian constitution as well as changes to the UK education system, which might take a hit because this fiasco is detracting from our message.

Then get me back on message, Howard.

Absolutely, sir.

Anything else?

No, sir.

Let’s get this done.

Thank you, Mr. Prime Minister.

Office of the Deputy Chief of Staff to the Prime Minister

Bloody hell. Robertson breathed, replacing his phone on the receiver. He stepped outside his door and found Annabel with two hands on two different phones, simply nodding as if the people on the other end could see the movements of her head. Somehow, the day’s message of education reform seemed to be slipping away. And slipping away quickly.

Dressed in a black suit decorated only with a small red star on the lapel, the unimpressive man with a black goatee and properly placed black hair strode into the official entrance to the Office of the Prime Minister. The light cadmium yellow walls lit the white and black marble floors, which resounded with the clicks of the man’s polished shoes. Within sixty seconds, he found himself far from the opulent entrance and into the crowded, cramped, and cluttered office of Howard Robertson.

Good morning, Mr. Minister, how are you?

I’m fine, Howard, and yourself?

Lovely, I’m have a fantastically lovely day here at the Citadel Robertson responded dryly. You know why you’re here, don’t you?

It’s about my statement concerning the Sarzonian monopoly formed so evilly this morning.

Yeah, you might want to not use the world evil. We’re already at ends with President Sarzo and you’re well aware of the statement Deveraux made calling for peace – so belittling Sarzonian economic policy is going to do nothing but hurt the Prime Minister.

The two leaned back in their chairs, Robertson placing his hands upon the table while Birch smirked.

You must understand, Howard, that as a member of the Communist Party, and as a sitting member of Parliament, I have obligations to my people as well as to my Prime Minister. And my constituents come first. They have called upon me to counter your free-market reforms, and the free-market reforms of foreign powers, and that’s what I’m doing. The Prime Minister can go on national television himself and refute my claims, but I will not.

Robertson shook his head, running his hands now over the smooth baldness atop that shaking head. Mr. Minister, you’ve now had your fifteen minutes in the sun and the nation knows your name and your constituents can see that you’re independent and not subservient to the Prime Minister, a free voice in his cabinet. But the fact of the matter is that you are a member of the Prime Minister’s cabinet and, as the Prime Minister’s Deputy Chief of Staff, I’m telling you that the Prime Minister wants you to retract your statement. Hell, I’ll even settle if you come out publicly and say that the statement was misinterpreted by the Sarzonians, but we need distance between your statement and the Prime Minister.

Birch took the time to openly smile in defiance of Robertson. Not long before, he had been dispatched to the Macabees for a trade conference that had lasted two weeks. He had been shy and reserved then, but the negotiations had given him confidence, dealing with national leaders and his heavyweight counterparts. And now, the time had come to deal with the UK’s own political heavyweight: Alistair Tetley.

I sympathise, Mr. Robertson. However, to do what you ask of me would break my oath to serve my constituents. And that I cannot do. Though perhaps this meeting would be more productive if I were to meet with Tobias or the Prime Minister himself.

Robertson smiled right back at the man who had become a truly smug bastard – the blatant insult well noted. I’m sorry, Mr. Birch, but Tobias is indisposed and the Prime Minister is off actually, you know, doing his job… running the country.

Why you listen you little prick—

No, you listen, you smug bastard. You serve at the Prime Minister’s pleasure, and if you don’t want to serve. So be it, just write your little resignation letter and hand it on over, we had a great MoIT before you came, and we can have him right on back if we choose.

You forget in your haste, Mr. Robertson, that the Communist Party is integral to your governing coalition. If you want our votes, however few but critical they may be, you’re going to have to deal with me. Now, if there is nothing else to discuss, I have business to attend to in Parliament. You know, running the country. Birch picked up his jacket and strode out of Robertson’s office with even more an air of import than with which he had arrived.

Robertson sat at his desk and stared, slamming his head onto the desk. The loud crashing bringing his secretary in. How long until the Prime Minister arrives?

Half an hour.

Get me Coolings on the phone.[/b]

Somewhere over the Azazian Sea

Tetley slowly drank his tea, steaming in the thick mug, its light aroma filling the compartment. [i]Thank you, Lord Admiral. It will be an honour to announce your nomination… When? A few days from now, I want this Pacitalian-Sarzonian thing to get off the front pages before we attempt to restart the Admiralty appointments… I understand. Thank you again, Richard. Tetley snapped his mobile back and slid it across the table to his personal aide.

This thing is a bloody nightmare, Geoffrey. Collins is even talking of a no-confidence vote. He must have talked to His Majesty.

Excuse me, sir?

Tetley remembered that nobody on his staff save Heath and Robertson were fully aware of the king’s health and of the meeting between Prince Andrew and Collins. Nothing, Geoffrey, nothing. How long until we arrive at Emperor’s?

Another twenty minutes, sir. At that, the conversation stopped with the phone ringing once more. Blaine picked it up and looked over at Tetley. It’s Howard, sir.

Tetley took another quick drink and then opened his palm, Blaine then opening the phone and putting the connection in Tetley’s hands. Hello, Howard, what can I do for you.

Fire Birch. Ask for his resignation.

Excuse me?

He’s not going to retract his statement, Mr. Prime Minister. If we leave him free, he’ll give the impression to the rest of the non DSP-Party ministers and then your government is as good as collapsed. Birch is a liability, I’ve already talked to Coolings and he’s not happy with it, but he’s willing to consider it if we alter our privatization strategy.

He wants you to keep inter-city transport and power nationalized. He agrees that your too far along with education and industry to keep them privatized, but if you keep inter-city transport and power nationalized, he’ll be content with supporting Birch’s removal and replacing him with one of our own so long as we give him another post – he said he’d settled for Arts and Culture if we keep our agreement with inter-city and power.

The phone line was silent for a moment, Tetley took the time to enjoy his tea while running names and résumés through his head. We have Reynard at Arts and Culture, don’t we?

Yes, Mr. Prime Minister.

Talk to Jackson and Reynard, I’d rather have Jackson back at MoIT, but Reynard’s a good and loyal minister, I don’t want to punish him for Birch being an ass. Call Birch back from wherever and have him waiting outside my office. Get me in touch with Jackson and Reynard, I want to speak to those two before Birch.

He’ll hate the waiting part, sir.

Indeed. That’s why he’ll wait. Anything else, Howard? Tetley listened to papers rustling and a quiet feminine voice on the other end, which he attributed to his dedicated secretary likely setting up his meeting with Birch.

Yes, Mr. Prime Minister. The Pacitalians have recalled all their diplomats from Sarzonia, which has done the same, and the Scandavian States have blacklisted Pacitalian commercial ventures within their borders.

Anything from Tobias?

Not yet, sir. His meeting should begin shortly – assuming the Sarzonian envoys don’t turn their train right around.

And how’s Collins’ no-confidence proposal doing.

A little bit of weight on the Conservative side, but I think they’re waiting to see how we react to Birch and whether or not we surrender the Communists in the coalition. For now they’re satiated by saber rattling, but we’re going to need a strong statement read by you later this evening to set our position straight, sir. And it’s going to have to be a careful speech at that so we don’t offend either the Pacitalians, or more importantly at the moment, the Sarzonians.

Alright, get Kent to work on that and I’ll see you in about… half an hour or so.

Excellent, sir.

Tetley shrugged at Blaine, picking up his tea once more. I tell you, Geoffrey, those who say what they’d do if they had this job… I used to be right there with them. Now half the days I don’t want to come near this job with a ten foot pole.

Is this one of those days, sir?

I think it’s turning into one of them.

Birch sat squarely in a plush chair outside the office, his hands gripping the armrests tighter and tighter as the secretaries pounded away on key after key. And with the exception of the furious, fast-paced clicks, the waiting room was silent as the bespectacled, grey-haired secretaries were well aware of the statements made by the man sitting in their presence, statements that served to hurt only their boss.

On the other side of the soundproofed walls, Tetley settled in behind his desk, Robertson standing on the other side, finishing a quick briefing on events throughout the day and the reactions and directions that Tetley and Robertson would take.

Good work, Howard, Tetley added at the end of their conversation. I take it that Birch is still sitting outside.

That’s my understanding, Mr. Prime Minister.

Excellent. Listen, any word from Tobias on his meetings down in St. Ives?

Not yet, sir. He’ll call after the initial meeting to brief me on the prospects for the meeting.

Alright, thanks, Howard, if you’d be so kind as to show him in on your way out.

Certainly, sir. Robertson turned and exited from the public entrance to the PM’s office, finding the silent awkwardness and Birch, upon whom he could do nothing but look down as he stood before him. The Prime Minister will see you now, Mr. Minister.

Birch stood, straightened his tie and jacket, then strode with confidence through the doorway to see Tetley standing in front of his desk, leaning back with his hands upon the smooth wooden edge. Good afternoon, Mr. Prime Minister, what can I—

Cut the crap, Arthur. Tetley quickly said, cutting off Birch loud enough so that the secretaries, Robertson, and most others near the PM’s office could hear.

Birch nodded, then swallowed upon the closure of the door. He had been publicly rebuked.

What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing over in Breningrad with this anti-Sarzonia talk?

Mr. Prime Minister, I firmly believe we need to take a strong, deliberate, and resolute course of action against a nation that seeks to threaten the United Kingdom. In addition, I think—

I don’t care what you think, Arthur. You fail to understand that. I am the Prime Minister, you are but a Cabinet minister. You should care what I think. And I think your objections have long been noted, long been debated, and long been rejected by myself and my staff. But I can do better than that, Arthur, I know your ideas have been rejected. In case you weren’t aware of it, I am trying to mend relations with Sarzonia, and as a minister within my Cabinet you are too follow my directive, and I know, in our meeting last week I established that directive. Furthermore, Arthur, when I asked my Deputy Chief of Staff to get you to apologise or distance your comments from my governance of this country – you refused. I want your resignation on my desk by the end of the day, am I understood.

Mr. Prime Minister, Howard is nothing—

Mr. Robertson. You will address my Deputy Chief of Staff as Mr. Robertson, Arthur.

Mr. Robertson is nothing more than a prop, Mr. Prime Minister. Your power does not come from your staff but from this fragile coalition you so perilously preside over. And you should not forget that the Communist Party will not take kindly to your rude, and abrupt dismissal of a senior Party member from your Cabinet.

Oh, don’t worry, Arthur. I’ve already spoken to Leonard. There will be another Communist MP in my Cabinet, but neither will he serve as my Minister of Trade and Industry, nor will he be you. This time tomorrow you will be sitting in Parliament listening to speeches from the coalition, the coalition between the Communists and the Democratic Socialists. And should you choose to vote against your party, I am quite certain that the amount of financial support you should receive in the next election will be quite minimal compared to this past election. Tetley smiled, watching Birch’s confidence and swagger shrivel into nothingness. Birch had been new to the Cabinet level positions, and little had he realised that the Cabinet had its own politics that superseded that of the House of Commons. Perhaps in some other government he would be appointed to a portfolio – but never again in Tetley’s Cabinet. Not now, nor ever. Birch was nothing more than a tainted, discarded product. And as Tetley continued to lean against his desk, his small frame oddly relaxed despite his verbal berating of the taller man, he enjoyed destroying his one-time ally. He had no patience for treachery and deceit, especially from within his own government.

Birch, for his part, stood silent now. Newly found confidence now gone, Birch resigned himself to a simple nod knowing that he had been beaten this time. Well, then, Mr. Prime Minister. I suppose we stand at an impasse, for I will not resign on account of going against my conscience.

Tetley openly sighed at the increasingly impertinent MP. Arthur, I’m trying to offer you a way to save face within your own party and within the public. Just resign and the entire ordeal will be over.

I’m sorry, Mr. Prime Minister, but I will not resign. I was selected by you to serve His Majesty’s Cabinet by you, and I believe that this was done with the knowledge that differences of opinion only strengthen, in the long-run, any idea… and in this case, the idea being that of the United Kingdom. I cannot resign, sir.

Then you’re fired, Arthur. I’ll have the notification written up and dispatched to your office in the Ministry within the hour. I want you gone within two hours from now. Am I understood?

Certainly, Mr. Prime Minister. Good day, sir. Birch dismissed himself, disregarding tradition and courtesy that allowed only the Prime Minister to dismiss people from his office. Tetley shrugged and turned his back to Birch. If nothing else, Robertson could now go into full damage control and start spinning the events that had just transpired. Birch would soon be a persona non grata within Parliament, and within the United Kingdom.

Before Tetley could lay down on his sofa, Robertson opened the door and thus drew Tetley’s attention. What can I do for you, Howard?

Sir, we’re getting something interesting out of Newcastle.

His Majesty?

Yes, sir.

Is he alright?

Yes, sir. This matter concerns you.

Tetley’s face scrunched up into a mess of lines and tensed muscles as he wracked his brain for anything that the King had spoken to him about that concerned the Prime Minister. Does it have to deal with his successor?

Perhaps in a fashion, Mr. Prime Minister. He’s issued a royal proclamation, and you are to be the First Marquess of Salisbury.

At that moment, the two found themselves surprised by the sudden appearance of Kent Tiran at the door, gasping for breath after running across the building.

Tetley nodded, allowing Tiran to enter. What’s going on, Kent?

Our embassy in Zarcaliar is under siege with several already dead and wounded.

The glass felt cold in his hand, the liquid contents absorbing the heat of his hand through the container as they sloshed about in concert with his legs pounding into asphalt. Rashid Zahir lived in the suburbs of Alakir, the primary city of the island nation of Zarcaliar. As his feet slammed into the road, his arms pumping up and down moving his down the dust-strewn street, littered with empty boxes of cardboard and wooden nature that all served as homes to thousands, Zahir merely prayed that he would have the change to avenge the death of his wife of four years.

Only two months ago, his wife, tall with raven black hair and large brown eyes, having contracted HIV and then AIDS, passed away while ships cruised offshore laden with Azazian pharmaceuticals destined for lands where the disease didn’t ravage over half the population, lands that could afford the hundreds of Commonwealth Credits per pill. Zahir had sat by his window in his third floor bedroom, looking out past his whitewashed walls to the sparkling blue waters of the Indian Ocean, to the sails of local fishermen and then to the massive black and grey hulls of evil foreign freighters that were consumed only by greed and avarice. They had allowed his wife to die for profit.

Zahir stopped running as he slammed into a massive crowd consisting of hundreds of individuals, all waving banners in black, green, and red with Arabic script dancing across the paper and cloth signs. In the distance he could see the towering sandstone walls of the fifth century palace that served as the embassy of the devilish oppressors, the butchers from the west though they came more from the east. The cacophony of shouts drowned out his jeers and slander while he weaved in and out and around individuals who had come to voice their own frustration at the United Kingdom. Finally he found himself against a flimsy police barricade, facing shaven officers whose eyes darted from side to side, anxious not to stop the protest but rather to join. Zahir cocked his arm and opened his mouth, screaming Allahu Akbar! as he hurled the glass into the air.

Private James Raleigh watched with his blue eyes as a small object hurtled upwards over the walls, crashing upon the roof behind him, igniting the uniform of a fellow Royal Marine. Raleigh watched in horror as the man screamed, though his cries of agony and pain were deafened by the crowd outside the walls. In seconds, the fire had reached the man’s skin, and as Raleigh watched the medics take the man below, he found himself ducking as he heard a whiz overhead. Turning to his lieutenant he found himself shouting, Sir, are they shooting at us?!

You bet your white ass, private. Now face front but do not fire in return.

Raleigh nodded, wondering how his lieutenant remained calm in the midst of the chaos of the siege. The next moment he felt a searing pain upon his cheek, wiping the spot to find blood covered fingers from a fragment of reinforced concrete that had shattered after a bullet grazed the only protection offered to Raleigh’s helmeted head.

What the hell is this shit, LT?! What the bloody hell are they doing?!

The Situation Room, the Citadel
Imperium, Republic of New Britain

They’re trying to kill you, private, so shut up and stay down!

Tetley shook his head. Even if his words could be heard by the Royal Marines over the din of steadily increasing gunfire and shouts and explosions, he doubted whether they would have any effect. Here he was in the Pacific trying to control the actions of an individual at the western edge of the Indian Ocean, no less an individual under fire, watching men take bullets and shrapnel. Turning away from the live video and audio link, he took a seat at his head of the wooden table staring at the walls of screens and displays that kept him up to speed on deployments and actions of the whole Royal Armed Services around the globe – knowing that for all his knowledge it meant nothing to men of 18, 19, 20 years of age on the far side of the globe. General Romero, Tetley called out to the senior Royal Marine officer in the room.

Yes, Mr. Prime Minister?

What sort of forces do we have at the embassy?

After our reinforcements two months ago, we have approximately 70 men deployed with automatic weapons and extra ammunition. However, if push comes to shove, that ammunition won’t last against a crowd that size. They’re doing a hell of a job, but we’ve already got five KIA and several more wounded, it’s only a matter of time as that crowd continues to swell.

Can we send them more reinforcements?

The light carrier group of HMS Victorious is holding position beyond the horizon and outside Zarcaliar territorial waters. We can have additional Marines in the compound within half an hour, sir.

And the local law-enforcement officials?

Sir, the state of Zarcaliar is almost a non-entity, crime is rampant and the police forces are highly corrupt. They’re likely part of the crowd, sir. Those boys are all that stand between us seeing the ambassador’s head on a stick outside the compound.

Tetley frowned; the image was far too gruesome to even contemplate at the moment. In the background, the shouting became more frantic and the din grew only louder. He looked up to see the video feeds, showing nothing but concrete and barrels of rifles held close to the wearer’s body for fear of being killed by stray bullets from the crowd.

Do it, General.

Just to be clear, sir, deploy reinforcements to the embassy?

Yes.

Thank you, Mr. Prime Minister.

Anything else, gentlemen? Tetley asked, rising to prepare himself to leave the room.

A tall man with close cropped blonde hair moved forward wearing the uniform of an air marshal of the RAF. Sir, it’s nothing big at the moment, but we’re receiving reports out of Prostejov, Novikov that the Novikovian Air Defence has lost a fighter aircraft. Potentially to a rogue fighter jet operating in the area.

Tetley paused on his way out, turning to eye the marshal harshly. What do you mean by a rogue jet? How in the bloody hell does a rogue jet find its way into our airspace? Airspace clearly cut off from land by hundreds upon hundreds of kilometers of open ocean.

Well, sir, we don’t know yet. This is just coming in.

Alright, I’ll be back in half an hour for the deployment, I want more information when I return.

Yes, Mr. Prime Minister.

Tetley slammed the door shut on his way out, swearing to himself under his breath. Outside he found Robertson and Tiran waiting, poorly concealing their desire to know the military secrets of the United Kingdom. Another time, perhaps, gentlemen. But we have a country to run, what’s going on?

Word from Tobias, Robertson added quickly.

And? The three walked briskly through and around corridors, people stopping and greeting their boss and head of government, Tetley waving and smiling to each and every person.

Limited progress. Apparently the Sarzonians are all but demanding independence for Novikov.

Do they know there’s not a bloody chance in hell of that happening?

Tobias says they’re quite adamant.

So am I, Howard. Make sure Tobias knows that in no uncertain terms is Sarzo supposed to understand that Novikovian independence is not on the table. The whole point of the conference is to get around that block, we know they want independence and they ought to know we’re not granting it. Within that framework… DAMNIT! Tetley stopped in the middle of a random hallway, his outburst frightening and stopping numerous aides who happened to be carrying paperwork or messages or errands to and fro throughout the office and residence. His face red, Tetley could do little but place his palms against the wall and take a breath. Robertson and Tiran took quiet steps backward, giving their boss breathing space. They glanced at each other, uncertain of what else they could do for the Prime Minister.

Tetley absolved them of that concern when he turned to face the two, putting a hand on a shoulder of each of them. Refocus the message, gentlemen. Today was supposed to be about education reform and it’s going to be about mudslinging between an ally and a nation seemingly intent on being our enemy, and tomorrow will be about the loss of life in a distant third-world country. Education. Education was the message. Let’s refocus if we can.

The two men nodded. Robertson, most senior, spoke for the two. Thank you, Mr. Prime Minister. And with that the two left Tetley to walk slowly back to his office, dreading the next thirty minutes for a few dozen Royal Marines and hoping that clandestine peace talks didn’t collapse while praying that there weren’t rogue aerial pirates menacing the skies over Novikov. He smiled, though, amused by the fact that a day that would give most men heart attacks and nervous breakdowns was nothing more than an average day at the Citadel. And Tetley knew he’d be damned if he didn’t admit to loving the challenge.

Tetley found his way to his office, taking a casual moment to shrug off his jacket and place it atop the freestanding coat hangar. He paused for a moment, debating silently whether he ought to remove his vest as well – deciding ultimately that he’d be leaving the room shortly enough and that it’d be foolish to do so. Satisfied for the moment, he stepped over to a full pitcher of ice water and poured himself a cup, full to the brim. Wrapping his slender and delicate fingers around the glass, he took the condensation to wipe his brow before drowning half the glass. Out the window were the brick walls of the Citadel, guarding him from a threat that had receded over a century ago, that of native raiders striking the Royal Governor’s Mansion – now the residence of the Prime Minister. And yet, Tetley could not help but wonder while a cold chill ran down his chest, about how isolated the royal governors of the past had truly been. Before the times when satellites linked the Citadel to the far flung colonies and territories. Settling into the sofa, his back against the curved armrest, Tetley stretched his feet out – well aware he was breaking his own rule against allowing shoes on the sofa. He took the moment, the sun streaming through the bullet-proof glass, to close his eyes and drift away.

Office of the Deputy Chief of Staff

Annabel, get me Minister Rowe on the phone. Robertson called out, his voice far less abrasive and loud than earlier in the day. A detail not un-noticed by his secretary as she appeared in the doorway.

Everything alright?

Yeah, we’re just getting trashed on the education reform thing. Robertson half sighed, his hands running across his domed head. He drummed his fingers upon the edge of his desk, wracking his brain for ways to turn the tide in the day, though he realised that trying to turn the tide required him to stand up and push back the ocean.

He noticed and noted with a nod the appearance of the press secretary, Victoria Clarke, who stood next to Robertson’s secretary. I’m hearing from the press that the Prime Minister fired Minister Birch, is there something I need to know?

It’s true.

And no one thought to tell me?

You’re going to be hearing in a little while that our embassy in Zarcaliar is under siege.

Zarcala-where?

Shit hole of a country, near Africa. Royal Marines are already reporting a few dead and the crowd seems to only be intensifying. That and Newcastle is ready to ennoble the Prime Minister as the First Marquess of Salisbury.

Wow… Clarke muttered, her eyes widening. Doesn’t that means he has to move out of the Commons?

Yeah.

Doesn’t that mean your job is… Clarke caught the sharp glance Robertson leveled in her direction, and decided it best to leave unfinished the fact that Robertson’s main job was to smooth the passage of legislation through the House of Commons for the Prime Minister. If he moved to the House of Lords, that job would belong to the Prime Minister’s new boss of the Commons, and his own staff and not Robertson.

Anyway, what I want you to do is release a statement about the education reform bill is still on track and that anytime soon we’ll be putting through Commons and we expect it to pass.

What about the questions on the Birch affair?

Ignore them.

I can’t just ignore them, Howard.

Then shoot the reporters.

Clarke smirked and Robertson quietly laughed. Besides, they didn’t vote for us. Robertson quickly added. Clarke nodded and leaned against the door frame.

Just a statement then, Howard?

Yeah, they don’t need any more.

You know if we don’t even address Birch or this embassy thing they’ll call us out for being out of touch.

I don’t care, our message is education reform. We’ll deal with Birch and the embassy tomorrow.

That’s plain stupid, Howard, it’s—

It’s the Prime Minister’s idea, Vicky. Work with Kent on this one though; it’s going to be tricky because of those other concerns.

Sure thing, we still on for dinner?

Yeah, down in the mess in… what, an hour or so?

Sure thing. I’ll get on the statement.

Office of the Prime Minister

Tetley awoke with a start, unsure of why, but noting that the previous white light that had flooded his office had turned a soothing shade of orange. Then he heard a quiet knock at his door and a voice calling the Prime Minister. Rubbing his eyes, he called out I’ll be right there, loud enough to ensure the knocking ceased. Finally, swinging his legs off the sofa and straightening his tie and vest, he pushed his fatigued body off the warm and comfortable furniture so he could muster the strength to walk over and fetch his jacket. After throwing it over his shoulders and thrusting his arms into the sleeves, he straightened his whole suit and opened the door, revealing a captain wearing the uniform of the Royal Navy. What can I do for, Captain?

It’s been a half-hour, sir, and the embassy relief force is preparing to enter Zarcaliari airspace.

What’s your name, Andrews, sir. Captain Kenneth Andrews, your new liaison between the Admiralty and your office. Tetley forced himself to look up at the man, far taller than himself, climbing up towards two meters the man towered over his Prime Minister, a fact not lost on either though they ignored it for the time being.

Lead the way, Captain. The two set off down the twisted, archaic halls of power within the Citadel, Tetley following his new liaison officer scratching his head – figuratively speaking – over what happened to his last liaison officer. Too many faces in the office he mused.

So Captain Andrews, where are you from?

[i]Hamm-on-Sea, sir. Actually just outside the town, in Hamm proper, sir.

That’s a pleasant little community, Captain, a nice city if I may say so. I went there… was it three months ago?

Two, sir. I was in the crowd on leave.

As I recall, my speech didn’t go over too well.

No, sir.

Well, I guess that happens when one talks about restricting ocean-going fishing in a fishing-city.

Yes, sir. The two walked in silence for the remainder of the way, Tetley pressing his hand against the wall panel then stretching up on his toes to give an optical signature before the door swung inwards, revealing banks of monitors and supercomputers that connected the tiny room to the whole of the empire.

Quickly, Tetley took his seat, the crowd of brass standing as he entered and not seating themselves until their boss took his own seat. What have we got, General Romero?

Three Pelican choppers en route with over one hundred fifty Royal Marines equipped with heavy weapons and ammunition supplies. The entered Zarcaliari airspace two minutes ago.

Thanks you, General, Air Marshall, what’s the word in Novikov? Tetley turned to face the blonde air marshal, who himself turned away from a monitor and slammed a hard-lined phone back into its receiver.

The RAF patrol out of Prostejov has reported that the Novikovian air group commander has authorized the launch of a patrol squadron of Novikovian jets without permission of the RAF commander on-scene.

Tetley’s eyebrows perked upwards at that small fact. The Novikovians had been given greater degrees of latitude then any other colony in large part due to their size and the violent means in which their country had been annexed, including the means to deploy a limited armed forces for the self-defence of the colony from immediate threats. The local commander had obviously stretched the meaning of immediate threats, but because he needed the support of the Novikovian people and government with the negotiations ongoing in St. Ives, he decided in that moment to let the faux pas slide. And what are we doing?

We’ve launched a combat air patrol to secure our radar surveillance aircraft and civilian airliners and helicopters in the immediate area, but the RAF commander on-scene is letting the Novikovians take care of the threat. The air marshal opened his mouth to say more, but was cut off by General Romero.

Sir, the Pelicans have crossed over land. With your permission I’ll raise the audio?

You may do so, General. Romero nodded and raised a thumb to an unseen staff officer in the back of the room, who slowly raised inaudible words and static to a level at which the sounds coalesced into coherent words and phrases.

Stalker Two and Three, this is Lead, we’re going to switch to delivery route Delta.

Affirmative, Lead. Two out.

Roger, Lead. Three out.

The room watched in silence as little icons moved across a black screen, crossing over green lines both solid and striped representing borders and threat areas until they reached the outskirts of the capital city.

Stalker Lead, this is Two, I’m receiving sporadic small arms fire.

Roger, Two.

Tetley snapped his fingers, drawing Romero’s attention. What does that mean, General?

Just that some bozos with Kalashnikovs are firing rounds up into the air at the helicopters. Nothing serious, it’s rather routine in these sorts of operations, sir. In fact, sir, generally speaking –

Stalker Lead, this is Three, I have wounded in the compartment, small arms fire penetrated the skin.

Copy, Three.

Stalker Lead, this is Two, I have a flash down below. I’m not sure—

Three to Two, MISSILE!

Shit!

Deploying chaff!

Evasive maneuvers!

I’m trying, Damnit!

Shit, there’s another one!

Motherfuckers!

You’re clear of the first, Two.

Shit! Where’s the second?! Where the fuck is the—

The room then heard a sickening crunching noise followed by a loud burst of static that was quickly cut off by a staff officer.

Tetley listened in horror as the voices appeared frantic as more missiles and heavier gunfire raked the choppers. He could do nothing but lean back as similar bursts of static soon found their way from the remaining choppers. Glancing over at Romero, he found a man whose faced betrayed shock and sadness despite years of harsh military service. Tetley watched as the man turned to face his Prime Minister. Sir, we’ve lost contact with the reinforcement flight. It appears they’ve been… shot down, sir.

Extremely tall and with uncharacteristic dark hair, Liam O’Connell strode through the streets of Imperium, enjoying the evening with all its trappings of the nightlife crawling out from the shadows of the waning daylight. A dark-Irishman from the township of Haversham, O’Connell had entered politics at a young age, moving from a degree in political science to a local government board for the township – at that time in dire financial straits. He had taken the reigns of the board only to revitalize the township’s economy, thereby increasing revenue while drastically slashing operating costs by hammering home efficiency and cutting out government waste. It was this financial acumen which brought his name before the Democratic Socialists, which had begun to adopt new social policies as the young leadership began to see the looming problems of an overburdened system. After the ascension of Tetley to the position of Prime Minister, he had been given the post of Deputy Minister of Trade and Industry, then that of Deputy Minister of the Interior. However, where the Democratic Socialists had been ardent supporters of the Novikovian War, O’Connell had the benefit of a degree of prescience he found lacking in fellow party members.

He wrote a lengthy memo to the then Chancellor of Exchequer, forwarding a copy to the Prime Minister, about the potential economic ramifications of the looming war. His concerns were noted and then ignored, and ten days later, as the Cabinet discussed options over declaring war, as Novikovian submarines opened their missile doors, O’Connell handed in his resignation. Several hours later, before Cabinet had reached a decision about how to break the peace between the two states, the Novikovians abrogated the peace for the United Kingdom and O’Connell was left on the outside. For two months he stood before the House of Commons remonstrating for a cessation of the war before casualties rose to incomprehensible levels. Again, O’Connell was ignored and after two months of brutal fighting the United Kingdom had to bury over 200,000 individuals. Elections were called and O’Connell formed the core nucleus of a breakaway party of Democratic Socialists determined to reverse the misguided ways of Alistair Tetley. O’Connell found their success less than complete, yet enough that the Centre Party became a powerful bloc in Commons, so much so that neither the Democratic Socialists nor Conservatives could govern without them. Owning far more in common to the ideals and philosophies of the Democratic Socialists, O’Connell found his lot cast once more with the Democratic Socialists. But owing to his stature in the new coalition government he found himself offered the position of Chancellor of the Exchequer, a position that would allow him to balance the budget and bring Tetley’s spending under control.

For now, however, the day was over and had made dinner plans with an old friend from his days in Haversham at a small but pricy café near the Citadel. Along the brick-lined sidewalks, the faux-candle lit lights flickered on as unseen pilot lights lit the gas flowing from the nozzles. The palms swayed gently in the light yet stiff breeze, and the sounds of steel drums and horns echoed and reverberated off the glass and brick facades of the small shops that remained around the Citadel. As he neared the café, he found a small gathering of people outside a television repair shop, all eagerly watching the six televisions on display. All showed grainy video of bloodied bodies, and of yellow sands splattered with red and black as if Jackson Pollack had claimed an empty desert as a canvas. Gravitating towards the devastation, O’Connell moved carefully down the street hoping to avoid the passerby who would recognize the unofficial successor to the Prime Minister.

He found a small spot underneath the wide fronds of a short and stout palm wherefrom he could discern the text scrolling across the bottom of the screen and that emblazoned directly above. It took only a moment for the placid expression to morph into one of distress and sadness – not just for the loss of life but for the conflict that would now once again be put on display between Tetley and O’Connell, although he reveled in the fact that as Chancellor his opinion could no longer be summarily dismissed. Fetching his mobile out of his deep trouser pocket, he entered a few numbers, Hey Robert, it’s Liam. I’m afraid I’m going to have to bail on our dinner tonight. Something’s just come up.

Office of the Deputy Chief of Staff to the Prime Minister

Robertson took a moment to shake his head while sipping his soda through an oddly coloured green straw. Not so much that the colour green was odd he mused, but more that the shade was itself such a putrid colour. The day’s events had left him nervous – not the row between the Pacitalians and the Sarzonians, not even the firing of Birch, but the potential ennobling of the Prime Minister. As the government was established, the United Kingdom was ruled by a sovereign monarch, although the power to govern was given almost entirely to that of a half-elected Parliament, the elected part consisting of the House of Commons the unelected being that of the House of Lords. In the House of Commons, the Prime Minister needed to negotiate difficult pieces of legislation through an often adversarial community of MPs, in the House of Lords, the story was radically different. While nominally the Lords could vote on matters, there were frequently no more than ten individuals sitting at any given vote and more by tradition than any legality the House of Lords always passed legislation coming from the Commons – except that which infringed upon the nobility, legislation that was few and far between. In effect, the job of Deputy Chief of Staff, the position of marshalling support in the Commons and controlling the MPs for the PM would be a non-entity and in all effects, Robertson would be out of a job.

He of course had no ill-wishes for his Prime Minister, who rightfully deserved the respect and honours bestowed by His Majesty for his years of service as Prime Minister. Instead, Robertson had begun to think about potential résumés for new employers – a proposition he found distasteful given the loyalty that the Prime Minister had shown to his staff after what could only be considered a somewhat disastrous general election. The Prime Minister had been most gracious to Robertson, allowing his company on the secret visits to His Majesty, as well as organizing the first state visit of a foreign leader to the United Kingdom in addition to making the acquaintance of the leader in question. And yet Robertson could not bear to sit idly by while governance roared on ignorant of the quietus in Robertson’s own life.

Pushing back on his chair, the small wheels moved him closer towards the window, freeing his feet from below his desk allowing him to stand and find his coat and throw a few papers into his messenger back, itself thrown over his shoulder. As he switched off the light to his office, he found the secretaries all glued to the muted television that always was turned to some 24/7 news network. Robertson leaned back against the wall and rubbed his eyes as the flag of the United Kingdom was dragged into view, decorated and adorned with gaping holes and flames. And then came the horrifying sight, a limp body being dragged across desert sands, the patch on his sleeve boldly declaring that he was a member of the Royal Armed Services.

The Office of the Prime Minister

“With such rapidity and an utter lack of clarity the situation devolved into pure chaos.”

Such would be the words of Alistair Tetley decades in the future at the start of the chapter on the affair concerning Zarcaliar. But as he sat in his office with the night quickly replacing the day, his memoirs were the furthest from his mind. On his desk was an atlas, opened to a map of Zarcaliar, nation that sat poised to straddle trade between the Atlantic and the Indian, a nation that now threatened the lives of dozens of people Tetley had sworn to protect. And yet it was not lost to Tetley that now, as if the United Kingdom were a subject of Thucydides’ own history, an opportunity had been presented.

Acutely aware of his prior conversation with the King, Tetley knew the Royal Navy would seek blood and that the Conservatives would surely wait until the Democratic Socialists had begun to speak before screaming for an opposite course of action at the top of their lungs. Since his presence in the Situation Room, the situation had indeed worsened as the embassy now only had to await the eventual collapse of its perimeter. The Royal Navy was preparing an armed force, but it would be another half-hour before it could get underway and there were no guarantees that the embassy would last that half-hour. Picking up the phone he found the voice of his tired secretary on the other end, Could you get me Howard please? He listened for the affirmation and then sat tracing the outline of the nation in the map while Robertson took off his jacket and placed his bag on his sofa and found his way to the office of Alistair Tetley, which he entered with a knock.

You wanted to see me, Mr. Prime Minister?

Thanks, Howard, come in, come in. Tetley waved his arm, inviting Robertson to have a seat on the sofa. As I’m sure you’re aware, something has come up and with Tobias down in St. Ives, I need you to take point on this one.

Certainly, sir.

Who do we have in the Commons that is fiery and pugnacious.

Rothschild, sir. Robertson added after a moment’s thought. Rothschild was an aging member of the DSP, one who had argued vehemently for war against Novikov and had thus branded himself as a warhawk.

Get him to the House before the building locks up and have him – without word of your speaking to him – saber rattle. And make sure that he does it within earshot of the Conservatives. And in the meantime, say absolutely nothing. Make sure Kent says nothing. And make sure Victoria says nothing.

Certainly, sir. Robertson stood, already recalling the phone number in his head. As he grabbed hold of the door knob he heard the Prime Minister call his name and snap him back to the office. Yes, sir?

About my lordship, you are too valuable to lose, Howard. We’ll find a way. I’ll make sure of it.

Thank you, sir.

Parliament House

Daniel Collins switched off the light to his office and threw his jacket over his shoulder. The leader of the Conservative party, Collins occupied the office of the leader of His Majesty’s Loyal Opposition – an office he had sat in for too many years. Nevertheless, he relished the fact that he was the leader only ever distressing at the fact that he had not yet managed to bring the Conservatives back to power. Truth be told, he knew that his party was still relatively weak and that the enormous success in the recent elections had been more to the credit of voters opting away from the Democratic Socialists and not caring for whom they voted. As his heels clicked sharply down the marble hall, he heard a much faster series of clicks from behind him at the far end of the hall. After turning he found they belonged to a young member of the Conservative Party.

Mr. Collins, I think there’s something you should hear.

Collins entered the House of Commons in the middle of the old man’s speech. Rothschild had served as an MP for thirty plus years and his white hair and hearing aid proved he was a monument to an era of politics long since departed. Nevertheless, he had retained his seat and so was entitled to speak before Parliament as he did this night. Aware of the situation in Zarcaliar, Collins had decided not to pay much attention until the following morning when he knew that the Citadel would have announced some coherent policy. Only then could he react and maneuver his party to be situated best under the limelight.

But here was the old man, his dentures chattering away as if a man possessed, speaking before a nearly empty chamber calling for the United Kingdom to wipe the country off the face of the map and that there was no option other than the complete removal of Zarcaliar from the international scene. Collins smiled for the old man always provided the best media sound bytes. When Rothschild finally climbed down from his pulpit and high horse, Collins took the stage and cleared his throat.

While I feel awful at the news of the deaths of the brave soldiers of the United Kingdom, I fear that the Honourable Mr. Rothschild remains a step behind – but I shall endeavour to forgive his forgetting of his walker, the Right Honourable Prime Minister.

This nation is not now prepared to engage upon another war of conquest for the pocket of the Prime Minister and so I must object to the calls made by Mr. Rothschild…

Alistair Tetley was on his knees. Overnight and into the morning, MPs had taken to low blows and potshots at those who opposed their own personal view. Zarcaliar had taken on an importance of its own but not for its foreign policy implications but instead for the ramifications it could have in domestic politics within the Kingdom. He had listed and read transcripts of Collins’ attacks on the Democratic Socialist’s most stalwart members; he had listened also to his own silence and to the papers this morning.

In the background, he could hear a low murmur and he felt the white of the flash bulbs popping all around his, enveloping him in an unnatural light. Finally, he heard a simple sentence not cluttered by unnecessary phrases and lofty words. Rise not as Alistair Tetley, but as Lord Alistair Tetley, Marquess of Salisbury.

Several Hours Earlier

I want to thank you all for joining me this morning, as I’m sure you have quite a few questions. Tetley paused, taking the opportunity to drink some more of his Earl Grey tea, his own favourite against the native, and far sweeter blends developed by the local Azazian tribes. As you know, His Majesty has bestowed upon me the March of Salisbury and I fully intend on accepting such an honour and responsibility despite the changes that will bring to this government, and this staff.

Tetley had gathered his staff several minutes earlier than his daily morning meeting so he could address the impending changes. While normally he would be the silent one, the first several minutes would be in reverse with Tetley doing the majority of the speaking as he answered questions and explained his new role and office.

First, I am moving to the House of Lords and as a consequence the proper form of address will be that of Lord Salisbury or My Lord. Tetley watched the subtle frowns from some of his staffers, knowing that his adherence to such aristocratic frivolities impressed them little. When Tobias returns from St. Ives I expect that he will continue as Chief of Staff and Howard will keep his post as Deputy Chief of Staff. I mention this because the common rumours floating about have you, Howard, and Tobias being dismissed because the House of Lords does not compare to the intensity of the Commons. And while the intensity level is largely true, I am still the Prime Minister and I will need and depend upon my senior staff just as much if not more than before. Some other changes that I am quite certain you are aware of would be the necessity to limit our interference in affairs within the House of Commons given the strict sense of separation between Lords and Commons as well as the fact that I cannot enter the House of Commons. There will be more cosmetic and aesthetic changes to the offices and compounds that we frequent and we shall likely entertain more royalty when it comes to foreign visits because of my new status as an official member of the aristocracy. Now, on to the more cosmetic changes; I shall be granted the authority to wear new outfits on some occasions…

Zarcaliar

Fire in the hole!

Blast the motherfuckers!

Shut the fuck up, Lewindowsky!

On one side of a pockmarked stone wall the world erupted into flames and shrieking shrapnel that embedded themselves in flesh, bone, plastics, stone, and even metal. The other side harboured two young men from Exeter who promptly rose after the detonation, the one pulling the trigger to his automatic weapon.

Eat this you fuckers! Lewindowsky shouted wholly unaware that few of the survivors on the other side could hear him or even see the gun firing behind the smoke and dust that hid the soldiers from the mob. The two men had become separated from a patrol that had been sent out to recover survivors from the downed choppers – they had GPS and maps but in the dust-strewn streets that all looked the same in whitewash and beige and between the erratic and inaccurate fire of automatic weapons and RPGs, the two couldn’t distinguish one degree of latitude from one degree of longitude. Thousands of kilometers from the green rolling hills of Exeter they were isolated on a desert island in an urban labyrinth with millions of minotaurs hell bent on killing and mutilating them both.

At some point, Private Bailey felt a sharp shove at his head and removed his helmet to find a richochet bullet had destroyed his comm set leaving the two without even a way to communicate to their squad. They didn’t know their squad had been obliterated by a machine gun hidden behind the shutters of a hospital window. Over their heads they heard a familiar thumping and as rotor blades above pushed hot, dry air over their position they hunkered down and pulled out their goggles which were frequently left off because of the fact designers had not meant them for desert combat. Through protective plastics they gazed upwards and watched as streams of fire lanced out from small black stubs. Several blocks away a massive fireball rose into the sky.

SHIT!

Bailey turned to find Lewindowsky clutching his leg, a thick red liquid squirting up into the air. Dropping his rifle to the hard packed ground, Bailey applied pressure to his comrade’s wound while a hail of inaccurate fire fell upon the two men from their side of the stone wall. Shit man, we gotta get the fuck outta here. Bailey grabbed the machine gun and let loose a stream of suppression fire while Lewindowsky crawled towards a closed door. Bailey slung his rifle across his back and hoisted the automatic weapon in his arms, crouching then running behind a metal trashcan before another hail of gunfire fell upon his former position. Resting the small bipods of the squad automatic weapon upon the flat top of the trashcan, Bailey aimed the barrel at the fourth floor window of an apartment building of no particular unique design – just another squat sandstone building with laundry and lingerie hanging from rope between opposite buildings.

Hurry the fuck up, Lewindowsky!

Shut up, dickwad. I’m fucking crawling! Lewindowsky shouted back at his friend. The truth was, of course, that the two couldn’t stand each other. Bailey was a straight-edged military man through and through with his father and grandfather serving the Commonwealth and his great-grandfather their colonial forbearers in the British Army. Lewindoswky was simply poor, and needed money for school. The Royal Army provided that money in exchange for service. But he hadn’t expected service where he’d actually be shot. Get your ass over here and open this fucking door!

What the fuck do you think I’m trying to do! Bailey started to move out from behind his cover before a bullet slammed into the side of the cylindrical can, glancing off the light body armour that he had on his arm – the bullet didn’t penetrate but the force threw him to the ground. Shit!

Shut up, Bailey, I’ve been fucking shot, now get the fuck over here!

Finally, Bailey recovered and picked himself up and after firing another burst he made a dash for the doorway. He dropped the SAW into Lewindowsky’s arms and with his now free hands he turned the handle, stood away from the wooden door and threw the door open brandishing the barrel of his rifle to a terrified mother and her three children. Clearing the room, Bailey dropped the rifle around his chest and raised his arms and pointed to the patch on his sleeve. We come in peace. He would have laughed as a stray mortar slammed into the courtyard from which he and Lewindowsky had just run if not for the scream from the woman at the sight of the bloodied Private Lewindowsky.

Office of the Prime Minister

That’s not bad, sir. Howard Robertson chirped. The senior staff were admiring the potential designs for Tetley’s new coat of arms, and the potential finalists had been brought in before his staff for their commentary. Robertson particularly liked the traditional shield divided in quarters, with mountains in the upper left and bottom right corner, an arateca (large indigenous maritime bird), in the upper right and a sailing ship in the bottom right.

That’s what I think, too, Howard. Tetley added confirming that Robertson’s personal preference would indeed become the seal of the soon-to-be Lord Salisbury. Now, if you’d all care to, I’ve ordered up some champagne and I’d invite you all to have a glass before we return to work. He watched as his staff all nodded and with a press of a button his personal aide opened the door to his office and a waiter brought a silver tray with crystal glasses and a bottle. Tetley offered a toast and watched his staff pour themselves glasses before surreptitiously excusing himself from his own office and into a private hall where he found a Royal Navy lieutenant waiting.

Good day, Mr. Prime Minister. The commanders are waiting for you in the Situation Room so if you’ll follow me.

Lead the way, lieutenant.

The Situation Room, the Citadel

Tetley found himself sitting uncomfortably once more, watching little icons moving about the globe protecting the UK from afar. Before him seated at the table were his top admirals, air marshals, and generals who would order the troops at a moment’s notice. Further at the end were small televisions – live feed from Zarcaliar.

Mr. Prime Minister, an older, more heavyset air marshal called out in his gruff bass voice. You should know that we have now readied the 52nd Strategic Air Wing at RAF Avinapolis for short-notice strike operations.

Tetley rolled his eyes within his heads – in a nation of over three billion people his military higherups still expected him to know the details of every single unit the UK fielded. [i]What are we talking about again?

The Arrow high-altitude stealth bomber, sir. She will deliver her payload within four hours of your authorization and according to the plans we have in place that payload will consist of satellite guided munitions to strike the purported offices of terrorist organisations within Zarcaliar.

Casualties?

The buildings in question are thought to harbour, on average, somewhere in the range of 20-60 terrorists, Mr. Prime Minister.

Civilian casualties?

Even if we launch now, the bombs will be falling during their evening, sir, and the adjacent apartment buildings will likely be full with civilians.

Numbers, Air Marshal, I’m talking about numbers.

Potentially, worst case scenario, 500-1000.

The room fell silent as Tetley simply pushed back into his chair moving his mouth over his small goatee and rubbing the small hairs. Can the Royal Navy launch cruise missiles and hit the buildings now?

Theoretically yes, Mr. Prime Minister, a well decorated admiral answered. However, the weapons deployed with the light carrier group won’t be as precise as those the RAF can deliver. You’d simply be looking at worse collateral damage. However, if I may add, sir, I’m not entirely certain that we should be looking at just those terrorist organisations.

Lord Edward Marbury sat calmly, his long sinewy fingers wrapping around themselves as he reviewed the course of action upon which he had just embarked. His white hair still displayed the vestiges of the black that had long ago given Marbury an imposing figure – but now in his seventies time, gravity, and stress had worn the Second Sea Lord to the point of retirement. Marbury had been the prime advocate of mustering the whole Royal Navy to eliminate its Novikovian counterpart and his orders saw dozens of battleships, cruisers, and hundreds of escorts off Novikovian coasts battering coastal defences and cutting off all trade. Yet a black mark remained on his record, the fleets had not been allocated proper escorts and the Novikovian submarine force devastated the pickets and the older capital ships – and Marbury was well aware of the result in the public: they wanted an early retirement. And so he had submitted his resignation to Tetley with the arrangement all but made that his choice for his successor would be Lord Richard Atkinson, who had led the Azazian Grand Fleet and won national acclaim. Until Atkinson was formally appointed, however, Marbury continued to sit in at these meetings, adding his decades of experience to the discussion.

What I mean, Mr. Prime Minister, is that those terrorists were able to bring down several advanced helicopters and then use heavy weapons to kill Royal Marines and Army soldiers and I don’t think they simply got lucky. Zarcaliar remains a safe zone for terrorism – even if most of it has not in the past been directed against the UK. But I think what we’re seeing is a sea change where the state-sponsored terrorists will be reaching out to hit the UK. First on their own soil, next perhaps Avinapolis or Port Blair, then perhaps Breningrad or Imperium. We need to secure Zarcaliar, Mr. Prime Minister.

Tetley listened as the room erupted in polite and relatively quiet dissension. For the second time within twelve months, Marbury was advocating open warfare upon a sovereign state, a prospect disquieting to Tetley. But at the same time Tetley could only agree with Marbury. Before the outbreak of hostilities with Novikov, he had been reluctant to even officially accuse the Novikovian government of culpability in the sinking of merchant vessels. Then, before he could, Novikovian cruise missiles landed all about the Home Islands – and while most were destroyed, enough brought down bridges, powerlines, rail lines, and other critical pieces of infrastructure to send a shock to the markets and temporarily cripple the Azazian economy. To allow Zarcaliari terrorists the same opportunity would be unacceptable to both himself and the voters.

Admiral, what assets do we have in the Indian?

Sir, the Prince of Oceania will be returning to her station outside the Verdant Archipelago next month and so until then we have the carrier group centered upon the HMS Invincible as well as the Courageous. In terms of artillery, each group has two battleships and we have four battlecruiser squadrons in the Indian – two of which are currently at sea.

What about amphibious transports?

The HMS Ardent would be the available ship, sir, however, she’s in Philadelphia.

Tetley nodded. The Ardent would carry a full Royal Marine division, and if he remembered correctly that would be about 10,000 men for a nation of 12 million. Ordinarily, Tetley would prefer a larger force – but in this case all the men would have to be cramped onboard assault ships for the duration of the trip and up until the moment they boarded the hovercraft. There was no ally from which Azazian troops could march. Zarcaliar was, like almost all possessions of the Crown, an island. What other transports are available, Admiral Marbury?

[i]Sir, we’re still repairing damage to many from the invasion of Novikov but I believe it would be possible to hasten repairs so that we could have the Adventure, Audace, and the Astute ready within the month.

The problem, Mr. Prime Minister, is the manpower for the invasion. General Arthur McAllister headed the Royal Marines and like Marbury he had been largely responsible for the successes in Novikov – but also held accountable for the losses of life and it was largely expected he would be eventually tried at the anticipated war crimes trials as public comments appeared to urge murder of POWs. He too was on his way out. Zarcaliar offered redemption and a save of face. We have tens of thousands of troops stationed in Novikov, and those that have returned to the Home Islands are recovering and recouping their losses, replenishing their stocks and in large on extended R&R. The 1st, 7th, and 10th Rapid Deployment Forces should be ready to move – but that’s only about 30,000 men when I would recommend no less than 80 thousand. That and then we have the problem of what to do after we are victorious. General Pickens can account to that, however.

Indeed, Mr. Prime Minister. Pickens was the odd man out in the room – having been the only head of an armed services branch to have come into office after the war. Instead, he had been in charge of personnel during the conflict and had pressed for an expansion of peacekeeping divisions within the Royal Army as they’d be most in need to police Novikov. Now, however, he was in charge of the whole of the Royal Army. Sir, the fact of the matter is that there aren’t enough soldiers within the Royal Army to do the job. And—

What about Novikovian troops? Tetley interjected. His facial muscles were tight, but didn’t betray a single emotion – emotions that mainly ran from embarrassment to anger. For the billions spent on defence he had a room of brass telling him the United Kingdom was unprepared for war – and so he asked about the Novikovians, who were required to provide troops to the UK if absolutely necessary.

Sir, Pickens quickly responded, the point of the Novikovians is moot. They are doing most of the heavy peacekeeping work – especially in trouble spots like Grozny and Lesser Novikov. The face of the matter is that we need the Novikovians in Novikov, but if you order them to Zarcaliar, most don’t speak English yet as it wasn’t a required language and their forces are nowhere close to being integrated into our command and control systems. Our logistical requirements would be double. They use different ammunition, different communications, different fuel, even different rations. We’d have to provide all that per the Treaty of Poldi’sk.

I’m well aware of the treaties I sign, General.

My apologies, sir. I’m merely trying to point out that—

That the United Kingdom is wholly ill-equipped to fight another war. I understand your point quite clearly, General Pickens. However, Admiral Marbury has made an excellent point. What’s going on in the capital of Zarcaliar could breed a violence that spreads to the Home Islands. The fire that is radical Islamic terrorism must be put out. I don’t care how you gentlemen do it. I just want it done. In an hour I want options on my desk. Am I understood?

The room answered in a curt, crisp Yes, sir. Tetley could feel the wrath of the generals. Standing, Tetley made his way to the door, finding Robertson standing outside holding a slip of paper.

Nice work in extricating yourself from your own party, sir.

If only the brass could extricate their heads from their collective ass. Tetley muttered. He didn’t notice Robertson arching his eyebrows and instead he headed off to his office with his Deputy Chief of Staff behind him.

Not so great of a meeting, Mr. Prime Minister?

We spend how much of our budget on the defence?

I think it’s between 12-15%, sir.

And yet we can’t go fight a war against a tinpot dictatorship.

Well, sir, I think there are more problems with fighting a war.

Tetley stopped in the aisle and turned to face Robertson, who handed him the piece of paper that contained a transcript of a speech given in the Commons. Is this a joke, Howard?

No, sir, O’Connell spoke just a few minutes ago. He wants a financial plan for this potential war before the Centre Party will authorize any war legislation and he concluded that any attempt to bypass Parliament would result in the Centre Party withdrawing from the coalition and—

A no-confidence vote…

Yes, sir.

The two men stood in the hall, Tetley taking the moment to lean back upon the sturdy walls and scratch his goatee. He now felt behind a rock and a hard place. Between generals that didn’t want a war, a dissenting Chancellor, and yet a public that would soon be clamoring for a revenge that was political suicide for the DSP and nobody else.

Bloody hell, Howard. The brass will be sending over proposed plans within the hour and I want you to look at them all and start doing some work on possible costs.

Then after that, sir?

Then we need to find the money. And the support. Tetley shook his head, straightening himself out and making his way back to the office.

One more thing, sir.

Yeah, Howard?

You need to start getting ready for the ceremony.

Asbury Castle, New Britain

Raising high over a promontory overlooking the New Britain Strait, Asbury Castle guarded the narrow, but immensely deep cut in the land that had served as the divide between England’s first colony and the wild, untamed lands of Oceania. Constructed from stone held fast with iron and steel, Asbury Castle traditionally held the throne for the Prince of New Britain, who could overlook New Britain stretched out below him and to the east and with a turn of the head the Strait and the republics of West Oceania and Bennington.

Yet, Prince Andrew I had his mind occupied by far smaller pieces of land, the narrow, winding driveway that led to the front gates, and the black limousine that carefully followed the bright white guideline. Standing over two meters tall the Prince benefited from the spacious ceilings in Asbury while the long, tightly spiraled staircases kept his semi-youthful physique in tip-top shape. With a glass of Scotch in his one hand, he leaned out the open window and peered down at the small car – which would still require a full ten minutes before it reached the front gate – smiling at the fate of things to come.

Prince Andrew I was the young uncle to King Michael I, and with the monarch childless, the next in line to the throne. Andrew had come from the truly blue-blooded aristocracy and royalty, his education at the prestigious though highly elitist National Academy had instilled the opinions and beliefs that guided him to this day, and which made him feared by Parliament.

Taking a moment to finish his drink, the Prince moved away from the window, taking care to leave the shutters open for his aides to close, and proceeded down a set of stairs to the main foyer. Finding his comfortable leather chair with its custom-crafted high back for head and neck support, Andrew sat down and stroked his bushy yet neatly trimmed mustache. His hair retained its sienna colour, though he found more of it flecked with grey every week, and his brown eyes scoured the room for the tiniest of imperfections – and he frowned when he found none to his dislike. In short order, his chief attendant arrived, swinging open the massive and heavy wooden doors. Sire, the Right Honourable Gentleman from Ilsen requests your presence.

Show him in. Andrew remained seated as the tall blonde-haired leader of the Loyal Opposition entered the foyer to Asbury Castle. With unflinching eyes, he checked to see that the man bowed and waited the proper number of seconds – and found him off by three. He ticked off three seconds in his head then nodded his head. You may rise, he declared to the standing Daniel Collins. Now, what do you want?

Your Royal Highness, I have to speak with you about your ascension to the throne and your first Parliament.

Go on.

His Majesty will soon pass away, this is a fact, and he will do so within the term of Lord Salisbury’s government and you will be presented with a liberal government that will oppose any sort of changes you wish to see made to the United Kingdom. Collins’ eyes narrowed, and he lowered his gaze, and I’ve even heard rumours of a formal opposition to your ascension in favour of another relative of His Majesty.

The prince nodded quietly; interlacing his fingers he pushed softly into the back of his seat. And so what is it that you propose to do about it?

Office of the Deputy Chief of Staff

I don’t think we have a choice, Kent. Zarcaliar now seems the make-or-break issue in the Commons with O’Connell being an ass over the whole affair; we have an opportunity to portray the DSP as patriotic and loyal to all citizens of the UK no matter how far from Imperium they happen to live.

Tiran shook his head. But then we tie into that patriotism our platform on domestic issues such as clean energy, gay rights, and colonial rights. Don’t get me wrong; I think you’re right, Howard, we need to seize this opportunity, Carpe diem so to speak. Just the timing of this… well, suffice to say it could be better.

Kent, we work for the Prime Minister, things never work as they’re supposed to let alone when they’re supposed to.

Very true. The two men shared a laugh, then each sipping his tea before shifting to more comfortable positions in their seats. They had been seated for nearly half an hour planning policy and strategy to bring before the PM by the evening. Robertson drummed his fingers on his desk realizing how little progress had been made.

Alright, let’s get the priorities straight. Most contentious will be gay rights, then colonial rights, then the clean energy plan – and we need to get all of them done within the next eight months.

If we can pull this off it’ll be a bloody miracle.

Well we are gods in a sense: we control this country without ever being seen by the public and so I’m sure we can get this done.

Collins will stall everything as long as he possibly can.

So we have one of the ministers deal with him.

I’m just saying it’s going to be tougher without the Prime Minister in the Commons. He was the best speaker in the Cabinet. But that’s beside the point; how do we accomplish the legalization of gay marriage and equal rights for the gay community?

The two men sat in silence. Improving the rights of the United Kingdom’s homosexual population had been on the agenda of the first term in this office – but it had never gotten off the ground, and with fewer supporting seats it looked as if a portion of the population would continue to be marginalized. Although civil unions had been legalized, they merely exonerated gays from prosecution under archaic immorality laws and provided them with no actual legal status or financial benefits. Unfortunately, the population was split roughly in half, with more opposing equality than supporting it. It was evolving into an issue that could sound the death knell for any politician; and so Robertson had decided it had come time to revisit the issue as the Prime Minister was no longer an elected official and wasn’t subject to the vote of the people as a member of the House of Lords. The problem of getting the bill through the Commons and then the conservative gentry in the House of Lords remained, though.

Normally I’d say we attach it to an unrelated bill as an addendum – but Collins would pounce on that as subverting the democratic process—

Despite the fact the Conservatives do it all the time. Tiran scoffed, interrupting Robertson.

Don’t even get me started. Robertson replied, throwing a harsh glance at Tiran. What if we give the Conservatives something they want?

What do we have that they want?

Just a few suggestions, we could cut spending on social programmes, re-organise the colonies and dependencies to allow for greater autonomy and even independence, tax cuts – they’re always looking for tax cuts, any maybe deregulate more industries and cut some tariffs.

And how much of that would the Prime Minister be willing to give up exactly?

Robertson simply shook his head, knowing full well how intractable his boss could be at times. He finally stood up and signaled to Tiran that the meeting was over for he could see the junior military officers approaching from down the hall, signaling to Robertson it was time for his security briefing. I’m going to have Annabel arrange a meeting with Collins’ top aides and you and me are going to figure out how in the hell we can get this one issue through the Commons.

What about the House of Lords? Tiran asked with one step out of Robertson’s office.

One move at a time, Kent. If we have to, I’m sure the Prime Minister can arrange to stack the House of Lords in our favour – but I’d rather not do that unless I have to. Anyways, I’ll see you in an hour for the speech review?

Indeed.

Alright, man, take care. Robertson smiled and waved for the officers from the Royal Navy, Army, Air Force, and Marines to enter his office. I’m sorry it’s a wee-bit cramped, but I’m sure you’re all used to that from your training. Robertson noted the polite smiles… and the fact he wasn’t very funny. Anyways, what have we got going on today?

Sir, this image is of…

The New Thames River coursed through the capital, at one time with pristine drinkable waters that had since given way to the remnant toxins of silver mining operations upstream. Robertson mused on that thought, gazing off into the distant mountain range that happened to isolate the island of New Britain from the remainder of the islands in the archipelago that lay off to the west. In previous years there had been rail tunnels established to the republics of Bennington and Oceania. To the north, the lower elevations provided more opportunities for crossings – but they were frustrated initially by the largely agricultural economy and thus low population densities. For some time New Britain had been truly isolated; and as Robertson strode down the cobblestone River Walk Market he could only think of isolation.

The thousands of kilometers of open ocean between the Home Islands and the next major foreign landmass had been both a blessing and a curse. Kicking a loose stone over the curb and into the flowing water he watched the ripples dissipate before reaching the distant side of the river where a small boy stood waving at Robertson, who nodded and waved his own hand in return. He cocked his head as he watched the child’s mouth open – but he couldn’t hear and so he turned away to walk down the cobblestone path ignoring the growing noise as he approached the small strip of cafés and fruit stalls. The wind had picked up as a cold-front had passed through over night and Robertson pulled his overcoat tighter around his chilled body, taking the time to re-wrap the small belt before shoving his hands in the warm pockets.

For hundreds of years the Europeans had left the archipelago alone, and even when they colonized the islands, during their “civilizing” of the natives, the great powers of Europe ignored the archipelago – and yet they had been reluctant to let go of the vast territories. Picking up a container of sliced mango, Robertson opened the lid - careful not to splash the juices on his jacket – before delicately picking a piece, yellow and sticky between his fingers, and placing it lightly on his tongue. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small coin, thick and heavy with a goldish center surrounded by a shiny silverish outer ring, placed it on the vendor’s cart and smiled. Keep the change.

Through the isolation and the neglect the majority of the population had forged a semi-common identity. The Spanish worked well with the local Azazians and Vetrazians – the city of Caliz being built through the blood and sweat of both parties as a meeting place for all three parties. The French and Dutch had similarly worked well with the indigenous peoples in their areas and it took some time but eventually almost all the European powers had joined together to work for a common good. Importantly, however, the English, Russians, and the wider Azazian Empire had failed to reach an accord with each other or the other inhabitants.

Glancing upwards, Robertson found a cast iron street lamp, from which hung a small sign where Wellington Plaza was written in an ornate calligraphic script. He placed the small container of mango next to him on a bench painted a bright royal blue that was shaded by a palm of some sort – Robertson hated the fact that over a dozen species of palms existed on the island as it made identifying them quite difficult. Out of the corner of his eye, he found a similarly over-dressed man approaching with a foil dish in his own hands; picking up his mango container, Robertson waved and invited the man to sit. Thanks for seeing me, Curt.

My pleasure, Howard, what can I do for you today?

Through the neglect the colonies had been left to fend for themselves, to build their own defences, to construct their own political systems, to develop their own societies. Some chose their mother countries as the owner of their loyalty, the English colonists remained fiercely loyal to the Crown and fashioned their cities after their homes in the British Isles; while some like the Russians reacted against their mother countries – abandoning monarchy and coming to support Lenin before the revolutions that wrought such massive changes on the mother continent. And still others, like the French and Dutch were merely content to do trade with as many people as possible and generate large amounts of profit and thus influence in the different colonies. Meanwhile, there existed a sovereign political entity on the archipelago that resisted all attempts by the European to integrate – the native Azazians.

The Prime Minister is looking to pass some important legislation, contentious to be sure, and we’re going to need the support of the Conservatives to push it through Commons. Robertson watched the man’s eyes narrow, his head tilt slightly to one side.

What exactly is this legislation you’re drafting?

The legalization of gay marriage.

The fight had been seen as a longtime coming. The English had prepared themselves; they had built small ships and raised their own small army. The Azazians had bought the secrets of gunfire and modern combat from their trading partners in the Dutch and the French, the French who were particularly interested in seeing the power of their archrivals decline to their own ascension. It had begun as a small spark set off by a side still undetermined by the historians of Robertson’s era. But in the end, a small English ship had been sent to the bottom of the Azazian Sea, which linked all the islands of the archipelago for both commerce and communication. The Spanish all but abandoned the Azazians, letting them fend for themselves while closing Caliz off to Azazian warships – lightweight and lightly armed and armoured but far more maneuverable in all the shallows of the archipelago. The Dutch saw their small trading fleet ravaged by English ships and stopped trading while the French saw the fate of the Dutch and quickly changed their tune. The Russians remained aloof in the far northwest. And the Azazians and English had at it.

You’re kidding, right Howard? You do realise that the Conservative Party does actually want to stand a chance in the next elections?

Robertson shut his eyes and shook his head. Yeah, I know, he half-sighed in exasperation. But we’re behind the curve, Curt. We’ve got a chance to bring the UK up to international standards and here it is. We’ve always claimed to be a defender of human rights and yet we discriminate against people because of who they sleep with.

We discriminate against those people because it’s wrong, Howard. We discriminate against criminals because they’re bad people and what they do is wrong.

Are you equating gays to criminals?

No, Howard. You know better than that. What I’m saying is that gay marriage is wrong. More over, the people don’t want it. And you know better than anyone – maybe not so much anymore – that we serve the people. If the people don’t want it, don’t expect the Conservatives to give it.

For a long two years the fighting raged. Villages lighted up the night sky while the cries of women being raped and children being beaten filled the acrid skies. The English ravaged the whole of the Azazian Empire while the Azazians returned the favour, sacking cities like Georgetown, St. Brendans, Philadelphia, and Portsmouth. In those two years untold thousands of civilians became legitimate targets while soldiers and sailors pulled the triggers under orders from their commanders. Civility was lost. Dignity evaporated. Barbarism grew in their stead.

Believe me, Curt, that’s certainly the way it could be spun.

Are you telling me that the Prime Minister’s Office will spin our opposition as based upon a statement that gays are criminals.

Robertson frowned. This isn’t some backwater town in New Ireland, this is Imperium, New Britain. We’ll spin whatever we want however we want. What I want is to know what it would take the Conservative Party to agree that we need to change the status quo.

How about by putting my boss in the Citadel, because outside of that the Conservative Party is in no way going to support the legalization of gay marriage. You have a problem, Howard, in that the legislation isn’t supported by the majority of the population and that your coalition appears on the point of fracturing with O’Connell hammering you from the bloody frontbench. I don’t see why you’re even trying to work on this… second rate issue when you have bigger problems.

Because the point of being in the Citadel is to govern, Curt. The point of working for the Prime Minister is to effect change that benefits all the people of the United Kingdom with or without their knowledge. And perhaps, just perhaps, this legislation will benefit them without their knowledge or consent.

Robertson watched as his counterpart smiled and slowly started clapping his hands. Brilliant work there, Howard. Absolutely bloody brilliantly fantastic. So we’ve thrown out democracy and the consent of the people, have we? Last time I checked, I thought our government was a democracy. Are we done here?

No, sit your ass down, Curt! Robertson snapped. Throw out everything we’ve talked about so far, what would the Conservatives require for supporting this bill? Not even all of them, just some of them, what would they need?

Alright, I’ll play ball, Howard. The man lowered his head, and replaced the fork and knife he had been using for his lunch in the bowl. He threw his middle finger upon the palm of his hand. One, more representation for the colonies in Parliament. His index finger then joined his middle on his palm, two, we’d need more cuts in spending. Your little war with Novikov has cost us billions of Credits and O’Connell is right, it’s fiscally irresponsible to be even toying with the idea of another war. Furthermore, you’re planning on increasing defence spending in the next budget – don’t. Cut defence spending, don’t blame it on us, and urge the military to use their funds more efficiently.

Robertson forced a smile, anything else?

That’s it for now. Although this is just off the top of my head – without knowing the point of this meeting I haven’t talked to my boss or anyone else within the party. Is that it?

Yeah, that’ll do, I’ll get back to you in the next few days once I’ve talked to my staff.

Excellent, Howard. A pleasure, as always. The two stood and shook hands, bundling themselves as a stiff gust of wind rustled the palm leaves and blew some trash from the carts into the river. Robertson turned and headed back north, the direction from which he had come. He retraced his steps and played with the mobile in his pocket.

And then the war came; German troops rushed through Belgium and into France while European alliances forced nation against nation. Independence came for the colonies in the Azazian archipelago, and with the independence came a peace with the Azazians who had succumbed to English military might and had become nothing but another conquered people. The remaining Europeans had continued to incorporate themselves into a broader Azazian community while the English celebrated their victory as Englishmen over inferior natives while the Azazians felt themselves as a separate people oppressed in their own home territory.

Robertson walked northward towards the Citadel and back to his office, where he would meet with Tiran and call Heath over the proposed legislation and the concessions that would need to be made in order to pass the bill. He looked across the river, at the high rises of glass and steel that pierced the lightly overcast skies that were dark enough to obscure the sun but thin enough to allow for a low level of sunlight that barely warmed the exposed skin on his face. Finally, he dug the sleek plastic phone from his pocket and flipped it open speed-dialing his secretary, informing her he was on his way.

The tentative agreement held for several years, but after a rift between the Russians and the English, the Azazians revolted in the late twentieth century – destroying the government’s main archives and the Ministry of Defence. For a year, citizen fought second-class citizen as neighborhood streets turned into trenches, and malls into contorted battlefields. Finally, the government in Imperium was forced to accept the Azazians as legitimate, ordinary citizens. Over a million people were killed in the revolution. And yet, the historians of Robertson’s era continued to remark that the conflict between the English and the Azazians in the twentieth century only echoed the conflict a few decades before between the English and the Russians and not a few remarked that the two revolutions had set a precedent for instilling change in the United Kingdom.

Dump Hill, Port Elizabeth
Royal Crown Colony of Port Elizabeth

It does me good to get out, to see the lands under my dominion. Prince Andrew stood motionless atop a large mound of boulders and loose rocks. Around the perimeter was a fortified concrete wall with machine guns and cannons mounted in positions overlooking the harbour below and the entrances to the town situated against the harbour. Then again, this town doesn’t seem to be worth much, he muttered, kicking an odd pebble across the hard-packed dirt surface of the military base.

Andrew had decided that as his father’s health worsened it had become imperative to make visits to the various colonies and territories of the United Kingdom. His first stop had been the city of Port Elizabeth, the bastion of the United Kingdom in Jipangunesia. From the observation tower at the centre of this base, he could take in the several islands that were ruled under his father’s name. They hardly accounted for much, several ten thousands people with no or almost no education lived on islands containing vast mineral resources from oil to nickel to more luxurious resources such as diamonds and rubies. The native populations, however, remained a significant holdback on progress and development. With rampant disease and no medical infrastructure, the survival rate for immigrants from the Home Islands was surprisingly low, leaving the natives with most of the work. However, with no education and no real drive to learn anything more than the hunting and gathering skills required for their simple lifestyle there existed a very small labour pool that then demanded higher than average pays. The enterprising Elizabethans, as the natives and immigrants had come to be collectively known, thus earned great fortunes that were spent on luxury imports and then only exacerbated an already large gap between the wealthy and the impoverished.

Your Royal Highness, your vehicles have arrived at the front gate. Andrew nodded at the Royal Marine standing before him. He smiled, knowing that many soldiers and sailors stationed in this colony returned here and became the landed gentry of the island – buying land for their own private infrastructure. More than likely this captain would become one of those wealthy elites, and so Andrew smiled. Progress was being made, despite claims to the contrary made by his critics in Imperium.

Thank you, Captain Miller. If you would lead the way, Andrew swept his arm forward with a giant smile, inviting the diminutive officer to lead the way down the dirt path that lay between potted palms and ferns. Inwardly, Andrew smiled at the vast height discrepancy and the fact that the officer was likely intimated by the presence of royalty in his compound – despite the fact Andrew was more scared of the man’s battle rifle. However, Andrew reveled in the fact that he had been trained in the art of not betraying his thoughts or emotions to the lowly public. The captain would never know the true state of affairs, and so the Prince was content following the man down the path between the columns of saluting soldiers to the idling armoured utility vehicles.

As the captain opened the rear door for the Prince, Andrew stuck out his hand. May I see your weapon, Captain Miller?

Certainly, Your Royal Highness. After being shown the weapon had its safety on and that no rounds were in the chamber, Andrew took hold of the older model weapon – already being phased out. He hefted the heavy battle rifle into his arms and placed the butt against his shoulder, sighting through the optical equipment at the top of the observation tower. The weapon felt heavy despite its construction with lightweight plastics and composites. The trigger felt cold against his index finger while it also triggered a quickening of the rhythmic beatings of his heart. Ever so slowly, the corners of his mouth curled upwards into a devilish smile before he suddenly snapped the weapon down, pointing it at the earth and shoving it into the waiting arms of the Royal Marine officer.

Thank you, Captain. That certainly was both a thrill and an honour.

Parliament House
Imperium, Republic of New Britain

You see, sirs, we cannot call ourselves a society of the free for we provide neither rudimentary equality nor dignity to the homosexual segment of our population. Alistair Tetley grinned as the old men in the House of Lords hissed and smashed their canes against whatever they could. Now I know, he continued, raising his voice ever so slightly, you all are the rearguard in defending this mighty nation from change – but that position has isolated you from what has become the new front of societal change and I must urge you to acknowledge the wisdom and sagacity of the common people as expressed earlier this week in the House of Commons. We must pass this legislation; and to do anything less would simply show the world we are a nation of bigots and hypocrites. Freedom to choose and equality for all, gentlemen. For all. Tetley nodded, and amid a torrent of jeers and catcalls he took his seat. Despite the supposedly more noble character of the House of Lords – he was finding it as unruly as the House of Commons. Nevertheless, today was certainly to be an interesting day and so finding his seat, he could do nothing less than smile.

Invershaw, Republic of New Ireland

Invershaw sat kilometers up from the mouth of the Shaw River, founded by George Shaw to be a safe, secluded commercial port the nearly inland port classification had helped the city grow and thrive during the early years of the nation when small freighters ruled the Azazian Sea and the greater oceans of the world. However, in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, medium sized tankers and container ships had given away to mega-behemoths that dwarfed sometimes even the largest warships in some large navies. And sitting so far up the slow moving river, Invershaw was unable to accept the new mega-ships and her large docks and container yards had since fallen largely into disuse.

Elliot Campbell sat at the end of Pier 17, which had begun to collapse into the river and so allowed the youthful man to dip his feet into the brackish waters. Another blow had come to the town when Parliament passed higher environmental standards for the coal plants and mining operations up river – forcing most of them to shut their doors. And when the companies did, they left massive spills and leaks that the local community could not afford to repair – and with the companies being bankrupt, neither could the original polluters. And so Campbell was aware that the Shaw River now carried numerous toxins and carcinogens – but they were his only hopes at earning some significant amounts of cash. With the closing of the last major shipping yards, his father, who had been a longshoreman his entire life, no longer had any income but the pittance afforded him by the government – and his mother had long since died of cancer caused by the river, though before the time of payouts and settlements. Campbell sat, swinging his feet, stirring the poisons, hoping enough of them passed into his pores to cause him some illness, at some point.

Several blocks away, Thomas Hayward stood with his Bible in hand, looking at his two best friends: Gary Howard and Anthony DiAngelo. His vision blurred and he felt a small trickle of moisture run down his cheek and along the upturned lips, the tear tasting salty in his mouth. I now pronounce you husband and husband. His friends kissed politely, saving their true passion for each other for later that day in their own privacy. Hayward placed one hand upon the shoulder of each, and their three heads came together for a brief moment. I’m glad I was able to perform this ceremony for the both of you, he whispered.

Hayward had been elected mayor of Invershaw as a member of the Democratic Socialist Party. However, only recently had he made public his own sexual preferences to the disapproval of the city’s population but the elation of his friends like Howard and DiAngelo. Since the passing of the Equal Rights for All Act by the House of Commons last week, Hayward had started planning the first ceremony for a gay marriage to be performed in Invershaw – that of his two best friends. He knew that the ceremony was a bit presumptuous as the Prime Minister still had to ram it through the House of Lords, but ultimately his friendship with His Majesty Michael I would assure complete passage. The press had already run the potential “nuclear scenario” of flooding the House of Lords with allies of the Prime Minister, the appointment of peers being a legitimate prerogative of the King. The bill would pass.

The small hamlet of Dunbury lay outside Invershaw, in some of the last remaining pastoral land in the Home Islands. Clive Barrett grinned and pulled another long drag of tobacco in from his pipe, it had cost him a pretty penny being some of the last shipped out of Pacitalia, but it was worth it. This is some good shite, MacGregor. Barrett pulled himself out of his slouch and stiffened his back against the wooden chair.

You and your damn smoking, Clive. You should be drinking, mate. Smoking… pale and pathetic in comparison to the Lord’s liquor.

And what kind of liquor is that?

Whatever kind gets me so god-damned drunk I can’t remember. Stephen MacGregor burst out laughing in a hoarse voice, small amounts of alcohol dripping down into his large red beard. Barrett just smiled, and enjoyed the sweetness of his nicotine. The two had gathered in Barrett’s barn for an evening of drinking and smoking under the pretense of escaping their wives with a “guys’ night out.” They went so far out to the local liquor store where they bought their smokes and their drinks then headed right on back to Barrett’s barn. Barrett then glanced down at the hay-covered floor beneath him and saw several empty bottles, and the night was still young.

The Citadel
Imperium, Republic of New Britain

Tetley stood on the outside patio, overlooking the empty courtyard of the Citadel. Night had fallen and he stood fighting the cooling air with a steaming mug of tea that he held delicately between the palms of both his hands. It had taken the whole day, but he had managed to convince the House of Lords to support the Equal Rights for All Act – even if his convincing had required the threat of Newcastle flooding the House with young socialists. Tetley finally had some progressive domestic legislation underneath his belt, although it had required a significant portion of his political capital and there were no guarantees that a Conservative Parliament several years hence wouldn’t simply repeal the act. Pursing the left side of his lips, he leaned his elbows on the wrought iron fence and moved his gaze upwards from the cobblestones and reflecting pools to the deep expanse of the night sky.

He felt the fence move, and turned to find Howard Robertson leaning with his back against the black bars. It’s a nice night, Mr. Prime Minister. Congratulations.

Thank you, Howard. Tetley slowly pushed his body away from the fence, turning to look back into the well-lit apartment he called home. Taking a step backwards, he felt the railing in the small of his back and so he too pushed out his feet to lean against the iron.

That speech you delivered, sir, very nice, very nice indeed.

Thanks, but Kent wrote the whole thing. Tetley shrugged and put the steaming tea to his lips, felt the steam condense on his lips, and then washed it all down with a slow, steady sip. Dropping his arms, he rested the bottom of the mug on his belt buckle and stared into the dark liquid. The two stood in silence for several moments; each staring off into the distance with Robertson looking in at the small celebratory party in the apartment and Tetley into his tea.

So what do we do next, sir?

We pray, Howard.

Robertson turned his head and glanced over at his atheist boss, excuse me, sir?

Tetley turned to face his Deputy Chief of Staff and shifted the mug until his left hand held it alone, his right digging through his trouser pockets before reemerging with a small slip of paper. He extended his arm, handing it over to Robertson, who quickly read the words and handed it back. I was handed this as they were counting the vote; they’re giving him no more than forty-eight hours at this point.

Do you want to go now, sir?

No. Geoffrey has already arranged a trip for tomorrow afternoon. But thank you, Howard. I do appreciate all this – though if you wouldn’t mind, I would like to be alone now.

Certainly, Mr. Prime Minister. Robertson nodded and swallowed. If there’s anything I can do, sir…

Thank you, but I’d just like to be alone, Howard. Please.

Robertson nodded once more, and in the darkness the light from the apartment reflected off the Prime Minister’s glasses before hitting his eyes and so he could not be sure, but Robertson thought, for just a brief moment, that he glimpsed a film of water over the eyes of the Prime Minister.

Havre Avila, Royal Crown Colony of Port Elizabeth

Prince Andrew brought his hand to his forehead and saluted the sailors of the HMS Tyndale, one of the colony’s numerous patrol boats. Walking on the small slab of metal that connected the boat to the land, he gripped the rope and held on tightly – never having been comfortable onboard ships on the water. Standing on the quarterdeck he found a young officer wearing the insignia of a lieutenant commander. Permission to come aboard, Captain?

Permission granted, Your Royal Highness. Welcome aboard His Majesty’s Ship Tyndale. On behalf of the whole naval staff here in Havre Avila, welcome to our fair naval station, sir.

Why thank you, captain. The Prince towered over the lieutenant commander, who had been identified as one Jim Brower – stationed in the colony for over one year now. On his trip to the bustling port city, which was done entirely by helicopter as no road had yet been built to link Port Elizabeth to Havre Avila, he had read that Brower had been apparently all but forgotten by the Royal Navy in one of the United Kingdom’s most impoverished, and most ignored colonies. Nonetheless, the colony was scheduled to receive a cruiser squadron later this week and Andrew knew who would be more than pleased to given such an impressive command.

Captain, I was wondering if we could have a word in private.

Certainly, sir. If you’ll follow me this way, I’ll take you to my cabin. Prince Andrew fell in line behind the young officer, who led the way into the small superstructure of the boat and to the cabin located behind the bridge. Andrew noticed that the cabin was decorated with art native to the colony, and that few remnants of the Home Islands remained – Brower had no family ties after his parents had died in an auto accident in New Lancaster, his former hometown. Indeed, Andrew had read the file and ultimately felt quite content that this Brower chap was the right man for the task.

Can I offer you anything to drink, Your Royal Highness?

Just water, if you please, captain.

Certainly, sir. Brower opened the microfridge he had managed to procure for his cabin, inside of which were several bottles of beer and liquor in addition to a large container of purified water. Finding the pitcher, Brower pulled it out and removed two glasses from the cabinet overtop his bunk. The clear liquid filled the small glasses rather quickly, and Brower used a towel to wipe off the small mess from his desk. What can I do for you, sir? Brower asked, handing the drink over.

I talked to Admiral Sullivan in Portsmouth, and we’ve agreed that in recognition of your long service to the Royal Navy and to the Crown Colony of Port Elizabeth, you shall be given command of His Majesty’s Ship Courageous when she arrives three days hence. Now, I know it’s short notice, but an opportunity arose for Command Dougle, who was supposed to command the cruiser, and so upon my recommendation Admiral Sullivan agreed to promote you to the rank of full commander, entitled to the obligations and benefits of that rank as well as command of the cruiser. Andrew extended his hand, which Brower took with great enthusiasm.

Why thank you, sir. Truly, this is a great honour… thank you, sir.

The two were interrupted by a loud knock on the door. Captain Brower?

Brower released the Prince’s hand and composed himself. Yes, Ensign Davis?

Sir, I have a priority message for the Prince straight from Newcastle. Brower eyed the Prince curiously for a moment, unsure of why His Majesty King Michael I would be sending a priority message to his little patrol boat. Nevertheless, he had to deliver the message and so he opened the door and accepted the slip of paper from his communications officer. He then quickly verified its authenticity before handing it over to Prince Andrew, whose face quickly fell.

I’m very sorry, Your Royal Highness. If there is anything I can do, just let me know.

Andrew crumpled the paper in his hands and pursed his lips, staring down at the corrugated steel deck plating while his shoes rubbed their rubber soles away. Thank you, captain. But if you would be so kind as to excuse me.

Brower understood the request and quickly exited his cabin, shutting the door behind himself with Ensign Davis eyeing his captain inquisitively. Is it true, captain?

Between us, Jon… I’m afraid so.

On the other side of the door, Prince Andrew sat himself on the captain’s bunk while his fingers delicately plied open the crumpled message. King Michael I was on his deathbed and his presence was required in Newcastle – he’d have to leave immediately without accomplishing all he had sought. Once again, his uncle had proven to be nothing but a pitiful disappointment as a human being, unable to even fight off his illness for another week. Bloody imbecile, he muttered. Standing slowly, he forced some tears which he quickly wiped away with his sleeve before exiting the cabin to the presence of Brower, the boat’s XO, and his own aides. Providing the perfunctory pomp and circumstance to leave the small boat, he leaned over to his chief of staff as the two left the ship to a small gun salute by the Tyndale. Turning his head backwards to ensure they were alone, he whispered, I want you to order that Atkinson fellow to rendezvous with us in Port Elizabeth, I need to discuss some things with him. And then, setup a meeting with General Adley and Air Marshall Craig at Emperor’s Field – tell them all the meetings are strictly confidential and any word breathed to anyone will be considered treason. Lastly, I want to speak with the leader of the New Britain Royal Dragoon Guards on the chopper. Understood?

Yes, sir.

Good, we have a lot of work to do.

Breningrad Unified Services Complex
Breningrad, Republic of West Oceania

The city of Breningrad had long been identified with the Royal Navy in the Azazian Archipelago, although admittedly earlier times had seen a more proper British name for the town then known as St. Brendan’s after the patron saint of navigators – who had at the time been all but crazy for sailing into the deep yet unpredictable estuary that sheltered the settlement from the occasional storms in the Azazian Sea. Since independence in the earlier years of the twentieth century, the town had based the Admiralty and the Home Fleet of the Royal Navy until the naval base had become as large as any city, and finally found its own property abutted against that of the Royal Air Force and Royal Army, kilometers north of Breningrad.

With his walking cane at his side, the white haired behemoth of the Royal Navy strode quietly along the brick path of former HMS Breningrad, long the name of his home. The man had never come to like its new official title: Breningrad Unified Services Complex. And although his office was several blocks south in the heart of the actual city he could do nothing else every morning but find his way to the large obelisk at the centre of a wide and minimally landscaped park. Finding his favourite bench, his stubby and hair covered fingers tightly gripped the side as he lowered his frame onto the dark green painted metal. He leaned his cane against his leg and brought his right fist to his mouth, taking his index finger and biting ever so gently until he released it from his mouth to wipe away the stray tears falling from his eyes.

Richard Atkinson had become the most famous admiral in the Royal Navy of modern times, having commanded the fleets that had won decisive victories over the Lindimese and Novikovian forces. And yet, the sight of a sea covered in oil and flames and littered with flesh and steel had not once left him. He glanced upwards at the names inscribed along the surfaces of the obelisk, vowing never to forget those who he had ordered to their deaths. HMS Breningrad, HMS Artega, HMS Donaldson, HMS Brighton and the list of ships and men continued. And that was only one battle where nearly two thousand men and women gave their lives. Two thousand souls lost on his watch. And yet, he had killed even more on the other side by ordering salvos of his missiles and shells.

In the distance, a flash of white caught Atkinson’s eye and turning he spied a young fresh-faced officer striding up the red brick path at a sharp pace. Taking advantage of the time, Atkinson wiped the tears from his eyes and using his cane and the bench he slowly pushed his frame up in time to catch the officer giving him a sharp, crisp salute. At ease, commander, what can I do for you this morning?

Admiral, you’re being requested on an emergency flight to Port Elizabeth.

The wrinkles and lines on Atkinson’s face quickly scrunched into confusion and anger. Who in the bloody hell is requesting my presence? I daresay there are many things I need to attend to here in Breningrad. Scrutinizing the face of the flag officer, undoubtedly some junior admiral’s aide, he found the man blushing. Well, speak, man, speak. Have you not got a tongue?

Sir, it’s His Royal Highness Prince Andrew.

Atkinson smirked and nodded several times. Very well then, commander, I take it there’s an aircraft waiting?

Yes, sir.

Well then let’s get to it, lad. We haven’t got all day, now have we?

The Citadel
Imperium, Republic of New Britain

One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.

Alistair Tetley’s feet pounded the small dirt track in rhythm with his counting, with which he inhaled on counts one and two then exhaled on three. The sun was still just freshly risen in the morning sky, its rays falling upon New Britain and the eastern end of Bennington although behind the tall brick walls of the Citadel Tetley could only see the long shadows cast upon the cobblestones quite some distance away. Long ago, Tetley had discovered the trick to remaining a trim looking prime minister: continual exercise and a healthy diet. Of course, the biscuits and scones awaiting him in his private mess were far from healthy – but he figured with a half-smile that the running had to count for something.

And yet, while the endorphins had already gone to work and given him the high familiar to all runners, the pressing weight of sadness and fear over the impending death of His Majesty and his friend would not lift despite the several kilometers he had already run. Not yet out of breath or overexerting himself, Tetley stopped and leaned against the brick walls – taking the time to stretch out his calves and other leg muscles. Glancing over his shoulder he felt the eyes of the always vigilant Royal Guards who guaranteed his safety by running right beside him, and sometimes from their lack of fatigue embarrassing him.

He flipped over his wrist and checked the time. Bloody hell, he muttered to nobody but himself. Newcastle was expecting him in two hours, and even with the added hassle of taking a shower he could do little else but kill time. Extending his arms far above his head, Tetley swung his head from side to side until he heard a crack that, although audibly disconcerting, felt quite wonderful. He took a deep breath, looked behind him at the Royal Guardsmen and nodded. And we’re off gentlemen. Tetley clapped his hands and started down the path once more.

One, two, three. One, two, three…

Port Elizabeth Regional Airport
Outside Port Elizabeth, Royal Crown Colony of Port Elizabeth

One-Two-Three requesting permission to land.

Copy that Flight One-Two-Three, you are clear to land on Runway One-Six-Left.

With a slight tap on the shoulder, Atkinson blinked his eyes several times in rapid succession before extending his arms to the side and stretching his aging frame until those parts that had settled were loose enough for him to stand. We there yet, Kenneth?

Indeed, Admiral. They’re bringing up the stairwell now, and His Royal Highness is waiting for you in the limousine.

What limousine?

Out there, sir. Atkinson’s aide pointed out the window to a long stretch limo that sat idling on the tarmac with the flag of Prince Andrew flapping on the four little flagpoles at the corners of the vehicle.[/i]

With a polite nod and a seeming flailing of his limbs Atkinson struggled to rise. Despite having been created a peer with a seat in the House of Lords, Atkinson cared little for the monarchy – he lived through the reigns of Michael/Mikhail and Ivan and remembered well the authoritarian tendencies of Ivan, his revocation of democracy. Mikhail had arrived as a breath of fresh air, and under the strong hand of President Yorke democratic institutions returned to the then Commonwealth. And with his term ending, and Mikhail weakening, he had been a commodore when Alistair Tetley had been elected as Prime Minister of the Commonwealth, which he reorganised as the United Kingdom that Atkinson now served.

With the gait of an older gentlemen with aching bones, Atkinson gingerly grasped the railing aiding him down the steps and watched the sleek black doors swing open by the hand of a tall man in a dark suit, eyes hidden by opaque black shades. From within the darkened interior emerged a tall and youthful figure that towered above even the once imposing Richard Atkinson. Lord Atkinson, how are you?

I am well, Your Royal Highness, what is it that I can do for you?

Prince Andrew pursed his lips, nodding his head slightly. My father is dying. I’d like you to accompany me on my flight back to Imperium as we have much to discuss.

Certainly, sir.

Royal Army Caldwell, Imperium, Republic of New Britain

RA Caldwell served the New Britain Royal Dragoon Guards as their barracks and main base of operations. Ordinarily a ceremonial troop, the unit had long been a unit under the name of the Prince of New Britain and Prince Andrew had made it a point over the years to check up on those soldiers he called “his men.”

Colonel James Fox glared at his aide, this had better not be another practical joke William.

I swear, sir, it isn’t. The chief of staff to Prince Andrew is on the line for you, sir.

Alright, Fox waved his hand and thereby dismissed his aide. Taking a breath he picked up the corded phone, Yes, sir, what is it that I can do for you?

Good day, Colonel, I was just calling to check up on a few things. Now, your unit has how many line units ready for deployment?

The Royal Palace at Newcastle

Tetley steadied himself as he stepped into the massive bedroom of the sovereign. The wretched scent of impending death wafted through the stone room, wrapping around the rafters and drifting about before settling in Tetley’s nose – stirring his tear ducts. From a low-lit corner he heard a hoarse whisper, unintelligible in its words but inviting in its presence. The steady clicks and rythmns of oxygen machines from the weeks past had given way to an irregular pattern and as he neared the King and his longtime friend he saw beads of perspiration in a room which Tetley dared think never rose above sixty degrees.

Your Majesty, how may I serve you?

Now an invalid constrained to his bed, its lavishness not withstanding, Michael forced a smile and a failed in an attempt to raise his hand in offer of a simple handshake. Hmm, well Alistair, I must say I’m having quite a wonderful time. The painkillers these doctors are giving me work wonders.

Tetley smiled, of course, sire. He ignored the quick winces of pain his friend appeared desperate to hide. Is there anything I can get for you, anything to drink, a cup of tea perhaps?

No, Alistair. No, I’m afraid I can’t even hold liquids down at this point and although it is quite amusing to watch nurses and doctors scramble about trying to clean up after me I’m afraid there are still some serious affairs to which we must attend. King Michael coughed, his frame rising and falling back violently as his lungs continued to shut down along with the rest of his body. After a few minutes, the breathing returned to a semi-regular pattern and the King smiled feebly. Just a minor sore throat, Alistair, nothing to worry about. In lieu of a smile, he simply winked.

Tetley responded with a half-smile, his facial muscles straining to keep the lips upturned and the eyes dry and wide open. Indeed, Your Majesty, indeed.

Please, call me Michael.

Tetley nodded. Sure.

Now, Alistair, you do know that Andrew is my heir to the throne.

Yes, yes I do.

It’s nothing against you, but I have to allow him to be the heir. This monarchy, this family line must continue and Andrew is the strongest in the family. We both know that. Michael paused, pushing a small button to trigger more painkillers to enter his bloody intravenously. But I will admit, there are problems.

Such as his preference for strong monarchies and dictatorships.

Was it not Plato that said the philosopher king shall rule?

All due, respect, Your Majesty, but Prince Andrew is far from being a philosopher and—

You’re my friend, Alistair, but I am also your King and Andrew your Prince. Do watch what you say.

Certainly, Your Majesty. I am only attempting to emphasize the point that Prince Andrew is less than the ideal choice for a monarch who will continue to work with myself and my government at strengthening the democratic institutions of the United Kingdom. Tetley stared down at his friend, who simply closed his eyes and allowed his head to fall back onto the soft pillow. The two remained in silence.

Alistair… Michael trailed off part in thought, part through painkillers.

I’m here, Michael. Tetley replied quietly.

I can feel a mighty storm coming, Alistair. I can feel it in my bones. I do not intend to sound like a bad poet, but we both know what is coming.

Yes, although I hope it can be avoided.

This is going to be the last time you see me alive, Alistair.

I know.

And the time of this meeting is drawing short, as I have many official duties still to attend to.

I know.

Stay in the Citadel, Alistair. I’ve already talked to Colonel Harrison; he understands the situations, my desires for this nation, and my final orders to him. I’m afraid, however, that the rest of the country I can do little for at this point. Now, one of my last meetings shall be with my nephew and between us I promise I will not tell him of what I have said here today for as a natural person, as your friend… I agree with you. But as your sovereign, as your King, as head of the Barent family I cannot allow the monarchy to devolve into nothingness. Michael’s body writhed in violent convulsions as he coughed once more, the deep, hoarse coughs causing Tetley to wince simply knowing how truly painful they had to be.

Finally, Tetley closed his eyes, tears streaming down his face in a torrent. He placed his hands upon his friend’s and clasped them tight. He tried to find words, but could do nothing else but bite his lip and feel the pain in his face as he tried – but failed – to hold back the tears and the sobbing that he felt needed to be hidden from his friend. Finally, he summoned the courage to raise his head, and look his friend in the eyes and he got so far as to open his mouth before Michael’s other hand fell upon Tetley’s.

Sometimes, the words don’t need to be spoken. Take care of yourself, Alistair, and good luck.

Tetley nodded and his half smile collapsed as he rose to his feet. He backed up several steps before turning to walk out of the bedroom. And as he gripped the posts of the doorframe, he turned around once more to look at the low-lit corner of the room. He bowed his head and whispered Goodbye, old friend, before leaving his friend to the care of his doctors and nurses.

Above the Pacific Ocean

The Isen I-45 aircraft rose steadily through the atmosphere until it finally burst through the clouds that shrouded the stormy seas below from the bright sunlight that flooded the cabin and cockpit. A very small and very light aircraft it sped at a modest supersonic speed racing towards its destination: Royal Airport at Emperor’s Field. Inside, Atkinson found a surprisingly spacious cabin, although its small size could not be avoided. Indeed, even Prince Andrew seemed a far more accommodating person than he had been led to believe and as he offered Atkinson a cup of fresh-brewed tea he sat himself opposite the admiral.

Now, Admiral, I must confess that the impetus for this rather clandestine meeting brings me no joy for my father now lays upon his deathbed and I have some concerns about the future of the monarchy and the Kingdom as a whole.

Atkinson sat silent, hiding the sudden pain that had all but knocked the wind out of him. King Michael I, despite his flaws and sickness had been a true advocate of a just state and ultimately proved the ridiculous maxim about gentlemen finishing last. He had only met the man on four occasions, once each after his major battles and twice other in his capacity as First Sea Lord, and his small and fragile frame belied a great mind and a true grasp of the world around him – a world he also grasped that he would never get to fully experience and yet he complained little. Finally, Atkinson found the nerve to nod before opening his now dry mouth. I see, Your Royal Highness, how can I serve my country?

Atkinson watched as Andrew’s left eyebrow rose slightly, throwing the renowned admiral an inquisitive glance. With the demeanor of a cold Spartan, Atkinson simply watched the Prince. Admiral, as your soon-to-be sovereign I am going to need my best officers performing at their peak. I won’t belittle you with petty prefaces and unnecessary small talk – I’ve heard whispers and seen signs that Parliament seeks to oppose my ascension to the throne. You’re a smart man, Admiral; and an honest and loyal man. I need you by my side in the coming hours to fulfill your oath to protect and serve the King.

Bowing slightly, Atkinson scratched his head before it rose allowing Prince Andrew to see the small smile that had crept upon Atkinson’s face. Now, just what did you have in mind, Your Royal Highness?

Office of the Prime Minister

The return from Newcastle had been long and silent, Tetley choosing not to speak a word to anybody until he finally found himself sitting behind his desk in his office. Before him, Howard Robertson stood with his eyes glancing about the room, frantically searching for something to study, something that was not the face of the Prime Minister.

In a ratcheted rhythm Tetley’s fingernails clicked against the hard polished surface of the desk, his eyes open as a formality while he turned thought after thought over in his brain, delineating feasible options from flights of fancy. For several long minutes, Tetley drummed his nails upon the desk while his eyes bored holes into the white plaster walls opposite his desk. Finally, he stopped and rose his right hand to his chin where he scratched the small and neatly trimmed goatee that adorned his face before turning to Robertson.

Tobias is on his way home, correct?

Yes, Mr. Prime Minister. Why?

I want his flight diverted to… Tetley trailed off, and before leaning back into his padded leather chair he withdrew a small pocket atlas from his top desk drawer. He quickly thumbed through the pages while Robertson read incomprehensible words off Tetley’s rapidly moving lips. The thumbing slowed until Tetley reached the last page when he slammed the leather-bound book closed. Damnit, he muttered just audibly enough for Robertson to hear while staring down at the desk.

Sir?

Where can we send Tobias?

Why not bring him back here to the Citadel?

Tetley glanced up from the desk and glared at his deputy chief of staff from above the black wire rim of his glasses. What do you think is going on, Howard? From what you have heard from ABN and the other news services, what do you think is going on here?

Well, sir, I know from our conversation the other night that the King is dying and the media knows that small bit of information, but are circulating it as one of many rumours. In fact, from what I gather they see an abdication as more likely while others simply refuse to buy into the whole ruckus as stories generated by a rather bored press corps.

Tetley laced his fingers together before leaning them on the edge of his desk. It’s a great deal more than that now, Howard.

Robertson watched Tetley’s eyes shift their focus from Robertson to something very distant, something very intangible. The prime minister’s fingers slowly unwound until they resumed their cascading clicks. Robertson continued to watch in dreadful fascination as he heard Tetley start to mutter. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark…

Poldi’sk, Royal Crown Colony of Novikov

The field was small but quite still. Major General Lord Nigel Clifton smiled, and then with a single pull of a trigger destroyed the silence, sending birds into the air to scatter – allowing him to pick them off one at a time. A jolly good show, Rodger, he called out to a young officer who had accompanied Clifton on the expedition. In his late thirties, Clifton had proven himself one of the finer officers in the Royal Marine Corps, adept at both combat in Novikov and civilian leadership in Avinapolis. And it was for those accomplishments he had been given the newly created March of Poldi’sk in addition to his prior title as the Earl of Aylesbury. Now he stood in a field, claiming birds as kills and as trophies celebrating his victory.

Indeed, sir. However, now that you’re free for a moment, I have Admiral Lord Richard Atkinson via encrypted satellite.

Clifton turned around, his hunting rifle pointed down at the dirt while his other hand thrust forward like a child to a lollipop or other such enjoyable experience. The two men had served together during the invasion of Novikov with Atkinson leading the Azazian Grand Fleet that obliterated towns such as Poldi’sk, towns that dared oppose the Royal Marines. They had both been onboard the HMS Prince of New Britain when the Novikovians hurled chemical weapons at the ship to force all the hatches shut while they counterattacked against Clifton’s forces. Ultimately, the attacks by the Novies, as the Novikovians had become known, failed – though it succeeded in bringing the two men closer together despite the decades of difference in their ages.

Dick, how’re the Home Islands treating you? Clifton called into the phone, the two men long ago having forgone formalities between each other during private conversations.

I can’t talk long, Nigel. Have you been following up on the situation with His Majesty?

To some extent, I’ve heard that he’s gone missing or some other crazy thing.

He’s dying, Nigel.

Are you out of your bloody mind? Because I dare say that’s not exactly the sort of thing people in our positions should jest about. I mean—

I’m deadly serious, Nigel. I just got off a plane with His Royal Highness Prince Andrew who told me in confidence.

Then why are you telling me?

Because I need you here in Imperium.

I have some rather important, and quite serious state business to be attending to, I can’t just up and—

Your bird hunting doesn’t count as an excuse, Nigel. Not this time at least. Entrust your command to someone loyal and then get up here as soon as you possibly can.

What’s this all about, Richard?

I can’t tell you over the phone; just call my aide’s private house and we’ll get together through him. They’re going to start monitoring my calls, of that I am quite sure, and then we won’t ever be able to speak of this again. Do you understand?

I understand you need me in Imperium, but not why. Although I suppose you’ll tell me once I arrive. Anything else?

No, just hurry. And Godspeed, Nigel.

Certainly. God save the King.

God save the King.

Clifton handed the phone back to the young officer; his eyes now like Tetley’s as they stared off towards the distant horizon and beyond. Finally, he shuddered and looked straight at the young man before him. I need a flight back to the Home Islands, and arrange it as quietly as you can.

Invershaw, Republic of New Ireland

Standing over one and three-quarters of a metre tall, Annette Leatherby knew she had looks to kill for. And with fishnet stockings, a tight black leather miniskirt, and a revealing white lace top she knew how to draw attention to those looks. Her four inch stilettos snapped as their metal tips fell upon the dirty, un-swept concrete sidewalk. Finally, a pair of gentlemen walked out of the liquor store and so Leatherby threw her hair back with a snap of her neck and slowly began to strut over in their direction.

She smiled as one of them, a disgusting looking creature with an unkempt red beard and an enormous belly that she noted probably stemmed from all the cases of beer he was carrying out, winked at her and whistled. From several metres away she also thought she could smell the alcohol on him, although in actuality the smell orginiated from a homeless man sleeping in a dark recessed doorway that she hadn’t noticed. Nevertheless, Stephan MacGregor was hideously drunk.

Hey, baby! he slurred, practically tripping over his own feet while he staggered towards Leatherby. You wanna have a… have a good time?

Leatherby nodded, resisting the urge to vomit. Sure, sweetie, I’d kill for a good time.

So would I, baby. The drunk MacGregor turned to his friend Barrett who simply patted his friend on the back realizing that MacGregor would pass out before he entered her and that he could then have her to himself all night long. The secret store room in his barn would finally serve a useful purpose.

The Royal Palace at Newcastle

Prince Andrew strode into the room quickly, calmly, and without his usual fanfare. He found his uncle in a corner with the lights completely out, wheezing with his eyes shut displaying intense agony. Andrew’s head fell as he dropped to his knees and blessed himself before praying. Towards the end of the prayer he heard his uncle stir, Michael’s head turning to its side to better see who was at the side of his bed. Ah, Andrew… I’m glad to see you.

Andrew pulled himself up into a crouch, removing his knees from the hard stone floor while at the same time remaining near eye level with the King. It’s good to see you too, Uncle. Are you in a lot of pain?

No. These doctors can do magic with their pharmaceuticals these day. Although then again, Michael sighed, I suppose the real magic would be if they could divine some cure of sorts. But I don’t suppose that shall be happening anytime soon. Michael attempted a smile, at least not within the next couple of hours. Finally, he turned his head back to face the ceiling, though in the darkness he could see nothing – although with vision already beginning to fade Michael doubted that the acuity of his vision mattered little.

Now, Andrew, you should know that you are to become king after I pass, although at this point I am too ill to sign any paperwork – but I trust you shouldn’t have any problems.

Andrew frowned out of sight from his uncle. I understand that not to be the case, Uncle. In fact, rumour has it that your friend Alistair is planning a military coup and will have me executed within the—

Don’t be ridiculous, Andrew. I have known Alistair since I was but a teenager and he is a good man, and an honest man. He is dedicated to the United Kingdom and he will continue to serve the United Kingdom until the day he dies.

Shaking his head, Andrew bit his tongue. Uncle, his responsibility is not to the United Kingdom. Did he not come before you to kiss your hands?

He did indeed.

And therein he swore loyalty and fidelity to you as sovereign, not to the United Kingdom. You rule the United Kingdom and the prime minister and the cabinet serve you, Your Majesty. I love you, Uncle, but I think you’ve been blinded and weakened by your illness for your PM now runs the government as if… as if it were almost a republic. Andrew spat the word republic out, his face contorting as if he had tasted a bitter poison. It is as if we were some Athenian democracy or Roman republic but we are not. We are a British monarchy. Uncle, you are King. This Alistair Tetley is but a mere commoner.

You forget, Andrew, that he is a commoner no more. He is a peer, the Marquess of Salisbury. He is—

A newly created march if I may say so—

No! Michael shouted. I may be your Uncle, I may be on my deathbed. But I am your King and you will NOT interrupt me. Do you understand?! Michael could say little more, having exhausted himself in his short uncharacteristic outburst. He had lost control, and as he struggled to regain his breath in ragged, uneven gasps he knew it. He was nearing the end.

Yes, Sire. I understand and I ask your forgiveness. Andrew smiled. He had been rebuffed, but in a few hours none but himself would know. His uncle rarely raised his voice, and the fact he had done so simply meant his mental faculties were waning. May I get you anything, Uncle?

No, but thank you, Andrew. I’m afraid I have had my final drink several hours ago. Michael closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His vision was all but gone and it now felt as if he were watching his own body writhe in pain from somewhere beyond. Unbeknownst to him, his vitals began to fail and several doctors rushed in while Michael tapped the button that simply fed more and more painkillers into his blood stream. With one last audience surrounding him he attempted a smile before a thought crossed his mind that crushed that fleeting happiness. I created the United Kingdom; but in passing I shall divide it. And for the last time, King Michael I closed his eyes.

The room stood in silence, the doctors bowing their heads while a court official removed the ring from Michael’s finger and placed it upon Andrew’s. The King is dead. he declared, looking up and about the room until he met the eyes of all present. God save the King.

Invershaw, Republic of New Ireland

Barrett smiled and took a long drag on his cigarette. Damn that was good, he muttered to himself, laying sprawled out on his back while his lady of the night stood dressing herself at the foot of the bed.

What was that, baby?

I was just saying that was damn good.

Mmm… I know, babe. At least not all the good looking men are screwing each other, Leatherby added with a wink, slowly turning away from Barrett until he could only watch her backside as she slowly pulled up her panties.

Barrett propped himself up on his elbows with his eyebrows arched, [/i]what do you mean?[/i]

Her head and upper torso slowly turned, keeping only the profile of her unclothed breasts within Barrett’s view. Just that since Mayor Hayward, in all his infinite stupidity, started marrying the gays here in Invershaw, a lot of good looking men have gone away to play for the other side.

Well, I can’t say much about how many men are left, Barrett sighed, but I do tend to agree with you although more for my own personal religious and ethical beliefs than anything else.

How’s that? Leatherby coyly asked while she snapped her bra into place.

It’s just that, well… God didn’t create man to have sex with man nor woman with woman. We were created to have sex to reproduce so that woman could have babies and the human race would survive—

But you just wore a condom, and I’m on the pill, how does that fit into your plan? Leatherby took a few steps closer to the foot of the bed, watching through the sheets as Barrett’s excitement rose once more.

Well, what a lot has changed since he first created man.

I’ll say, Leatherby added as she crawled onto the bed, and up the length of his body on just her hands and knees. Slowly she took the edge of the sheet between her teeth and pulled it down to the foot of the bed all the while staring up into Barrett’s eyes, purring ever so softly. Hmm, even though things have changed it’s good to see things are looking up.

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

Howard Robertson stood within the doorframe, looking in at the Prime Minister who had been writing notes in longhand at a frenetic pace for the past hour, since rumour had spread that King Michael had died. Of course, the two men knew the rumour was likely truth and so Robertson had decided to wait outside of Tetley’s office out of respect until he was officially ushered in by the Prime Minister himself, which he did shortly enough with a wave of his hand. Mr. Prime Minister, I have a communiqué addressed to you from Newcastle.

At the mention of Newcastle, Tetley’s head suddenly lifted out of his papers. Bring it here, what’s it say?

Sir, Robertson replied, stumbling to find the words, then choking on them before they could leave his throat. King Michael I passed away overnight and Prince Andrew now sits on the throne. Robertson handed the small slip of paper over to Tetley’s shaking hands, which soon crumpled the paper into a ball before letting it fall into a steel mesh waste basket. The King is dead, sir.

Tetley nodded, and kept his head down to resume his writing.

Sir? Robertson prodded.

Tetley once more looked up at Robertson, yes, what is it Howard?

Sir, the King is dead.

And what in the bloody hell do you want me to do about it? Tetley snapped back.

The King is dead, sir. God save the King.

If that’s how you feel, Howard, so be it. Now, if you will leave me alone, if you please.

Robertson stood silent, shocked at the Prime Minister’s complete disregard for the ascension of the new monarch.

Oh, and Howard, if you could send Geoffrey in on your way out, I need him to schedule a meeting. Tetley turned his eyes once more upon Robertson as he noticed a distinct lack of footsteps. Do you have a problem, Howard?

No, sir.

Very well then, step to it.

Yes, sir.

Port Elizabeth, Royal Crown Colony of Port Elizabeth

The recreational facitlities for the Royal Navy at HMS Havre Avila included little else than a billiards table, a bar, and a fullscreen colour television that received only a few locally broadcast channels – but for over an hour, Jim Brower and over a dozen other officers and ratings stood glued in place while the red bar at the bottom of the screen continued to replay the same message.

King Michael I Dead, Prince Andrew Ascends To The Throne.

Brower raised his mug and took another long sip of tea, catching his executive officer walk into the room. You hear about this?

Yes, sir. Bloody shame it is.

Well, King Andrew isn’t a bad man, hell, His Majesty even visited our little boat. Brower took another long drink of his now lukewarm beverage.

That’s what I’m here about, sir. Straight from Newcastle, you’ve been ordered to fly out to the Courageous and take command.

When?

Immediately, sir. They’re readying a chopper for you, now.

I guess I’m off then.

Good luck, sir, and Godspeed.

Invershaw, Republic of New Ireland

So long as I’m getting it from women like you, that’s all that matters. Barrett smiled, only in his dreams was his wife this good.

Well, with Hayward and his party cronies in power we’re only going to be witness to the decline of our civilisation. Leatherby sighed.

Unfortunately, you’re right on the money, there. Barrett turned his head to its side and found Leatherby’s own still nestled warmly on his shoulder where she flashed him a bright smile. But I don’t see what we can do about it.

Make them feel unwelcome. Leatherby responded coldly, the sudden change in the tone of her voice catching Barrett’s attention.

What do you mean by that? He asked cautiously.

She turned her whole body, rolling against Barrett’s warm skin until she faced him directly. I mean, if we make them feel unwelcome, they won’t stick around and who knows… if people do it the right way, they might be able to turn the tide politically. I’m just becoming sick of this liberal bullshit. Leatherby read the concerned look on Barrett’s face and began running her long fingernails along his chest, playing with the hairs knowing how far down she could go before he lost all focus. I’m sorry, babe, I didn’t mean to get all serious so suddenly. At the end of the sentence she smiled while her hands finally followed the trail of hair to a point where on contact, Barrett’s eyes closed.

No, it’s okay… he whispered.

She smiled, and rolled on top of Barrett, looking down at his face with his eyes closed and mouth half open. I just think we need to get rid of them, that’s all. I mean, they’ll never enjoy this…

This? Barrett asked

Leatherby moved with one quick motion. This. she whispered into his ear.

Tell me more…

I just think we need to scare them, intimidate them, you know.

Oh yeah…

Say we get some punk little kid to… I don’t know… beat the living daylights out of someone. Leatherby laughed, wouldn’t that be nice, baby?

Yeah…

Leatherby sighed, and in one more quick motion she was once again laying by Barrett’s side leaving him painfully anxious to continue their conversation. But it would take a man with real balls to do that I suppose. As she turned away from Barrett, though still nestled between his arm and his chest, she smiled out of his sight. She felt his chest rise as he took in air to speak, and she opened her mouth and quietly repeated verbatim what Barrett had to say.

I have balls. Barrett whispered into Leatherby’s ear, before turning her over and settling in on top of her. Just you wait and see.

The Royal Palace at Newcastle

Andrew remained motionless and expressionless as the coroners removed the body of his uncle. It had remained in the main bedroom until the official court clerks could verify his death and sign off the official paperwork that now officially meant Andrew was the sovereign of the United Kingdom. King Andrew I. He smiled at the phrase; it sounded nice to his ears and would soon resound throughout the UK as the people came to understand and to know their new king.

When the procession had finally departed, he nodded in the direction of a dark doorway from which his chief of staff emerged. The board?

The board is just about set though the opposition knows not that the game is afoot.

Excellent, Doug. That’s just how it should be. Now just make sure we have accurate information on the location of Marionette and Puppeteer – I want them followed and I want to know where they are at all times; am I understood?

Yes, sir.

Excellent, indeed.

Port Elizabeth, Royal Crown Colony of Port Elizabeth

Tobias Heath smiled under the warm tropical sun, his loose fitting short sleeve shirt decorated with bright flowers allowed enough of the humid air to absorb the sweat that seemed to flow out of every pore in his body. Through his dark sunglasses he took in the sights and smells of the city’s food market along the waterfront where native Elizabethans sold fruits, vegetables, and even some illicit narcotics – narcotics the locals didn’t know to be narcotics and that the local soldiers didn’t feel like rooting out.

He had arrived on a flight from St. Ives an hour before, the pilot breaking the news about the death of King Michael mid-flight. The past several days, how long he seemed unable to remember, had been spent with a character he found truly interesting, a Sarzonian envoy with whom he had met to try and thaw out the chilled relations between the two nations. Of course, neither population was yet aware of the talks as the actual agreements, both written and unwritten, and the understandings, both on a governmental and cultural level, had not been disclosed. Before the death of King Michael, Heath had been on his way back to Imperium to personally brief his long-time friend, the Prime Minister.

Unfortunately, death had interrupted those plans and so he now milled about the marketplace waiting until his appointment with Sir Tyler Prescott, the royal governor of the colony. Before landing, his secretary had also scheduled a meeting with Admiral Keith Jennings, the Royal Navy’s senior man in the colony but upon landing he had been informed by an emotionless lieutenant that the meeting had been canceled in lieu of the death.

At the airport, a short man who in his freckles and bright red hair resembled nothing more than a cherubic boy walked towards the private aircraft that had transported the Prime Minister’s Chief of Staff to Port Elizabeth. Due to the long nature of the trip from St. Ives to Imperium, two stops were required: one in Port Royal to transfer Heath from a chopper to the aircraft and then in Port Elizabeth for a short refueling. The young man opened the cover to the fuel tank and inserted the hose that soon started pumping the fuel into the belly of the beast. Checking his watch and then the gauges, he realised that Heath had only an hour or so until the plane would be ready to lift off once more and so he picked up his radio to give the estimated time schedule only to find that due to his unfamiliarity with the job, being his third day and all, that he had let the batteries run dry. Quickly checking the plane, he decided to make a dash across the tarmac to let the head of the maintenance crew know. And to pick up some new batteries.

Heath purchased a small fruit, the name of which was strange and unpronounceable to his English tongue, and looked towards the tall white building to the south, the façade featuring its green reflective glass in the shape of a generic palm tree. He smiled at the quaint quirkiness of the city and headed off, taking a bite into the fruit. After three bites, he heard his mobile give its distinctive ring and after tossing the fruit into an overflowing trashcan he fished the sleek plastic device out of his pocket and checked the caller ID.

Tobias Heath.

The Prime Minister, Mr. Heath, please hold. There was a slightly audible click as the line was transferred to an encrypted channel.

Tobias, the voice on the other end called out, how are you?

I am doing quite well, Mr. Prime Minister. Port Elizabeth is one beautiful city – it’d be even greater if they’d start hosting more spring break parties.

We’re in the middle of winter, Tobias.

I don’t give a damn, sir. Send the girls anyway.

I’ll have Howard draft a bill.

Brilliant idea, sir. What can I do for you?

I trust you’ve heard the news? The jovial voice of Tetley suddenly gave way to one far more somber and far more serious.

Indeed I have, sir. The pilot announced it en route, how’re you holding up.

I’m fine, Tobias, I’m fine. Been better, I’ll admit, but I think there might be some bigger problems.

With regards to what?

Prince Andrew and his ascension. When I last met with King Michael we had a brief conversation about Andrew and the unspoken message to me was quite clear: I have to be careful. Keep this conversation to yourself, but he told me that he felt, and I quote “a storm is coming.”

I see. Heath continued walking while the two men remained silent as the gravity of the situation slowly becoming clear to Heath, who had been out of the loop for quite some time. Have you considered drafting legislation to limit the power of the monarchy? Howard could probably pull enough support from the Conservatives who would want to make sure they have enough of their own power to run the government if they even wrest Parliament away from us.

We’ve talked about it on a casual level, but we had to call in enough favours to pass the gay rights bill that I doubt Collins would be looking to deal.

Congratulations on that, by the way, sir. It made the papers down in St. Ives.

I’ll relay the message to Howard. I’m sure it will please him to no end.

How’s he doing, by the way? Heath asked on a tangent.

Coping pretty well. He’s had some large shoes to fill, but I think in time he’ll make a good chief of staff to someone. Maybe Bashir, Deveraux, or even Winchester. But anyways, I want you to meet with Prescott while you’re in Elizabeth and gauge his feelings about Andrew and myself then come back right away to the Citadel.

Right away, sir. I’m almost at the administration headquarters building as we speak.

Good work, Tobias. Listen, I wanted you to know that I appreciate all the work you did for me and the country down in St. Ives. If nothing else, we’ve at least established a dialogue with the Sarzonians and that has to count for something. Excellent work, Tobias.

Thank you, Mr. Prime Minister. Anything else.

No, I think that’ll about do it. Take care, Tobias.

You too, Mr. Prime Minister. I’ll see you in a couple of hours. Heath snapped the phone shut when he heard the click signaling the line had been broken. Standing outside the glass revolving doors he entered the headquarters for the colonial administration and walked up to the dark black desk placed squarely on a marble floor decorated with potted ferns. He found the security guard at the desk and pulled out his identification card. I’m Tobias Heath, Chief of Staff to the Prime Minister, and I have an appointment with Sir Prescott.

Invershaw, Republic of New Ireland

It didn’t take him long, after all the public libraries had more than adequate access to the internet and through the internet anybody could find anybody else. Elliot Campbell had written the address in downtown Invershaw on a scrap piece of paper and had glued it to the handlebar of his bike, which he now pedaled furiously through town, weaving through cars and busses taking great care to avoid being flagged down by a police officer. The address had him stopping in front of a small two level apartment constructed of bricks of a reddish colour that had slowly turned brownish through pollution and grime. Outside on a flagpole flew the flag of the UK, underneath of which was a large rainbow flag. Campbell smiled, knowing he had the bastards.

He quickly chained the bike to a streetlamp outside and dug his hands into his pockets, in one the cold weight of steel and iron, the other the lighter and more comforting touch of paper. Campbell cared little of politics and little about sex, other than that he knew the corners and high schools where he could get some. But he did care about money, and in his pocket he felt a wad of many large bills. Climbing the cracked stone steps he withdrew his hands and pushed once on the half-lit plastic cover for the antiquated doorbell. He stared at his feet and felt his heart start to race while he waited for the wooden door to open. When it did, he felt only the small wall of glass between him and these nobodies. And there they were, the two men the paper identified as Gary Howard and Anthony DiAngelo.

Hello, Mr. Howard, Mr. DiAngelo, I’m from Invershaw University and if you don’t have any objections I’d like to do an interview. He watched as the two men held hands and looked at each other, their eyes darting back and forth between each other and the stranger on their front door step. My university credentials and my national ID card, would they help?

Yes, if you don’t mind, came the expected answer from the two.

Campbell pulled out two pieces of paper from his one pocket: a forged university ID card and another forged paper certifying him as a reporter from some invented university paper. He watched the men lean in closer and inspect the papers, and he smiled when they nodded. Sure, come in Mr. Travis.

As the two unlocked the door, Campbell waited for it to crack open before throwing the whole weight of his body into the glass. As the glass slammed into the faces of the two men the sudden force knocked them to the ground where DiAngelo lay unconscious, blood flowing heavily from his nose and mouth. Howard pushed himself backwards into the hall while Campbell walked in, kicking DiAngelo in the ribs. He smiled as he felt bones crack. Howard moved back, silent and in shock while Campbell reached into his pocket and pulled out a simple handgun. Finally, he stepped over DiAngelo and stood in front of Howard, who finally stopped shaking enough to form a sentence.

Whatever I’m doing you don’t like… I’ll stop doing it.

Campbell removed the safety and pointed it at Howard.

It’s not me.

And he fired the trigger, killing Howard in one shot – though he emptied three more rounds into the body to make sure he was dead before emptying the rest of the magazine into the unconscious DiAngelo.

The Royal Palace at Newcastle

King Andrew felt relaxed while he sat in the large, lavishly upholstered chair in his new study. On the opposite wall was a flatscreen television that happened to be carrying live aerial footage of a small riot in the normally quiet town of Invershaw. He brought to his lips a steaming cup of tea and turned at the sound of a heavy knocking on the wooden door framed with wrought iron that sealed his study from his new bedroom. Come in, he called.

His chief of staff entered, a smile plastered on his face as well. Have you seen the bad news, Your Majesty?

Hmm… no, what’s that you called me by the way?

Your Majesty, sire.

I like the sound of that. Please, have a drink. Andrew waved his arms across the room, inviting his chief of staff to take a drink from the small refrigerator he had stuffed with various beverages. He waited until his aide and confidant had taken a bottle of water and seated himself next to his king. Now, you said you had some bad news?

Yes, Your Majesty. It appears that a riot is breaking out in Invershaw.

Andrew turned away from his friend to focus more intently on the live footage. How dreadful, I would never have guessed.

Indeed, it appears some troubled youth shot a recently married gay couple. Rumours have it that he was paid to do so by some crazy person dissatisfied with the Democratic Socialist Party.

You don’t say.

Indeed I do, sire.

Andrew placed the cup of tea down upon the table stationed next to his chair before turning the television off and standing, prompting his chief of staff to do the same. The two men smiled at each other while the fireplace crackled behind them, the light flickering upon their faces and burning in their eyes. Well, I do say it appears that the Prime Minister no longer seems able to run this country when the United Kingdom begins to divide over his own legislation. Start arranging the paperwork necessary.

Yes, Your Majesty.

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

On three different televisions, Alistair Tetley watched three different new stations covering three different riots. For a few hours, since before sundown, riots had been intensifying in Invershaw over his gay rights legislation while in Regal, a decidedly “English” city in the heart of the Russian republics, a massive march by protestors – some apparently armed – had begun over the consolidation of power in English hands in the English capital. He knew the death of a monarch would allow a reason for the escape of pent up emotions and so he had expected some protests, especially that of the Russians who seemed to take every advantage to press home their calls for local and regional parliaments and a decentralised government. That, he had expected. Not the guns, but at least they weren’t shooting people yet.

He had been sitting, absorbing the news broadcasts for quite some time as most government affairs and meetings had been cancelled with the death of King Michael. At some point, a point at which his tea had long since gone cold, he heard the familiar voice of his personal aide, Geoffrey Blaine. Sir, Admiral Lord Richard Atkinson would like an audience.

What time, Geoffrey?

Now, sir. He’s just arrived.

Tetley replaced the cold tea back on his desk, and used the remote to quickly turn the televisions off and hide them behind the faux-wooden panels. He straightened his tie and pulled on his jacket before rising from his desk. Send him in, Geoffrey.

Atkinson moved as quickly as he could with his cane supporting his movement, a noticeable frown on his face with a small folder under his right arm. Mr. Prime Minister, I am sorry to disturb you at this hour, but after seeing these latest reports out of Invershaw I think you had better be made aware of something.

Please, Admiral Tetley responded, taking the arm of the admiral. Please sit down, can I offer you anything to drink? Tea perhaps, as mine has apparently gone cold I was just—

Forgive me for interrupting, Mr. Prime Minister, but I daresay you don’t have the time.

Tetley cocked his head and found a seat opposite his First Sea Lord, both leaning forward with their hands in their laps. What do you mean?

King Andrew, sir. I believe he intends on… well, suffice to say terminating your administration through what I believe will be extreme prejudice. Atkinson handed Tetley the folder he had carried in under his arm. This, sir, is a list of personnel transfers authorised by the Second Sea Lord, Admiral Archibald Sullivan. If you’ll note, many young and somewhat inexperienced officers have been promoted to sensitive positions or important commands while more experienced and seasoned officers have been bypassed – with some notable exceptions of course.

Taking the file, Tetley leaned back into his sofa, flipping through the paper clipped pages reading names of battleships, cruisers, submarines and seeing their command crews replaced with their former officers sent back to the Home Islands or far remote stations for desk duties. He rubbed his hand over his goatee before speaking, without looking up at the admiral. And this is just the Royal Navy, correct?

Yes, Mr. Prime Minister.

And how long has this been going on?

Apparently for several weeks now.

But don’t you have to authorise these transfers, I mean giving command of the HMS Prince of New Britain to Prince William, who you must know is one of Andrew’s most vocal supporters in the royal family, surely must have crossed your desk.

Atkinson shook his head. Not necessarily, sir. His Majesty, the King is actually the commander in chief, and if the King orders the transfer the Second Sea Lord must simply draw up the paperwork. In the past, such rare occurrences were traditionally run by the First Sea Lord – but it was far from a requirement. My best guess, Mr. Prime Minister, is that King Michael ordered many of these transfers.

But why, Tetley asked. That’s what I don’t understand. His Majesty firmly believed in democracy, and as his friend I can say that with absolute certainty.

Well, sir, I hate to be rude once more, but I recently had a lengthy conversation with King Andrew, then Prince Andrew, during which he asked me about my oath. The oath swearing fidelity and loyalty to the Crown. After some time, I agreed that I held that oath almost sacred after which he told me that as the soon-to-be-king he might be forced to call upon that oath and that I would know the time when it came. Mr. Prime Minister, I fear that time is now.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Tetley closed his eyes so tight he saw flashes of colours – and yet it did nothing to slow his quickening heartbeats. He opened his eyes and nervously bit the tips of his thumb and forefinger. He opened his mouth when a knock on the shut door disturbed him.

Mr. Prime Minister, Blaine called out.

Yes?

Mr. Robertson says he needs to speak with you. He says it’s urgent, sir.

Show him in. Tetley turned as the door swung open and Robertson all but stormed him, his hands twitching and his face red with his jaws clenched. Howard, I believe you know Admiral Lord Richard Atkinson.

Yes, sir. Good evening, Admiral.

Good evening, Howard.

Mr. Prime Minister, this was just sent over by a courier from Newcastle. Robertson handed over a small opened packet addressed to “Mr. Alistair Tetley.” Tetley’s eyes narrowed, despite the animosity between himself and Andrew there was no reason to ignore Tetley’s noble title. He took the packet and withdrew the papers inside.

Mr. Prime Minister,

In light of recent civil unrest, at a level unseen since the last civil war, I am compelled under the prerogatives granted to me as sovereign and king to dissolve your leadership and the current sitting Parliament. As the centre of this escalating division within the United Kingdom, I cannot in good conscience allow your coalition to continue as the interim government and as such have nominated Mr. Daniel Collins and his Conservative Party, as the Loyal Opposition, to occupy the Citadel and the Cabinet until elections can be organised and held in an air of security and stability.

Andrew RI

What the bloody fucking hell is this? Tetley shouted, crumpling the paper and hurling it across the room. Does he really think he can pull this shite off? If he does, he is out of his fucking mind!

Robertson and Atkinson exchanged quick glances at one another, remaining silent while Tetley’s face grew redder and redder. He stood suddenly and walked quickly over to the large window behind his desk, casting the vertical blinds aside with a violent shove of his arms. Balling his hand into a fist, he slammed it as hard as he could into the bulletproof glass causing immense pain to his hand, though he noticed not. At least not that Robertson and Atkinson could notice.

Where is Tobias? Tetley asked in a quiet voice that was visibly forced.

Robertson looked over at Atkinson for support, who simply nodded. Severe weather in Port Elizabeth, sir, had delayed his flight. He called me not five minutes ago saying he was on his way back to Imperium. Sir… what do you want to do?

Tetley remained silent, daring not to speak his mind more than he had. He felt embarrassed by his outburst and as a career politician he knew he felt right to be embarrassed. So he stayed silent, glaring out at the lights that sparkled on the many towers of Azazian commerce that littered the downtown district of Imperium.

Outside Port Elizabeth, Nearing Altitude

Heath had placed in the seat next to him the bag containing his now soaked tropical clothes. True to form, the previously sunny and clear weather had transformed into a violent afternoon thunderstorm that had grounded his flight and thereby delaying his return to Imperium. He smiled at the thought of one advantage, in the aftermath of the death of King Michael there would likely be little traffic on the normally congested capital highways and avenues and his return to the Citadel could for once be quite quick.

The Royal Palace at Newcastle

King Andrew had long since retired to his bedchamber, well aware that at this moment his letter to Tetley was being slowly read and digested by that twit of a man. He could just imagine the short little man bawling before his staff and fretting, unsure about the constitutionality of the letter. He laughed quietly at the image of the man sitting behind his desk while his troops prepared to enter the Citadel and remove him from office if he resisted – which Andrew knew Tetley would do.

Before he could fall asleep, however, his chief of staff entered once more with a handful of letters in hand. What is this? I thought I was done for the night?

You were, sir. The news about your uncle’s death has gone public and several nations have offered their condolences: the Roman Republic, Sarzonia, the Scandinvans, and Pacitalia. I think it’d be very advantageous to send something back in response, even if brief, before Tetley catches wind. We already have the Ministry of Foreign Affairs under our control, at least the office of Ms. Deveraux and we are quite certain that she won’t be in contact with the world. Also, I have word from Port Elizabeth that the Puppeteer is moving across the board.

Andrew’s eyes perked at the last bit of news. In truth, he had never heard of the Roman Republic nor the Scandinvans and he had no like for the liberal countries of either Sarzonia or Pacitalia – but there were uses for them and he knew it could be important to deal with Sarzo and Ell before things in Imperium got complicated. Checkmate the Puppeteer and if you could fetch me a pen and some paper for these responses.

HMS Courageous, Somewhere in the Pacific Ocean

Commander Brower had not yet grown accustom to his new command as it was a far cry from his previous patrol boat. He had, of course, come well qualified as an officer aboard frigates and destroyers before the Tyndale, but to be offered command of a new cruiser was truly an honour. His crew was green and his officers mostly younger than himself, but they were all sailors in the Royal Navy and they were one of the best trained in the world having inherited what Brower considered the best pedigree possible.

Night having fallen hours ago, Brower stood out on the bridge, listening to the ocean slap and crash against the sharp bow of the trimaran warship. To starboard and port were frigates and somewhere aft of him was a destroyer and all were tasked with defending Port Elizabeth from threats – although he doubted any serious threats would ever come to such a backwards colony. Of course, the advantage of his posting here at sea was that late at night, there was no pollution from Port Elizabeth to obscure the stars. Brower felt at home.

Captain? Until he found himself rudely interrupted.

Yes, lieutenant?

A priority message straight from Newcastle, addressed to you, sir.

Thank you, lieutenant, I’ll take it out here, if you please.

Yessir. The pimple faced woman handed Brower the note.

Has this been identified?

Yessir.

Bloody hell. Sound battlestations and alert the rest of the squadron.

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

We can’t surrender to Andrew. That’s what he wants. Tetley turned around to face his small audience.

I disagree, Mr. Prime Minister. Atkinson added quietly. I think that he is waiting for you to resist so that he can take you out with that extreme prejudice. Without your resistance he has no grounds to do so unless he trumps up a charge – and I don’t believe that he has managed to corrupt the Privy Council, at least not yet, and so he couldn’t get away with convicting you of treason. But if you resist…

But if we surrender, Collins and Andrew take over. God help us then.

Well, sir, Robertson said, perhaps Andrew has a point. As we’re seeing in Invershaw, the majority of the population isn’t happy with the gay rights act and the Russians aren’t happy with us centralising power while trade unions and workers’ right groups aren’t happy with your privatisation of major industries and the—

I get the point, Howard.

Sir, I’m just saying, perhaps he is acting for the people. It’s at the very least a possibility.

The room fell silent; Tetley simply stared at Robertson through his narrowed eyes while he attempted to recover from the knife wound in the back. At that moment, Blaine entered the room once more, Mr. Prime Minister, you may want to turn on the television.

*Live*

On the screen, images of tanks rolling down wide city streets with their hatches down followed by IFVs and APCs are cut together, showing several different columns of armoured troops moving throughout a city, that as one camera pans out is easily identifiable as Imperium

…down Nelson Avenue directly towards the Citadel and down the M1 towards the Parliament House. What we are seeing… well, ladies and gentlemen, I haven’t… and we’re now going to go to a live broadcast from the Conservative Party Headquarters in Imperium.

The screen cuts to an image of a tall, gaunt man with blonde hair standing behind a podium with the flag of the United Kingdom behind him.

Earlier this evening, as rioting intensified throughout the United Kingdom, King Andrew officially dissolved Parliament as is his right granted to him by his royal prerogatives. While Parliament is dissolved, the Cabinet and the Prime Minister remain in office to run the country until elections are held and a new government can be installed. However, as the civil unrest makes painfully clear, Lord Alistair Tetley and his government cannot continue to sit running the government as it is their policies that are creating this unrest. And so, by royal decree, I have been appointed First Lord of the Treasury and Prime Minister and the Conservative Party Cabinet will now become the sitting Cabinet of the United Kingdom. However, Alistair Tetley has refused this legitimate decree and by my order and His Majesty’s royal assent I have ordered elements of the New Britain Royal Dragoon Guard to take Mr. Tetley and his accomplices into custody for high treason against Crown and Country.

Tetley turned the television off. Howard, where’s the senior staff?

They’ve all gone home for the night, sir.

Geoffrey, Tetley called. Please come in, right quick. He waited until the three men were gathered together in his office, and Tetley stared at their sudden silhouette that appeared on the wall as an illumination flare went off outside his window.

Gentlemen, the time has come. I intend to resist this unlawful attempt to destroy the United Kingdom and our democracy. Shall you come with me? Tetley swallowed, hiding his now shaking hands behind his back out of sight from the men. He could do little else but fake a smile, a gesture he knew all three would see as blatantly false.

I’m with you, sir. Blaine declared. Tetley had figured he would join, he had been his personal assistant since before becoming a member of Parliament.

Robertson and Atkinson looked at each other before nodding. We are with you, Mr. Prime Minister.

Tetley nodded nervously as another flare lit the room in an unnatural light. Very well then, gentlemen, I suggest it is high time that we vacate my office. This shall be an orderly withdrawal, however, and as such, Mr. Blaine, Mr. Robertson, if you would please begin destroying all sensitive and personal documents immediately then meet me outside the apartment, the North Entrance. Oh, and Geoffrey, bring along a list of contacts both domestic and foreign, if you could. But first rip out the number for the Citadel Barracks.

Yes, Mr. Prime Minister. Robertson and Blaine dashed out of the office, using their young legs to the best of their abilities. Tetley turned to Atkinson and patted the old man on his shoulder.

Are you absolutely certain about this, Admiral?

Indeed I am, Mr. Prime Minister. But I suggest we hurry as I am not as quick as Misters Robertson and Blaine.

Tetley cracked a smile. This way then, Admiral.

HMS Courageous

Brower paced back and forth in the combat centre, now bathed in a red light that served its purpose well though he cared not for it one bit. Any contacts yet, Mr. Hawkins?

Negative, sir.

Brower nodded, he felt odd for his enemy had always been foreign navies and warships – sometimes aircraft and submarines. But never before had he fought terrorists. There had, of course, been some problems in the UK with terrorism especially when it concerned independence movements by the Russians or on rarer occasions radical Islamists. Gentlemen, we have received word from the Home Islands that the Office of Royal Navy Intelligence has obtained information that tonight a major terrorist with ties to the Russian independence movement is transiting the Pacific in an aircraft headed for the capital – possibly with a nuclear weapon. Our orders are to shoot this plane down. I trust that—

Contact, captain! Small aircraft, fits the profile of an…Isen I-45. Sir, we have the target.

XO, take it down.

Aye, captain.

Tobias Heath felt his aircraft lurch to the side, and he dug for his phone but that was as far as he ever got. The missile impacted the rear of his plane and in an instant the aircraft was obliterated, the fiery wreckage falling over many kilometers of the quiet, undisturbed Pacific.

The Citadel
Imperium, the Republic of New Britain

Tetley stood with his back against the wall of his apartment but the noise of treads grinding and illumination shells detonating filled the air with deafening noise while the flares blinded Tetley to the sky and forced him to look down at the cobblestones. Finally, he felt a tap on the shoulder, but to his surprise found neither Robertson nor Blaine, but a gruff, though young looking Royal Army officer dressed in urban combat fatigues.

Mr. Prime Minister? the man shouted to Tetley, who responded with a quiet but definitive nod. I’m Colonel John Harrison, commanding officer of the Citadel Guard. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, sir.

Likewise, Colonel. I’ve still got two men left in the office; we’re waiting for them to arrive.

That’s good, sir. Because as of right now we’re all but cut off.

Why can’t you order us up a chopper? Tetley shouted as another flare detonated. Harrison and Atkinson exchanged a smile while Tetley instinctively ducked.

Sir, my best guess is that the units we’re facing have deployed with their mobile anti-aircraft units. Any choppers that try to get you out of here will likely be shot down as soon as they pop above the Citadel walls.

Then how do you suggest we get out?

We’re not getting out, sir. At least not anytime soon. Harrison frowned, knowing that he had done nothing but disappoint the Prime Minister, for whom he had actually voted. He caught a glance from Atkinson and looked over at Tetley, sir, if you’ll excuse me, I need to borrow the Admiral for a moment.

Go ahead, Colonel. Tetley replied, visibly crushed. He found himself slumping against the wall, staring off at the doorway from which he hoped to see Robertson and Blaine emerging. Though as the seconds passed into minutes he saw neither of the men and with the din of the approaching tanks growing only louder he ran a hand through his gelled back hair and unbuttoned his jacket.

Finally, as another illumination shell went off, he saw the two aides running out of the building, covering their heads with their hands as the shell popped. The two of them threw themselves upon the ground and soon took a sitting cover along with their boss. So what’s going on, sir? Robertson asked.

We’re stuck. Apparently Andrew already has us surrounded.

So we’ve consented ourselves to die?

More or less, it appears. Tetley glanced up and found shallow comfort in the brick walls that had been built generations ago to keep out the enemy. However, that enemy had been equipped largely with bows, arrows, spears, and swords. A very few had firearms, and those very few never made it very far. And as he heard another whistle, Tetley covered his head. Yet this time there was no light only a bone-shuddering explosion and a strong gust of wind. He soon saw Harrison running over in his direction, holding a gun of some sort.

Mr. Prime Minister, we have to go…

What was that explosion?

Mortars, sir. Actual explosive ammunition. It can and it will kill you. So please, sir, follow me.

Imperium, New Britain (ABN) – Earlier this evening, King Andrew proclaimed his first royal decree and dissolved Parliament calling for new elections so that the people may be better represented and better served by Parliament. His Majesty broke with tradition, however, and did not authorise Lord Alistair Tetley of Salisbury to continue as the caretaker prime minister and in his stead appointed Daniel Collins of the Conservative Party to create a government until elections can be arranged.

At this hour, reports from the capital state that Prime Minister Tetley has refused to step down and has for the moment holed himself up in the Citadel, forcing His Majesty and Mr. Collins to declare Prime Minister Tetley as a traitor who has committed high treason against Crown and Country. At this hour the sound of gunfire and small explosions can be heard from within the Citadel where the Royal Guard units tasked with defending the century-old seat of government have taken to defending Lord Tetley.

Across the country, tensions remain high as the United Kingdom faces a growing constitutional crisis. The escalating instability has prompted large scale selling in overnight trading on most financial markets within the UK while protests have erupted in many major cities including Imperium, Breningrad, Philadelphia, Portsmouth, and Artega. Additionally, the previous riots in cities such as Regal and Invershaw do not appear to be abating and instead appear only to be intensifying.

With the Conservative Party establishing its own cabinet, the location of Lord Tetley’s senior cabinet officers remain unclear. Unconfirmed reports have Metropolitan Police units quarantining both the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Ministry of Defence as both Minister of Foreign Affairs Deveraux and Minister of Defence Ramsey are both reported to be in New Britain. The Minister of Colonial Affairs, Ian Bashir, remains in Avinapolis on tour of the crown colonies and has not yet been reached for comment. So far, there appears to be no significant violence reported in the outlying regions of the United Kingdom, in particular the Republic of Juristan and the important colonies of Avinapolis and Port Elizabeth.

Stay tuned for further updates throughout the night.

Prime Minister Timothy Ell sat leaning back in his chair, watching as his favourite team, NG Sapuntoli, destroyed the Woodstock Wild in a friendly match. The score was already 3:0 in the 38th minute as the Wild's defence was capitulating rapidly. Ell was smiling, indulging in the satisfaction of watching his team beat one of their biggest non-LFP rivals.

Dr. Rabastano Sancatto Serra burst in through the glass door. "Sir, turn to PNN! There's a problem in Azazia. A big one."

Ell picked up the remote and flipped to channel 20. Immediately his eyes widened in shock at the large headline across the bottom: "CRISIS IN AZAZIA". The report was repeatedly stating bombings at the Citadel, and questioned whether or not Prime Minister Alistair Tetley (now no longer in that position because of the sneaky, underhanded moves of King Andrew) was still alive. Ell, his cynical nature kicking in, automatically assumed the worst, but he still hoped for the safety of his good friend.

"We need to draw up a response," Ell finally said after half an hour of PNN coverage. "I can't stand by with this bullshit happening right in front of my face."

http://kfox.gamehorizons.net/Pacitalia/coatofarms_Medovicia.jpg
Official Statement, Office of the Prime Minister
Democratic Capitalist Republic of Pacitalia


To the Azazian government and people,

It would be unwise for me to make a judgment or a decision at this time, but I simply cannot resist. It is obvious that with each passing moment it becomes harder and harder not to be increasingly suspect of the true motives of King Andrew and Mr Collins. It is blatantly clear these men intend to stop only when Mr Tetley and his government are dead - who else would stoop low enough to bomb their own political institutions? This is an absurd and politically suicidal move. I wonder, not if, but when His Majesty will realise the ultimate consequences of his disingenuous actions.

My government and I have passed a decree in both legislative houses due to our concern over the rapidly deteriorating situation in the United Kingdom. Until Mr Tetley's government is reconfirmed as the governing party of the United Kingdom of Azazia, or a new government is fairly and democratically elected to power, we will not recognise any government in Azazia, up to that point, as legitimate. That most especially goes for the Conservative Party, who apparently cannot seek legal means of getting into power. We also will not recognise King Andrew as the Sovereign Majesty and Defender of Azazia and Juristan until this matter is resolved in the above manner. It has become clear to us that we cannot trust King Andrew's judgment.

The more we look at it as a neutral outsider, the more we see the beginnings of a conspiratorial collaboration among a newly-appointed king with much to learn politically and little to lose based on his horribly diminuitive reputation, and a Conservative Party leader who is widely renowned, especially in the United Kingdom, for being unable to properly lead a country, or ascend to power in a legitimate matter. You must understand that in a strongly democratic country like Azazia, it is impractical for you to make decisions like this without considering the true desires of the people.

Once again, until a government is legitimately elected in the upcoming elections, or the Democratic Socialist Party under the honourable and virtuous Alistair Tetley is restored to its rightful place as the governing party, we shall not recognise the existence of a current Azazian government or superior sovereign. This decision is irrevocable. We don't need to hear back from King Andrew or Mr Collins, for we do not care of their opinions - we do not listen to those who have lost our respect.

May God protect the Azazian people.


Sincera in domina bene,

Dr. Timotaio (Timothy) Ell, MPP, RPID
Prime Minister
Democratic Capitalist Republic of Pacitalia

[ooc: warning, there is some crude language in this post that is not intended for children/ooc]

The Citadel
Imperium, Republic of New Britain

Sir, we have to move now! Tetley looked over incredulously at Colonel Harrison who had taken to crouching with one hand atop his helmet the other wrapped tightly around the carrying handle of his rifle. He had served in the Royal Army for several years, most recently as a special forces officer in the Novikovian War, where he had been among the several teams that had infiltrated Novikov in the opening hours and disabled or destroyed their few nuclear missile silos. His team had been fortunate in escaping with their lives – many had not. He had been rewarded by being promoted to command the elite Citadel Royal Guards, a relatively easy posting in terms of combat workload but far rougher as one of the most elite unit of guard units, second only to those guarding His Majesty.

The group of men, with the exception of Harrison, had never served in the armed forces and remained in a state of shock. Like many others, they had become used to the thought of cruise missiles striking the capital – the Novikovians had attempted such brazen attacks on numerous occasions although few penetrated the city’s air defence network. They had all heard distant explosions, Robertson had lost his sister in one such attack – but as light mortar fire rained down upon them Harrison could do little else but wonder if the three would survive the night.

Finally, Harrison saw the Prime Minister – at least the man he considered the PM – shake his head and lock eyes with the war hero. Where to, Colonel Harrison?

We have an underground command centre two blocks to the east, sir. Lord Atkinson should be there by now, and I have some of my men attempting to scout a way out of the Citadel.

Very well, lead the way, Colonel.

Outside the walls, the tanks had stopped, their commanders having already trained their guns upon the old brick walls. One tank in particular had stopped outside the massive gates that, while traditionally left lowered as a symbol of the Prime Minister being in touch with the people, had long ago been shut by the Citadel Guard. Yet both sides knew the flimsy wood and iron gate would not stand up against the sustained fire of the Centurion, the United Kingdom’s premier main battle tank. This tank bore the flag of the sovereign, King Andrew. Slowly, the mortar fire ceased and the stunned city of Imperium fell silent for perhaps the first time in its history. With a loud groan the commander’s hatch open and a helmeted officer brought to his lips a large microphone.

By order of His Majesty, King Andrew, these gates are to be lowered and Alistair Tetley, and his associates, are to surrender to face the charge of high treason.

The man handed the microphone off to a person concealed within the turret and waited. Behind the armoured vehicle two armoured personnel carriers rolled to a stop, their doors opening and two dozen riflemen pouring out, taking positions alongside their vehicles and the tank. Then, as the moment stretched into a minute stretched into minutes, the commander leaned down to shout something to his tank crew when the massive gate screeched a noise that sent many to cover their ears as it slowly pulled itself up. The riflemen made a quick dash to the brick walls while the APCs moved around the tank and took a holding position just beyond the gate – covering the soldiers as they carefully moved through the gatehouse to the courtyard.

Quiet reigned as the men spread out into the courtyard, the leader of the squads signaling the APCs to move forward in order to provide heavy firepower should the Citadel Guard put up any stern resistance within the inner compound. As the treads of the APC rolled over the flower beds, and as men took cover behind statues and sculpture, the Centurion tank finally received permission to bring its even heavier firepower into the Citadel.

Below the street level, Harrison watched the events unfolding as ABN helicopters broadcast live footage of the event. From the corner of his eye he saw Tetley sitting, nervously rocking himself back and forth while Robertson paced and Blaine stood staring at the screen. The Admiral had excused himself to attempt to make use of the communication equipment and had not yet returned. This isn’t good, he muttered to himself, watching the tank take up a position several hundred meters beyond the gatehouse. It’s too far away.

As the helicopters fed the live footage to their offices, who then distributed it to the world media, three spirals of white raced out from the gatehouse before impacting the vehicles, which seconds later erupted in massive fireballs. From the aerial perspective the tracer fire showed the intruders all but surrounded and in the relative comfort of his command centre Harrison listened to the squawking radio as his men reported the gate closed once more, and that five of the intruders had surrendered.

Tetley stood up from his seat and walked over to the small television set, which depicted the first five prisoners of an escalating civil war drop to their knees as the Citadel Royal Guard emerged from the well fortified gatehouse. Harrison coughed politely and Tetley turned his head, Sir, your first prisoners.

You had this all planned, didn’t you Colonel Harrison?

To some degree, yes. I know most of the officers of the New Britain Dragoons, and I knew that the unit’s commander would likely order his men into the Citadel without proper support as I have frequently sided with the monarchy and in particular, then Prince Andrew.

And now, Colonel? Tetley asked, cocking his head.

Now, sir, I support legitimate government. I believe that Andrew was within his right to dissolve Parliament, but to replace you with Collins was wrong and likely unconstitutional. And so, in short I used my knowledge of my friends against them – though I doubt they shall make the same mistake twice. They are likely preparing for a full out assault on the Citadel and they shall likely bring up more tanks and simply blow holes through the walls and slaughter the entire Citadel Guard and then you.

And as for our new prisoners?

Well, sir, ordinarily they’d be sent out of the Citadel to a proper holding facility.

I’d like to go up and meet them.

Certainly, sir.

Parliament House
Imperium, New Britain

To His Majesty, King Andrew.

HUZZAH!

Daniel Collins raised his glass of brandy, and in the dim office of the Prime Minister his glass clinked against those of his Conservative colleagues. For the first time in years, the Conservative Party finally had control of Parliament – although with Parliament officially dissolved he and his Cabinet could do little more than officiate over affairs of state, they could not legislate, they could not yet reverse the damages caused by Tetley and his ilk.

On a corner table sat a small television, which like most others in the UK, was airing live coverage of the siege of the Citadel. There had been a momentary pause in the celebrations while the new leaders of the United Kingdom watched three vehicles be destroyed and several men killed – but other camera angles showed the impending doom of Alistair Tetley: tanks from the New Britain Royal Dragoons approaching from the west while some tanks from a Royal Marine unit had begun to move towards the Citadel from the east.

There he is! an older man shouted, gaining the attention of Collins and the rest. On the television they watched as the camera zoomed in on a man who, under the spotlight of the choppers, appeared to be the former PM. Slightly behind him was an officer of some sort and another man that Collins recognised as Tetley’s deputy chief of staff. Picking up the remote, Collins’ thumb pressed the Volume + button and as the green bars increased from right to left, he could hear more and more of the running commentary by the station’s anchors.

Mr. Prime Minister, a distant voice cried out.

Collins turned and found one of his junior staffers waving a piece of paper in the smoke-filled air.

Sir, it’s just coming in now, a statement from the Pacitalian Prime Minister.

What in the bloody hell does that doctor want now? Collins shouted back, the small gathering erupting into a partially alcohol-induced laughter. The aide handed over the statement and Collins quickly digested it as he had not yet had more than two glasses of his drink of choice for the evening. If you will excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, Collins said aloud, turning his head to address his Cabinet. I intend to put out a quick response and then I shall return as we have some more celebrating to do this evening.

As Collins walked out of his new office he heard a familiar tune being hummed, and then as he turned the corner a chorus cried out, for he’s a jolly good fellow…


Official Statement from the Office of the Prime Minister
Parliament House, Imperium, the Republic of New Britain

To Prime Minister Dr. Ell,

Your words grieve me deeply, sir, as although we have never met I assure you that here in Imperium your reputation precedes you as one of the great leaders of our time. And for sure, to come to be of such stature not just here in the United Kingdom but also abroad one must surely have attained a great wisdom and an ability to grasp any and all situations – though here that judgment seems in error.

Earlier this evening, His Majesty King Andrew acted in accordance with our constitutional conventions as he dissolved Parliament to call for new elections. And while some such as yourself may question His Majesty’s decision, it is all too evident why that course of action has become necessary. Especially as of late, Mr. Tetley’s government has pursued policies against the expressed will of the people and he has successively ignored the advice given to him by both Parliament and the people in drafting legislation governing the United Kingdom’s domestic affairs and even concerning the possible deployment of troops to a foreign land – a measure that thankfully failed due to the foresight and wisdom of some within his own governing coalition. These are of course but a few of the numerous examples the peoples of the United Kingdom have born witness to over the past months of what can only be likened to a growing sense of megalomania in a man we once considered one of our greatest leaders. It is a sad state of affairs, not just for his failures now but for my failures and the failures of this nation in the past to allow this man to take such a dangerous course of action.

Dr. Ell, while you and the Pacitalian people may not like what is evolving in the United Kingdom at this hour I can assure you that I and my colleagues are looking with neither pride nor satisfaction at ascending to power in a fashion that appears to quickly becoming far bloodier than ought to truly be necessary. As soon as Mr. Tetley is apprehended, as we have given him every chance to surrender peacefully to the authorities, we shall make sure that he is given a fair trial and given every chance to exonerate himself in accordance with the tradition of jurisprudence that both our peoples share as common believers in liberalism and democracy.

I simply ask for your continued prayers and best wishes for the people of the United Kingdom.

Sincerely,

Daniel Collins

The Citadel
Imperium, Republic of New Britain

Tetley frowned at the sight of the five prisoners, their hands upon their heads while they kneeled upon the cobblestone courtyard in a fashion that he mused must be truly painful. With the exception of a man whose stripes identified him as a sergeant, the lot of them were youthful – no later than their early twenties. And as the light from above continued to follow his footsteps he glanced over at Robertson, who had a walkie talkie clipped to his belt. Ask Blaine if they’ve still got footage of this courtyard? And if they do, see if the networks have identified me as… well, me.

Right away, sir, Robertson replied, unclipping the device from his belt.

So, you soldiers failed and failed pretty miserably. Tetley said, turning his attention to the five Dragoon soldiers. I must say, that even I would have known better than to walk into such an ambush – and I’ve never served in the armed services once in my whole life. In fact—

I don’t give a rat’s ass you fuckin’ ****, one soldier shouted before spitting on Tetley’s sportscoat. You’re a shite of a person and I’m only sorry I didn’t get the chance to put a round through your fucking ‘ead.

Tetley blinked in surprise before leaning down to the man’s face. What’s your name, soldier?

The soldier spit once more, this time his saliva and mucous landing square on Tetley’s glasses. With a slow and deliberate swipe of a handkerchief from his pocket, Tetley wiped the insult from his face. Replacing the cloth he reached down to grab the dogtags dangling around his neck. Before he could reach them, however, the soldier’s hands found their way around Tetley’s neck desperately trying to choke him.

Harrison took the butt of his rifle and slammed it against the side of the soldier’s head, knocking him to the ground. He withdrew his bayonet and fastened it to the rail underneath the barrel before placing its triangular tip at the young man’s throat. Try it again, lad, and I’ll cut your fucking throat out, you understand?

As Tetley reached down once more, the young soldier slowly nodded, feeling the point of the bayonet the whole time. Finally, Tetley reached the dogtags and ripped them off. Smith, he spoke aloud to no one in particular. All that for a name like Smith. He threw the tags over to Robertson, who nodded at his boss.

Sir, Geoffrey says that you are on television and that that last bit… well he said it looked awesome until he realised it was real life.

Tetley allowed himself a smile and a polite laugh. He turned around once more and found Harrison still threatening the soldier’s life. Tapping him on the shoulder he pulled the colonel away and pulled his ear closer to his lips. When the moment is right, Colonel… Tetley paused suddenly not sure of his next course of action. Nevermind.

Instead of returning to the command centre, Tetley decided to turn around once more and face the impetuous youth so clearly dissatisfied with Tetley’s work as prime minister. So, you’re a big fan of that imposter sitting on the throne in Newcastle, are you?

Indeed I am. I am proud to call King Andrew my sovereign king.

Think about it for a moment, son. Michael was a cripple, his closest relative is mentally retarded while other more distant relations exhibit birth defects and other such diseases. How do you think Andrew appears so healthy and vibrant? Tetley smiled as the young man stiffened his back and kept silent. He knew he had him right where he wanted him. It really shouldn’t be that difficult for a person like you, Smith. He’s not really of royal blood. His mother slept around with lowly commoners like me, and after a couple of fucks by who knows who, out pops—

You lying son of a bitch! The soldier shouted, pushing himself up off the ground quickly, lunging at Tetley his hands already raised to choke his enemy once more. And then a shot rang out and the young man fell dead at Tetley’s feet, his blank eyes staring upwards toward the night sky, blood trickling from his mouth. Behind the limp body stood Harrison with his barrel smoking and a cartridge laying spent on the stone beneath his fun.

Tetley nodded. Kill them all.

And on live television Harrison’s men lined up behind the four remaining prisoners and then with a loud rapport the four men went limp on the stone, blood flowing from their shattered skulls.

Imperium, New Britain (ABN) – The siege of the Citadel continues at this hour as former Prime Minister Alistair Tetley has holed himself up refusing to surrender to authorities who seek to charge him with high treason. Less than half an hour ago helicopters recorded the first attempt by the new government to capture Lord Tetley by force. It was, however, an effort that failed as the troops supporting Tetley managed to arrange an ambush and destroyed three tanks that had entered the Citadel. Additionally, cameras recorded an attempt by a captured government soldier to kill Lord Tetley; an action that resulted in Tetley’s troops killing those government troops who had surrendered. For now, the situation has calmed to a tense standoff while government troops move in to reinforce their positions, effectively sealing off the former prime minister from the outside world.

The Citadel
Imperium, Republic of New Britain

For fifteen minutes, silence had fallen over the UK capital while Tetley retreated back to the underground command centre from which he realised that defending the Citadel would only become more and more of a futile effort. At the request of Harrison, he had taken over the colonel’s office and had attempted to telephone anyone who would listen – only to find the supposedly secure phone lines had been disconnected. Now he sat, alternatively scratching his forehead or his goatee pondering not only his future, nor just the future of the men and women with him underground, but the future of the whole of the United Kingdom.

Above ground, Colonel Harrison had taken to the Citadel walls, facing west from which he could see the New Britain Dragoon Guard advancing, their tanks leading the way, the guns leveled at the walls. In a half crouch, he dashed over to a guard tower, one of several placed at intervals along the wall. Inside were the squadron’s lieutenant and radioman. How’s it going Dawkins?

We’re holding tight, sir. Two down to sniper fire, we think from the Brettonia Building down the street – anyone moving the other side of this tower who exposes themselves above the wall, they’re going down with a round in their head. The lieutenant simply pointed to the door sheltering the command position from the snipers’ fire, and on the floor Harrison saw four men laying, covered in blood. Two with their eyes closed.

How many Pikes do you have left?

After taking out the one APC, sir, we’ve got four left. Jameson and Dobson have them and I’ve put them on the next tower north. I figure once these guys blast through the wall here, after seeing our concentrated firepower – we can take the tanks out as they move through and plug the holes up with debris.

Harrison nodded. The unstated understanding being that many men would have to die in this section of the wall in order to lure the tanks into blowing the wall here. He nodded and patted his officer on the shoulder. You’ve done good, lieutenant. Hold the line.

Indeed, sir.

Harrison walked back outside and watched as the Royal Army tanks drew nearer and nearer.

Avinapolis, Royal Crown Colony of the Verdant Archipelago

Iain Bashir had been born into relative poverty in the city of Port Hamptonshire. A relative newcomer to the Democratic Socialist Party, his youth and charisma had made him extremely popular among not only his own district but rather the whole of the United Kingdom and he quickly found himself as a full cabinet minister. Bashir, of course, had no illusion about why – Tetley had needed new, young blood in his cabinet after several of his longtime allies had been kicked out of Parliament. And Bashir knew he provided that. After the reshuffling of his cabinet after the Birch debacle, Bashir found himself in the new position of Minister of Colonial Affairs, responsible for the relationship between the colonies and the Home Islands.

And so three days ago he had been dispatched to Avinapolis to participate in the official opening of the Royal Bank of Azazia’s new regional headquarters for the Indian Ocean. It had not taken long for the city to grow influential in the region, having been the sole source of contact with the outside world for the isolated and insulated Verdant Archipelago. When the Verdant Archipelago Union formed, the United Kingdom was its natural ally, and Avinapolis became the primary centre of commerce between the two nations. And finally, the Royal Bank of Azazia had opened a new, state of the art office building, stretching a modest sixty stories into the air, providing an awe-inspiring sight to those who paid to reach the top floor’s observation lounge. Having been created with the blessing, and the tax-exemptions, of Parliament the Cabinet had decided to send Bashir here to enjoy the food, the booze, and the women – at least that’s what Bashir preferred to think.

And as the sunset over the islands to the west, their green mountainous peaks hiding the horrors and monsters that lurked, ready to destroy all of humanity’s outposts on the isles, he felt content. He withdrew his trademark black sunglasses, that complemented his trademark black outfits and took a seat outside on his hotel veranda, where a martini sat with its salt and its tiny umbrella. Tropical colonies certainly have their perks, he mused to himself as he took his seat.

He had just taken his first sip for the evening when an aide knocked on the sliding glass door. Bashir turned around and, recognizing her, waved him outside. What can I do for you, Elizabeth?

Sir, you had better come inside. The aide responded, a look of dread hanging from her face.

Bashir nodded and replaced his drink on the frosted glass table. Removing his sunglasses he entered his hotel room and found two other staffers sitting on the edge of his bed, glued to a television set. He began to pass the sunglasses between his fingers as he read the ticker at the bottom of the screen while the channel replayed footage of the destruction of the tanks, and the apparent killings of the captured soldiers. Have I received any telephone calls? he called out, not looking at anyone in particular.

No, sir. Unconfirmed reports have Ms. Deveraux and Mr. Ramsey confined to their offices in Imperium and we can confirm that to the point where we are unable to reach them.

What about the Deputy Prime Minister or the Chancellor?

It seems a bulk of the Centre Party has thrown their support behind Mr. Collins and the King.

Figures, Bashir snapped. Switch loyalty and hope to continue in power in some fashion or another. Have we been able to reach anybody from our party in the Cabinet?

No, sir. This is about, maybe a little over an hour old. I doubt some people even know it’s going on, especially given the late hour.

Bashir finally sat himself on the edge of his bed along with the rest of his staffers. Any international response?

The prime minister of Pacitalia has released a statement, sir, saying he would not recognise Andrew’s government.

So we have an ally?

He also said they’re neutral at the moment.

Alright then, we do this ourselves. Bashir stood and walked over to a small chilled bucket, filled to the brim with ice. Taking a thick plastic cup, he filled it with ice and then water from a plastic pitcher before taking a long drink. No doubt, this new Parliament would move quickly to remove the remaining members of the cabinet loyal to Tetley – including himself. Avinapolis remained, however, very distant from the Home Islands, and so it was wholly within the realm of possibility that the Conservatives were waiting for him to arrive back in Imperium. Then again, he couldn’t take the chance that such was their plan. Elizabeth, prepare a draft statement to the Pacitalians, let them know there are at least some members of the Cabinet still functioning and then pack everything we have up and get it ready to move. I want us cleared out of this hotel within the half hour.


To the Right Honourable Prime Minister Dr. Timotaio Ell of Pacitalia,

Due to the current circumstances, I must make this letter brief and as such it may lack in the regular diplomatic niceties – I do sincerely hope you understand. At this moment, I am the only Cabinet member – so far as I am aware – who retains the ability to communicate with the outside world and who is still loyal to the rightful Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, who remains besieged in Imperium.

I would like to thank you for your continuing support of the United Kingdom’s legitimate government, though at this hour the viability of said government is in doubt. I would therefore like to petition your government for the right to establish a government-in-exile should the situation in the United Kingdom make that proposal an absolute necessity. At this hour, all bets are off and I wholly intend to assist Prime Minister Tetley in restoring his government and so any direct assistance neither needed nor requested. I simply ask that you keep your front light on during these times of darkness for the peoples of the United Kingdom.

Sincerely,

Iain Bashir,
Minister of Colonial Affairs

Avinapolis, Royal Crown Colony of the Verdant Archipelago

Philadelphia, Republic of Bennington

Along with billions of other people in the UK, Benjamin Yorke remained glued to his television – a large, wall-sized flatscreen unit in his living room. He sat in his terrycloth robe, his feet resting on an imported Persian rug while his slender, nearly feminine fingers delicately held a long stemmed wine glass filled with a deep burgundy coloured vintage. At thirty-five, Yorke had already accumulated a massive amount of wealth largely through his investments and the influence of his father, David Yorke, the last president of the Commonwealth and one of the nation’s most widely respected political leaders. Unfortunately, David Yorke also had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease and now remained sequestered in a small private apartment, luxuriously decorated, but annexed to his son’s mansion.

As footage of the Royal Army and Royal Marine tanks stopping outside the walls continued to be broadcast, his mobile phone chirped loudly and prompted Yorke to place his wine down upon the marble table top and pick up his slender black phone. He recognised the number and flipped it open, Yes, father?

Are you watching this?

I most certainly am. It’s quite shocking if I may say so.

This is not what I intended, Benjamin.

I know, father.

Then fix it.

I already am, dad. Yorke glanced down, for next to the wine glass sat a small notepad with the names of several individuals written in black ink, their estimated monetary worth written next to them in red. I already, am.

The Citadel
Imperium, Republic of New Britain

Tetley frowned, the television footage showed the impending end of his premiership and there seemed little that anybody could do about it. Harrison had returned, his eyes looking elsewhere his mind concerned with things beyond the command centre while Robertson and Blaine continued to pace about the centre not knowing what to do. As soldiers continued to dash through the centre, grasping ammunition belts and magazines in their hands, he knew what he had to do. Howard, Geoffrey, come with me please, he called out to the two aides.

The three walked down the hall, stepping out of the way of any soldiers who ran past, before they found themselves in front of a door that had “Armoury” stenciled on the olive colour in a glossy black paint. He drew his hand into a fist and knocked twice on the metal door before Harrison opened it, his eyes weary. Yes, sir?

Tetley barged through and looked at the long wall, mostly empty save for a few rifles, submachine guns, rocket launchers and various boxes of what Tetley could only discern as letter/number combinations. He figured ammunition. Finding what he had been looking for, he pointed to a compact-looking weapon held fixed to the wall. I’ll take that one, Colonel Harrison.

Sir?

By God, man, do you think I expect you to all die fighting for me while I sit in some leather chair drinking tea? Absolutely not, I’m an Englishman and I shall die fighting with the lot of you.

Harrison blinked. That’s all very noble, sir, but I hardly think now is the time to learn how to become an infantryman. Do you even know what this is, Mr. Prime Minister?

It’s a rifle, is it not?

An L62 battle rifle, sir. It fires an eight point five millimeter slug into an enemy at a sufficient velocity that it will kill a man whether he wears body armour or not.

Very good then, hand it over, if you please.

Sir, it also has a kickback that would likely knock you over. Harrison smiled and unsnapped a small holster on his belt. The L62 is authorized to be fired only by regular army and marine troops because it requires training to be operated both effectively and safely. Why don’t you take this, sir? Harrison handed him a polished handgun, it’s silver sides reflecting almost perfectly the images it caught with the defects coming from an ornate and intricate design of the seal of the Royal Army. It was awarded me, sir, by your then Minister of Defence for services rendered to the United Kingdom during the Novikov War. I’ve worn it ever since, sir. You issued it to me, I think it’s only fair that since you would like to fight, you fight with that, sir.

Tetley nodded his head in polite deference and respect of the man who had all but saved his life. Thank you, Colonel Harrison. Now, I believe we have a battle to fight.

Harrison nodded and pointed to a subordinate to hand out sidearms to both Robertson and Blaine, and as they walked up the stairs towards the courtyard above Harrison did his best to give instructions on how to use the weapons.

Outside the walls, Margaret Heatherton stood outside her tank, its engine idling while she blew smoke from her lips with a cigarette lit between her fingers. Her platoon commander had already bit the dust, and so she now was the commander of the platoon and so she held her troops outside the walls of the Citadel. It had effectively become a stalemate as her superior officers wanted to avoid shedding any more blood, while the Citadel Guard refused to surrender. She heard a figure climbing out of her tank and saw her loader with a scrap of paper in his hand. Ma’am, this just came in from HQ.

She took the paper from his hands and read its contents. Crumpling it in her hands she threw it to the street below before climbing up onto her vehicle. Tell the platoon to prepare for combat, we’re bursting through.

Yes, ma’am.

Oh and Henry?

Yes, ma’am?

Any word on those RM tanks yet?

They’re apparently holding outside the East, North, and South Gates. They’re apparently letting us do the actual work.

How bloody nice of them. Heatherton climbed onto the top of the turret before dropping in and slamming the hatch shut.

Harrison, Tetley, Blaine, and Robertson crouched behind a concrete barrier designed originally to keep automobiles from crashing through the East Gate and driving into the courtyard, the thought of terrorists in mind. Now, Harrison smiled as he realised the concrete block would likely do little against sustained military firepower – though there were few other places left to defend from. Behind them, several large blasts ripped the night apart before long groans concluded with a large clatter. Harrison glanced back and saw the West Wall had been breached, the two flanking towers from which his squad had hoped to defend against an intrusion now lay destroyed on the courtyard below. The staccato sound of gunfire filled the night, pierced only by the sudden screams of young men in pain. The rumble of the Centurion tanks grew ever closer, the sound of its chain guns mowing down Harrison’s men grew only louder as they rolled uncontested across the courtyard.

Tetley turned to face the Centurions, now only blocks away, yellow tracer fire spewing from the turret in a pattern that cleared its path of men and obstacles. Behind him, at the East Gatehouse, he heard the clanks of the pulley system as the gate itself opened. Behind which, the men and the few soldiers gathered round saw tanks flying the standards of the Royal Marines. The first Royal Marine tank crossed into the courtyard, a second and third quickly taking up position to its sides while the Royal Army tanks spread out throughout the courtyard.

Heatherton opened the hatch and stuck her head out, manning her machine gun as her driver aimed the driving lights at the Prime Minister and his allies. Alistair Tetley, she spoke into a battery-powered loudspeaker, you are hereby ordered to surrender to face the charge of high treason against Crown and Country. She ducked instinctively as she heard a whiz far above her head. That man’s a horrible shot, she shouted down to her tank crew. As she looked up, she heard an oddly familiar whirring noise, one of electric motors. Glancing to her left and right she saw neither of her tanks moving. Finally, she looked out at the Prime Minister and in the darkness she caught the glint of a light reflecting off a reflective surface on the turret of one of the Royal Marine tanks before it disappeared. Fuck me… she muttered before she witnessed fire belch from the barrel of the Royal Marine tanks.

From behind the concrete barriers, the group of men watched as the Royal Army tanks went up in flames, not from the Royal Marine tanks behind them, but those who had moved in from the North and South Gates, flanking the Royal Army platoon that had moved into the Citadel. From behind the lead tank a small utility vehicle drove up, Tetley recognised it as a small utility transport and smiled in elation as he saw a familiar figure get out.

Mr. Prime Minister, Tetley turned around to the entrance to the underground command centre and found an old admiral hobbling around with the assistance of a cane. May I introduce to you, Atkinson continued, [/i]Major General Lord Nigel Clifton of the Royal Marines.

The young general stepped forward, a smile on his face illuminated by the burning hulks of the Centurion tanks. Mr. Prime Minister, Major General Lord Nigel Clifton, reporting as ordered, sir.

But I didn’t…

Atkinson stepped forward and placed his right hand on Tetley’s shoulder. I did, sir. I called him up in Novikov and told him to get back here as soon as possible after my conversation with Prince Andrew. I had the sinking suspicion something awful was in the works and I figured it would be useful to have an ally here just in case we needed him.

Indeed, Mr. Prime Minister, Clifton continued. I arrived just earlier this evening and took command of the armoured unit out of Imperium as I figured that you could use some help when I saw what was going on on the television. I’m just glad I came when I did, sir.

But how did you get the surprise on them? Tetley asked, looking over his shoulder at the flaming wrecks.

I had the platoon leader simply say we were joining to help in the arrest, and I made sure we took the North and South Gates. The closest armour barracks in the city were to the west of here, so they’d have to come through the West Wall and by taking the North and South Gates, well, it made it a hell of a lot easier to blow them bastards to pieces, if you’ll pardon my language, Mr. Prime Minister.

Tetley laughed, finding the usually ordinary action odd on such an eventful night. And when he realised it was the first time he had laughed all day he simply continued to laugh until the rest of the men gathered around had at least cracked a smile. General, he finally said, I don’t give one damn about your fucking swearing.

Thank you, sir, Clifton replied. Although, if I may suggest, sir, we should best be getting out of here. Colonel Harrison, if you’d like to gather your men, I have some empty vehicles beyond the walls that would be willing to take you with us.

Sir, Harrison responded, with a slight frown. With all due respect, General, I am the colonel of the Citadel Guard and my orders are to defend the Citadel.

I understand, Colonel. Clifton answered, stiffening himself and offering a salute.

For his part, Tetley saluted the man as well. But as Harrison turned to leave, Tetley cocked his head in thought. Colonel, a word if you please.

Certainly, Mr. Prime Minister. Harrison returned to the group of men, Tetley walking with him to the side.

You said your orders were to defend the Citadel, correct?

Yes, sir.

What is the Citadel to you?

Sir?

The Citadel, what is it?

Harrison arched his eyebrows in puzzlement. I suppose, sir, one apt description would be a former fortified military base in the heart of Imperium—

Stop. Colonel, the Citadel is more than a place. It is an idea. It is the idea of the democracy. Of Parliament. Of legitimate government. Since its construction, the Citadel has housed the royal governor of the colony, or the president of the Commonwealth, or the prime minister of the United Kingdom. The Citadel is a symbol of the leader of the people of the United Kingdom. It symbolizes me, or anyone else who occupies my office. Your orders have always been to defend the Citadel. Your orders have always been to defend the office of the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. And, Colonel Harrison, I dare say I need your protection. So please, Tetley withdrew the handgun from his pocket, [/i]I offer you this weapon once more to help defend the United Kingdom.[/i]

Harrison smiled and gingerly took the weapon from Tetley’s outstretched hand. Thank you, sir. If you give me a few minutes I’ll gather the last of my men and we’ll rendezvous outside the East Gatehouse.

Thank you, Colonel. Tetley turned to walk away before Harrison stopped him.

Oh, and sir?

Yes, Colonel?

Next time you have a sidearm in your pocket, Harrison flipped a little black button. You may want to make sure the safety is on.

Churchill, Republic of New Britain

Alistair Tetley squeezed his tired eyes shut, hoping the pain would force them open. Sitting atop a berm that separated a navigable channel from a desolate road leading away from one of the industrial city’s numerous oil refineries., he watched the morning sun peek from between the distant skyscrapers of the neighbouring city of North Shores, New Britain’s premier resort city. The whole of the situation seemed surreal to Tetley, as he rubbed his stubble covered face – as he had not yet had the time or facilities to shave his face.

Only 24 hours before he had been known as Prime Minister Tetley, whereas he found himself now described as an outlaw, a fugitive, a traitor who committed high treason. Down the road towards the coast his party slept at a small Royal Navy station, which had stayed loyal to Atkinson, and so as Robertson, Blaine, and the rest of his party slept he had snuck out to sit on this berm and simply let the world move around him. During his years in Parliament, Tetley had largely known the outcomes of every gambit and every move he made – but for once, he could not see the future and so he sighed to himself and shut his eyes once more, blocking out the sun.

Royal Palace at Newcastle

High above the flood plains and grasslands upon which Imperium had been built, Newcastle sat as an interface between man and mountain, its turrets and defences protruding outwards while labyrinths and lairs crept deeper into the rock. At the very top of the intricately planned castle, King Andrew I paced along a small parapet directly accessible from the master bedroom. His servants had brought him fresh tea that he held in both hands, the steam being carried away by the stiff, mountain winds.

Below him in Imperium automobiles pushed themselves along grey motorways as if they had become giant centipedes with legs of yellow and red. Standing above the highways on strong, but slender pylons were even narrower paths where trains raced at breakneck speeds, powered by electric third rails. Looking further out, more towards the horizon, the light rails were supplanted with various and numerous tracks upon the ground, catenary wires providing the electric lifeblood from above while they sped from urban centre to urban centre at ultra-fast speeds. And further out, beyond the high-rises and skyscrapers, airlines took to the skies with their rotor-propelled brethren to connect islands by air and ferries departed their docks connecting the islands of the nation by sea. In a country of over four billion people, all bustling from here to there, Andrew felt stonewalled and stuck in place – the past drug its feet and eluded his grasp and just prolonged his stagnation.

Andrew lifted the mug to his lips and felt the steam condense on his cool lips before tilting the mug up, sending the hot liquid over his chapped lips and over his taste buds and down his dry throat. Behind him came a squeak, and on the stones beneath him Andrew could feel the heavy thuds of boots; and so he turned around, leaning his back against the parapet wall and drawing the warm cup close to his chest. Still no word, he called out to the familiar face.

No, sire. From what we can gather they entered the M100 tunnel in the vehicle but at some point underground they exited and the two parties went in separate directions – the driver was uninformed as to the former Prime Minister’s ultimate destination.

Andrew nodded with a slight frown creeping onto his face, he felt like lashing out as his personal aide though he knew it would come of no use. The failure lay to the east in the Citadel, which he saw with a turn of his head still burning – some buildings having been set a light by troops during the night. They’ll be gone soon and the whole situation will become a great deal messier.

Indeed it shall, Your Majesty.

Shaking his head, Andrew turned around to face the city he now ruled once more. Resting his elbows on the stone he lowered his mouth to his cup and took another drink, which he let sit in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. I didn’t think it would come to this, Andrew muttered to himself, though he was overheard by his aide.

That Tetley would refuse to surrender?

No, that I expected, Doug. Tetley, while he may be a fool and blind to the future, he is an honest fool, and honestly blind to the future. He would fight this to the very end, even though as we speak the people continue to live out their lives, accepting that which doesn’t truly concern them. Parliament lives on with Collins at its head – and that, that pacifies them. It appeases their need for stability and continuity with their past. They look around them and in the evening news are stories from nations where a single man or woman rules with complete authority – and as a democracy we willingly allied ourselves with these powers. We willingly accepted the premise of absolute rule; and in time the people have acclimated to the idea, to the thought. Some fought the concept, Collins among them I might, Andrew added with a smirk. But they have come to accept this world and its political realities. Absolute governments run this world, Doug. Democracies merely stumble about, pandering to their own petty bases while those states ruled by mighty kings forge the paths through unchartered territory. I mean look at this, Andrew removed one hand from his cup, using his other to lift it to his mouth while his free hand dug out a paper from his pocket. This letter comes from Pacitalia and do you know what it says? It says they will remain neutral. Andrew chuckled allowed, crumpling the words in his hands. That Ell character, he’s supposedly a friend of Tetley and he remains unmoved. At most, Doug, at most he will offer asylum. And meanwhile, in the past twenty-four hours nobody else has voiced a single concern. In another twenty-four we shall have Tetley before a firing squad, Collins in place at the Citadel, and all will be complete. This sham of a democracy will begin its final evolution to a rightful monarchy, a monarchy that had long been promised since the strong rule of John Barent, treasonously destroyed by Yorke and Tetley. We just need twenty-four hours, Doug. Andrew smiled as the sun finally rose over the ridge to the east of Imperium, its golden rays now shining directly on Newcastle and on the new king.

HMS Churchill, New Britain

The Churchill naval station offered little in the way of berth for larger warships, the better harbours and facilities long ago having been allotted to the commercial fleets of oil tankers that supplied the New Britain and the eastern islands. However, during the first civil war against the Russian population, the separatist naval units had managed to blockade the port and until the Royal Navy sailed from Breningrad and Portsmouth, the Russian fleet had starved the civilian population of oil and other petroleum-based products – driving up prices to levels unbearable to all but the wealthiest on the island. Since that day, the Royal Navy had operated a small force out of Churchill to ensure the same fate never repeated itself, to ensure oil continued to flow into Churchill unimpeded.

Among the few amenities were hot showers, and although standard on all Royal Navy vessels and Royal Navy land stations, to Atkinson and Tetley’s staff nothing had felt better in their lives than the seemingly over-pressured showers that dumped clean, hot water all over their sweat and dirt covered bodies. Their clothes had been discarded, the suits that cost hundreds of Credits had been ruined by urban warfare and they had been left with nothing to wear until Atkinson had dug around the base’s supply shop.

Although word had spread of Atkinson’s complicity in the escape of Tetley, he had been fortunate enough to have made many friends in his capacity not only as First Sea Lord, but also as the Azazian Nelson – the most famed admiral in the nation’s history. And although he had become limited to walking with a cane and his once slender and muscular frame had succumbed to an aging metabolism, his presence in a room of Royal Navy officers superseded any orders from Newcastle. And when he had asked the base commander about the possibility of acquiring some uniforms, he had received a most enthusiastic “yes, sir.”

Finally showered and shaven, Tetley cautiously opened the door to the commander’s office from which he had heard voices all the way down the hall. Inside he found Atkinson and the commander, with his two aides standing quietly in the corner. Atkinson hobbled forward, Good morning, Lieutenant Commander Tetley, he said with a large smile upon his face. My two new staff officers, Commander Robertson and Captain Blaine, have already been introduced to me and so it’s a distinct pleasure to meet you as well, sir.

Tetley cracked a smile, I still don’t see why I’m a lowly lieutenant commander.

The sake of appearances, Mr. Prime Minister, the base commander added. If there are sailors loyal to King Andrew, then by all means one of the most inconspicuous ways of being seen without being seen will be to travel as one of Admiral Atkinson’s aides. Misters Robertson and Blaine will likely be unknown to all but the most politically astute sailors and Lord Clifton might be somewhat recognizable from his service in Novikov, although that might not be so much the case as he does serve with the Royal Marines. And Colonel Harrison will also not likely be recognised. The commander pushed a small picture that had been on his desk over to Tetley.

And this, Mr. Prime Minister, will be your means of transit. On the glossy paper, Tetley saw a monhulled ship slicing through calm, blue ocean waters. With numerous aerials and radar systems rising from a boxy superstructure, the ship looked old in comparison to the Royal Navy’s newer ships. The Glendale, Mr. Prime Minister. She served as an escort frigate during the War, even sank two Novie subs before taking a torpedo that cut off her bow. We brought her back to Philadelphia, rebuilt her, and she was assigned here.

If I may, Tetley asked, why did we rebuild such an old ship?

Sir, the commander replied, his voice noticeably quieter and more somber, we lost a good number of ships. Most of the capital ships, the battleships, battlecruisers and other “big ships” survived. But the Novies took out a whole lot of our small frigates and destroyers, and we simply need all the ships we can lay our hands upon. The Glendale, she’s a tough little ship, sir. And besides, she’s not taking you all the way.

No?

No, sir. This, the commander said, overlaying another photo atop the frigate, this is…

HMS Renown, Operating in the Pacific Ocean

Calvin Locke had a certain degree of fondness for the Renown. He had served upon the Breningrad before it was lost at the Battle of Booni Island, and upon promotion to captain he had received the then-new battlecruiser Renown. She had served well in the War, successfully engaging several Novikovian patrol and escort ships, taking two torpedo hits and been covered in nerve gas all without suffering serious damage or serious loss of crew. After the War, he had been promoted to the rank of commodore and given command of a battlecruiser squadron of his choice. He chose the Renown.

The news of the siege at the Citadel, and the subsequent “loss” of Tetley, whose whereabouts had become lost to the public, had reached the ship and left its crew in a state of confusion, not to mention the squadron’s commander. Locke had met both Tetley and Andrew in his past; Tetley when at a reception for the recipients of the King’s Cross, the highest award for military personnel during a time of war, in the aftermath of the Battle of Booni Island and Andrew more recently at a reception of officers in Philadelphia, the homeport of his squadron. Andrew had pulled Locke aside and all but promised him a command in return for his loyalty to the Crown when “the time came.” He had put out of mind the statement until he read the reports out of Imperium.

The two men were nothing but different. Tetley, a short and slender man who was physically unimposing with his glasses and quiet voice, had registered as affable to Locke, though oddly introspective for a politician. Andrew, on the other hand, had been boisterous and cheerful with charisma oozing from his tall, well-built frame that physically dominated those around him. Both had seemed incredibly intelligent to Locke, but in their two speeches Tetley had seemed the subtler of the two while Andrew simply refused to beat around the bush. Truth be told, Locke liked both men as each in their differences had their strengths and weaknesses – and so when the news had broke he had been torn between two loyalties. The first to the Crown, the second he realised was not to a fugitive, but to a Country that represented an ideal.

Avinapolis, Royal Crown Colony of the Verdant Archipelago

Bashir’s hands gripped the armrests of his seat as his body was thrown hard into the back of his seat while the government aircraft’s engines roared and pushed the small jet aircraft into the skies of the Indian Ocean. During the night he had received word from Tetley to rendezvous in Port Elizabeth, hopefully with his chief of staff and a few other key personnel who would form the nucleus of an organised resistance to Newcastle. Time, of course, had been of the essence with a friend in Port Blair in the Republic of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands reporting a small surface group had departed with the intent of capturing Bashir to bring him back to Imperium. The flight would take several hours, and so as the acceleration eased Bashir, always a fan of air travel, slowly drifted off to sleep.

HMS Glendale, Somewhere in the Pacific Ocean

Tetley stood on the bridge; his normally gelled hair now a mess underneath his officer’s cap while his silken suits had been replaced by god-awful ugly navy whites. He had never been one for military service, his wealth ensuring that he’d never have to volunteer and that he’d likely never be drafted. The ocean, however, wasn’t unpleasant to him as he had been the owner of a racing yacht and had helmed it to a few modest victories in the Sea of Azazia – though he hadn’t sailed for several years due to the demands of his office. But now he stood on the bridge, not of a fiberglass racing hull but of a titanium warship hull, though the sting of the sea-spray still felt just as good. Only it tasted more bitter now than before.

Mr. Prime Minister, came a voice from behind. Tetley turned and found “Commander” Robertson holding a mug of tea. For you, sir. Robertson said, handing over the tea.

Thank you, Howard.

For some time, the two men stood in silence, their poses similar with both men standing, their elbows on the railing their hands draped over the side while they looked out over the distant horizon. Occasionally, there was a small burst of noise as unmanned drones launched aft of them, quickly flying up into the sky out of sight of the two men. But otherwise they remained undisturbed.

Do you actually intend to fight, sir?

Tetley turned to face Robertson, leaning his hip on the railing and stepping backward a step so that the corner railing supported his back. Pushing his glasses up his nose with his middle finger, he smiled – though any man could see it was the smile of man tired and near wore down. Of course, Howard, of course.

But, sir, Andrew controls most of the military – with the exception of the Royal Navy, and even there he has control of several large and important ships.

Indeed he does, Tetley muttered, his eyes moving beyond Howard and towards the horizon. Indeed he does… but, what sort of men would we be, Howard, if we simply gave up because the fight looked to difficult?

Sir?

With a slight snap of his head, Tetley came back to the present and faced Robertson once more. Democracy, Howard, is a rare thing in this world. Some of our most powerful allies fall under the categories of dictatorship, monarchies, and some perhaps as oligarchies. I would hardly say NATO is a democratic organisation – though we belong to it. Democracy is very rare, and those that do exist continually exist in the shadow of the warmongering dictatorships. But we, as descendants of Great Britain, have inherited the tradition of democracy. The Glorious Revolution, a sovereign constitutionally limited by Parliament, our granting of universal suffrage in the 1940s – all of these are evidence of a people and a culture that believes in democracy and it is a tradition that I believe, Tetley paused, realizing that he had slowly been increasing the volume of his voice and the tempo of his words, becoming ever more emotional. It is a tradition, he began once more, slower, quieter, and more in control, that I believe we are obligated to defend.

But to what end, sir? The Home Islands seem content with this new rule, with Collins in charge. The world remains quiet, except for that one message from Dr. Ell. The people seem willing to accept this seachange, sir, and so who are we to force them to do otherwise.

Tetley shook his head. They accept it because people are stupid, Howard. He watched in invisible amazement as Robertson’s eyes blinked in disbelief. I’ve heard you say as much before, Howard, and I wholly agree with you. I can’t say so as Prime Minister residing within the Citadel – but here we are on the bridge of some old boat in the Pacific Ocean as fugitives. The people are stupid and don’t know what’s in their best interest; which is why we have government.

I agree, sir. Robertson finally replied. You know I agree

And so the people don’t know that this new government is not in their best interest; and so we must fight to correct their mistakes before they come to regret them.

But, sir, my point is that if we actually start killing people and if we actually start a full-blown civil war… Robertson trailed off, images of his dead sister and her office destroyed by a cruise missile flashed before him. Tetley knew as much and stayed silent with his aide. Sir, if we start a war that ends up killing thousands, perhaps millions of people – are we any better than a tyrant who ascends rather bloodlessly?

I don’t know, Howard. Tetley’s hand stroked his goatee while he exhaled loudly through his nose. I don’t know. I think in the end, democracy can only be guaranteed with an iron will and a bloody fist, Howard. I used to be just like you, abhorring violence and preferring peace to war, talking to fighting. But I’m finding the real world, Howard, this world… this world operates differently. During the War, I ordered men and women to sail into harm’s way. I ordered soldiers to their death. And then last night… Tetley trailed off, the sight of the young man lunging at him replaying before his eyes. The sight of the men on their knees, their lust for his blood in their eyes. The sound of his voice, ordering Harrison to kill them. The sight of their bodies laying wrecked on the ground, blood oozing from their unrecognizable faces.

The point, Howard, is that… Tetley trailed off once more, unable to shake the image of the bodies from his mind. I’m not even certain there is a point, Howard. People can say they love democracy and they love freedom and they love peace – but if you love something, you must be ready to fight for it. And fighting is neither pretty nor clean. If your enemy is ready to throw out the rules… Tetley shook his head, closing his eyes and turning out to the sea as tears began to roll down his cheeks. He paused for a minute and then wiped them from his face before turning back to Robertson. I better be ready to throw them out as well.

Somewhere Over the Pacific Ocean

Bashir awoke to a shove, his eyes opening to find the co-pilot staring down at him. I’m sorry, sir, but you weren’t waking up. Bashir simply flashed the man a smile.

I’m a heavy sleeper, what can I do for you? He watched the man walk towards the cockpit and wave for him to follow. Bashir unbuckled his seatbelt and stood slowly, taking a moment to stretch his arms and legs. How far out are we?

That’s just it, sir, the co-pilot said as the two entered the cockpit. We’re approaching Jipangunesia, but something’s come up. The man pointed at the small radar screen, which showed two distinct blips and underneath Bashir could make out three little letters: RAF.

HMS Renown

Locke walked past the cabins where the Prime Minister and his aides lay sound asleep. Not long ago they had rendezvoused with the Glendale and transferred the lot of the men by chopper before the Glendale turned around to “resume her patrol.” He had shown his guests to their cabins at the aft of the ship, although Admiral Atkinson had decided to stay awake and now followed behind Locke as they made their way to Combat.

Good to see you, Admiral

And you as well, Commodore. Atkinson had been the commander of the battle group at the Booni Islands, and had stayed by Locke’s side after he had been pulled out of the water unconscious, nobody quite aware of how he had made it from his stricken cruiser’s combat to a raft – most of the ship’s company had either been outright killed then, or many others sometime later from radiation sickness when the reactor shielding failed. The two had remained close on a professional level since that day; although Locke had only been the executive officer, his captain had died early in the battle and so both men had come to appreciate losing large numbers of men under their command. And superficially, both walked with a cane – Atkinson from old age, Locke from wounds he suffered in the battle.

But now in the present, they made their way to the heavily protected centre of the ship. As the hatch opened, the crew saluted the First Sea Lord, who promptly waved his hand dismissing their salutes and their compulsion for smart discipline. Atkinson was well aware that he had broken that discipline in siding against the Crown and he knew he had no right to be saluted. Locke led the First Sea Lord to a large electronic display, where on his touch he zoomed in to a location several hundred kilometers distant from the Renown. He moved his fingers around some more and a separate window popped up with a detailed schematic of a ship.

This, sir, is why I wanted to see you right away. I’ve had our recon UAVs running continuous surveillance of the surroundings and an hour ago they spotted this, it’s the Courageous, sir, and I’ve no word – official or otherwise – to indicate whether or not she’s a friendly. Do you know anything about her?

Indeed I do, Commodore, Atkinson said nodding his head. She was on a list of ships to whom Newcastle had assigned new commanders either shortly prior to or shortly after Andrew’s ascension. He looked up and met Locke’s eyes. And I doubt that he’d appoint a commander favourable to the Prime Minister.

Locke nodded, appreciative of the information. Turning to his waiting executive officer he gave another nod. Sound general quarters, if you please, XO. Locke turned to face his friend and superior officer. I hate to wake your, friend, Admiral, but I think getting to Port Elizabeth will be a slight bit harder than both he and I imagined.

"Bloody buggering Buddha on a bicycle!"

The Commander in Chief of the EOE military smashed a fist on his desk and raised his eyes to the ceiling. Fleet Marshall King was surprised by the Warlord's outburst, but concealed it well. She arched an eyebrow and asked, "What's the problem, sir? We aren't planning to get involved."

The Warlord silently blasphemed against several deities for a moment before turning back to face the Marshall. "Hell, no, we aren't going to stick our collective dicks into a meatgrinder. I was just wondering why, every time we get an ally, their government promptly devolves into civil war. What did I do, desecrate a shrine?"

Marika King shook her head and hid a smile. 'Don't tell me you're starting to get religion in your old age. Sir."

Fire flashed briefly in the Warlord's eyes as he glared at her. "Remind me again why I haven't had you shot, Marshall."

"Because there's no one else who can do the job other than you, and you're under orders from His Omniferocity to delegate your military duties."

The Warlord waved a hand dismissively and sat back in his chair. "That was a rhetorical question, Marshall. What's your assessment?"

After checking her hand-held to organize her thoughts, the Marshall replied, "It's going to be a ratfuck, sir. If the former Prime Minister gets to any of several of the more "democratic" strongholds, the political situation will quickly grow untenable. A lot of the Royal navy seems to have remained loyal to Tetley- or at least to the First Sea Lord, who's remained loyal to Tetley. If Tetley gets an an ocean between him and the Royalists ..."

Sighing, the warlord finished the sentence for her. "Then a run-of-the-mill power grab turns into a long, drawn-out colonial war. Across the Pacific and Oceana, which areas coincidentally are within our sphere of influence. How truly good. All I need now is hemmorhoids."

"You think we'll get drawn into this quagmire regardless of our actions, sir?"

"I hope not, but the type of conflict we're talking about could disrupt trade across the entire Pacific. If that happens ..."

The Marshall sighed in turn and finished the sentence. "Then we'll end up getting involved. Remind me again why I took this job, sir?"

"Because it was either accept the job or be forcibly retired. Regretting the decision, Marshall?"

"Just about every time another one of these cockamaimie international crises pops up on my watch, sir. By my calculations, that's been every single month since I put on these stars. Sir."

"Too bad. If I have to deal with this slok, I at least want someone else to share the misery."

"Speaking of misery, sir."

The Warlord sighed heavily. "Right. Azazia. Here's what we'll do, get everybody in WestPac on alert, and we'll slowly ramp up to TRINITY TWO everywhere else. In the meantime, I'll start putting our lace-panty brigade to work. Let's see if we can help broker some sort of settlement."

"Do you really think that'll do any good, sir?"

"Never has yet, Marshall. The only time we've ever been able to avoid trouble in situations like this is through a massive show of overwhelming force. Unfortunately, that won't work in this case." He waved a dismissal to the Marshall and began tapping commands into his desk console. "Get going on the military side, Marshall. I'll see if there's any way diplomacy can stave off the inevitable disaster ... for once."


To the government and people of Azazia, greetings.

His Omniferocity's government extends our heartfelt condolences on the recent tragedy.

It is the policy of His Omniferocity to avoid meddling in the internal affairs of other nations, but the Dominion cannot help but view with alarm the recent apparent collapse of order following your national tragedy. The current state of disruption in Azazia has the potential to destabilize the entire Pacific Rim. Since Evil Overlord Enterprises has extensive interests in this area, His Omniferocity makes the following offer in the interests of peace.

The Dominion is willing to assist Azazia in attempting to find a viable diplomatic solution to the current crisis. If all parties are willing, a secure neutral facility can be established at the EOE WestPac Headquarters in New Caledonia. All interested parties can send representatives to meet with the EOE Foreign Office and discuss non-violent means of defusing tensions and returning Azazia to its former state of peace and prosperity.

His Omniferocity's government has no bias toward either side of this Azazian internal problem. It is in the Dominion's best interests to try to prevent unnecessary bloodshed and the resulting international disruption which would naturally ensue.

His Omniferocity's government awaits your reply.

Eternal Arch-Villain Psychopompos
Minister for Pre-Subjugation External Affairs

Somewhere Over the Pacific

How long until intercept? Bashir asked, his hands now gripping the backs of the cockpit’s chairs.

Not long, sir. Current course and speed, a few minutes.

Radio them and inform them of who we are, who I am. Understood?

Yes, sir.

I’ll be back in the cabin. Bashir turned about and released his hands from the seats, taking the slow walk back to his seat as an opportunity to flex the fingers that had been tightly wrapped around the cloth upholstery. For such a nice aircraft, Bashir would have thought nicer seats would have come standard, something with leather. And cupholders.

Taking his seat, Bashir rubbed his nose, throwing nervous glances out the window. Although he knew the aircraft were ahead of him, and several dozen kilometers distant he felt his heart begin to pound as his body released adrenaline. Hearing the creak of the cabin door, he watched the co-pilot emerge, fear plastered all over his face. Sir, could you come to the cockpit for a moment.

Bashir nodded and rose once more. Even if his aircraft were to go down, he was a minister of Cabinet and he felt obligated to show some degree of leadership although nobody would ever be able to record it.

HMS Narwhal
Somewhere Else in the Pacific

Ramsey Weddleby believed it his duty to follow all the orders he received – regardless the cost, even if that meant forgoing his own moral imperatives. At forty-six years of age, he was an old man in the submarine fleet; but he also had combat experience, which could neither be bought nor trained. During the Novikovian War he had captained the HMS Valor, a nuclear-powered attack sub that escorted the diversionary landing force and thus fired some of the first shots of the war in Novikovian waters. Thankfully, they had been lucky shots and he had taken out a squadron of patrol ships. But not before the patrol ships took out the other two subs tasked to the landing force. As he rested his face against the ergonomic periscope lens he sighed to himself, too many good men had died on that day.

Weapons officer, Weddleby called out, his eyes locked on his target, New target bearing: Course One-One-Seven. Recompute firing solution.

Aye, captain, came a voice from behind Weddleby.

An hour ago, while at periscope depth to run his diesel sub’s diesel engines, his boat had received orders from Breningrad to be read only by himself and his XO. According to news reports, the Deputy Minister of the Interior had stowed away on a coal freighter making way to Pacitalia with the intention of forming the official government-in-exile for Alistair Tetley, whose whereabouts still remained a mystery. The Office of Royal Navy Intelligence had obtained the location and destination of the freighter in question, and being on long-range patrol in the area, Weddleby had been tasked with a mission he felt morally reprehensible.

Running towards the southwest, the freighter’s destination was Pegrolisia, Pacitalia’s main port for imported energy goods that in this case was good old coal from the mines of Abercordensa. Weddleby, though, had never expected such a mission for his submarine as this was its first deployment to foreign waters – let alone any significant distance away from the Azazian Sea. Secondly, the Pacitalians probably knew exactly where he was with their subsurface radars and it was common bloody sense that no nation anywhere would like ships sunk right outside their territorial waters.

Captain, his XO said, rather quietly with full knowledge of the actual target. Solution has been recomputed. Sir, the XO asked in a whisper, are you sure you want to do this?

Weddleby nodded rather solemnly as he took his face away from the periscope. We have our orders, and we shall carry them out. Weddleby stepped away from his XO and towards the centre of the compartment, where he found a significant number of green, nervous eyes looking in his direction. His sonar officer had questioned the orders as well, knowing full well the target, but it had proven easy to convince him to stay silent, given his already vocal support for King Andrew - Weddleby didn’t care either way. Flood tubes then open outer doors.

In near silence, the sub’s torpedo tubes opened, revealing their deadly payload to the silent ocean, a partner to crimes on both side of the conflict. Then, in a sudden torrent of bubbles the torpedoes spat out of the patrol sub, which quickly closed the doors before going completely silent. It took only a matter of seconds.

The Artega weighed over one hundred thousands metric tons, and had departed Abercordensa a week ago with her whole load of coal destined for Pacitalia, the low labour cost making the mining of coal and other minerals profitable in the UK’s far flung colonies. Her captain, Andrew Corson was the lead captain for Harrington-McKay, one of the UK’s larger shipping companies. He never saw the torpedoes, a seaman instead pointed to something odd off the starboard quarter from out on the open deck bridge – but before he could complete his sentence the bridge crew were flung from their feet as the centre of the massive freighter lifted just slightly upwards as a bubble of gas formed underneath the keel. And then the weight of the massive freighter snapped the keel.

While the quickly sinking freighter managed a distress call, Weddleby turned his boat around and maintained a slow but steady speed away from the Pacitalian territorial limits. May God have mercy on their souls, he muttered audibly enough to turn a few heads from among his crew.

HMS Renown
Yet Somewhere Else in the Pacific

Locke thrust his index finger down on the display, looking upwards at Alistair Tetley. This, sir, is what we’re facing. One cruiser, one destroyer, and two frigates against my battlecruiser and two frigates. Ordinarily I’d also have a destroyer detached, but she had to return to port with engine troubles and I decided I could continue the patrol without a dedicated air defence ship. Locke smiled as he noticed Tetley’s face drop. Not to worry though, sir. We have the advantage of surprise. With the tap of a finger, Locke expanded the view for Tetley. This sir, is our location, and to the east is this commercial shipping lane for traffic headed between the Home Islands and Port Elizabeth. I’m detaching my frigates to this lane, from which they’ll launch a UAV strike mission upon the Courageous and her escorts. Hopefully they’ll find the ships and recognise them as being part of a trade route patrol and nothing more because we will be moving away to the west. If all goes according to plan, the Renown will slip in behind this cruiser group and we’ll take them out with our guns as they should have hopefully expended a significant portion of their munitions on my frigates.

Tetley nodded and ran a hand through his unkempt hair, having been rushed to Combat when the call to battlestations awoke him and his party. From what he could tell, Locke and the silent Atkinson had been working on a plan to take out the main threat standing behind him and Port Elizabeth. And although he knew little of military strategy and tactics, he knew one parallel between war and politics. Commodore, what should happen if the Courageous doesn’t fall for your little trap?

Locke smiled with an arrogance bred in his many battles at sea. We’ll blow them to hell anyway, sir.

For nearly two hours the forces under Locke’s command made their own separate ways to their objectives at their fastest speed – knowing that time was well of the essence. To the south, onboard the HMS Courageous Jim Brower reclined on his rack with his head buried in a dated sports magazine previewing the football match from last week. He smiled as the “experts” blew every one of their predictions in a match that had seen the underdog destroy the favourite. With a quiet knock on the door, he put his magazine down, stood up, and threw on his shirt. Come in, he called as he hurriedly buttoned.

Sir, his XO said in a quiet voice. Eddie thinks he has something on radar at long-range.

Like what?

Well, he’s not sure, sir. He says it’s small so it could be something like a bird or a stealth aircraft – but it’s too distant to be sure.

Where’s it headed?

That’s just it, sir. It’s circling like a vulture over a prey, Eddie’s own words. I don’t know why he won’t use nautical analogies, it really—

Bring the ships to alert stations. We’re too far from land for birds to be circling a school of fish and if it’s circling it sure as hell isn’t a stealth fighter.

A drone, sir?

That’s what I’m thinking, XO. Just bring us to alert stations and then have the escorts verify the target while we run a quick diagnostic – I don’t want to be fighting no ghost contacts.

Aye, captain. Brower watched as the man left his cabin before finishing dressing himself to appear in Combat.

Aboard the Renown there was little left to do other than wait for word of his frigates engaging the enemy before sprinting south and across the enemy’s sterns. Yet at that thought Locke could not hide a frown, for never in his life had he ever even contemplated the possibility that fellow sailors of the Royal Navy would become the enemy – men with whom he could have served under or commanded would very soon be trying to kill him and he them.

Sir, his communications officer called out, the Gervais is reporting the UAV strike package is away.

Thank you, Lieutenant. With a small nod, Locke invited Atkinson and Tetley to join him once more around the display table that now also had small icons moving away from his blue frigates and towards the never-before-seen red Royal Navy cruiser squadron. Shortly, these UAVs are going to launch anti-ship missiles from what I’m hoping will be a relatively close range. The Courageous should be able to register them, once they hit a medium range, as Royal Navy UAVs and that might just perhaps be enough to allow them to lower their defences just enough for even one missile to hit one of the ships – enough to convince them a serious attack is underway from the east.

Brower sat in the well cushioned captain’s chair, the safety belt clicked in place across his lap. Status on those contacts?

Still not registering an IFF, sir, and we’re still unable to register the exact models, they’re still too far, sir.

Brower bit his lip, never before having entertained a puzzle such as this before.

Captain, I’m now able to identify the targets, they’re Mark Seven Talon drones, sir. Royal Navy. There was a momentary pause while the executive officer received a report from the ship’s communication officer. We’re also receiving a garbled radio transmission being relayed by the drones, which are apparently from a frigate patrol force having problems with their satellite communications.

The Courageous’ Combat erupted into a raucous cheer, the sailors now feeling at ease that the unknown and potentially hostile targets had registered as friendlies. Brower scrunched his face, there had been rumours that the new satcom equipment was working as well as it had been billed, but he found it rather odd that the frigates weren’t broadcasting via radio. XO, did the frigates identify themselves?

The executive officer arched his eyebrows as he turned to face his captain, No, sir, would you like me to challenge them?

Yes, if you please.

Absolutely, sir. Communications officer, prepare a—

At that moment the radar officer swung about on his swivel chair, Shit, sir! They’ve launched missiles!

Brower swung around to face the young officer. What kind of missiles, Damnit?!

Gladius models, sir! I’ve got six of them inbound, they appear to be targeting the Grant, sir.

Brower understood how easily his crew had been fooled. And himself to some degree. The Gladius was a short-range, but high-speed anti-ship missile designed to be launched from the Talon UAVs in a strike package. The commander of the frigates also had the right idea, taking out his dedicated AAW destroyer would make it more difficult for the squadron to defend against a missile barrage. Do we have the enemy on our radar?

No, sir. Best guess is that they are maybe fifty kilometers beyond our sensor envelope given the operational range of the Talon, sir.

Helm, retrace their flight path and get us there yesterday.

Aye, sir.

Behind Brower’s ship in the safety of the still un-detected Renown, Atkinson frowned quite visibly. Tetley noticed and took a step closer to the old man, leaning in to whisper in his ear. What’s wrong?

Nothing, Mr. Prime Minister. It’s just that… I would have hoped a Royal Navy captain would not have fallen for such an obvious ploy. He looked up at Tetley, who had remained largely quiet in order to let military officers do their jobs, and found the short, dark-haired man with an inquisitive look upon his face. He’s taking the enemy’s word for their own force strength because they’re all officers in the Royal Navy and in doing so is completely abandoning everything we’ve tried to instruct them upon at the Academy.

Tetley smiled as he remembered a conversation only perhaps a day or so ago, though those days had begun to feel more like years and decades. You said that Andrew had begun to appoint officers he considered loyal into positions of relative power, correct?

So far as I can tell, yes, sir. Atkinson replied, his face now betraying his confusion.

Perhaps there was a reason this man hadn’t been promoted yet.

High above, and far to the west of the Courageous as she steamed to the east, oblivious of the battlecruiser moving in behind her, a lone UAV flew amongst the clouds, climbing, banking, and diving to avoid the clouds that dotted the blue sky. In the nose of the small craft a tiny high-resolution camera recorded live video of the cruiser at a high level of magnification – all transmitted in real time back to the Renown.

Captain, I have the Courageous within my sights, called Locke’s gunnery officer. Although the cruiser was beyond visual range, the over-the-horizon video link via the UAV meant that in the looser definition of the phrase, the gun crews for the battlecruiser could still effectively use the eight 381mm ETC guns – though Locke knew despite the gunnery officer’s frequent boasts it would take several rounds before the exact range was worked out. Permission to fire, Captain? The gunnery officer asked.

Locke glanced over at Atkinson, who after a simple nod from Tetley stated simply, Commence fire, captain.

Turning to face his command crew, Locke took a breath and steadied himself by pushing out of mind the fact the men and women he would begin to fire upon were fellow sailors of the Royal Navy. Open fire.

The main guns of the Renown belched fire and flame, hurling their rounds of sure death towards the Courageous with a foreboding whistle, that was heard first by a deckhand on the aft flight deck of the cruiser. She turned her head away from the UAV she was tending and watched as massive plumes of water shot up from the surface a few hundred meters aft of her ship. She looked back at the rest of the aviation crew, what in the bloody hell was that? She shouted. Yet instead of an answer, she was met by blank stares while more plumes erupted following chilling whistles – each plume coming closer and closer until the whistle went over her head and the shells landed just forward of the bow.

In the Courageous’ Combat Brower snapped his head around when he heard the first report of incoming fire. From where, he shouted unaware of the elevated volume of his voice.

Aft of us, sir!

Damnit… he muttered. Turn the ship about and lay in a new course: one-two-zero and give me all the speed you can. Unlike the battlecruiser, the Courageous was armed with comparatively light guns that were far outclassed by the “cruiser-killer” although to compensate she had a significant battery of anti-ship missiles, including four anti-capital ship cruise missiles. But first, Brower knew he had to identify his enemy and then locate it. Then without warning he felt metal slam against his face, a sharp pain emanating from his nose. Blinking his eyes and focusing, he found himself face down on the deck, the pain coming from a broken and profusely bleeding nose. Outside of Combat, one of the Renown’s shells had torn apart Brower’s integrated mast and in so doing had severely limited his sensor capabilities – a fact that took several minutes to realise as many of his officers and ratings had been thrown to the deck.

Onboard the Renown Tetley watched with Atkinson as Locke commanded his ship and as on the table display the video showed the integrated mast of the Courageous quickly turning into scrap metal. A smile crept on his face as another shell slammed into the forward gun turret and another into what Tetley didn’t realise was the helicopter/UAV hangar – although the smile blossomed as the unsecured armaments and fuel in the hangar ignited into a massive fireball. In the following minutes it became readily apparent to Tetley how inept the captain of the Courageous had truly been and how lucky Locke had been. The coup de grace arrived when a small streak darted from the left hand side towards the battered cruiser before the whole ship found itself engulfed in flame. As the smoke cleared the once mighty cruise had been snapped in two like a twig between two three fingers and small little dots slowly moved away from the rapidly sinking remnants of His Majesty’s Ship Courageous.

Finally, Locke turned around to face Tetley now that the opponent had all but been destroyed, having launched two more anti-capital ship cruise missiles at the Courageous’ escorts. Sir, shall we move in for the survivors?

No, Tetley responded after a short pause. They chose their lot and they lost. Besides, Commodore, time is of the essence and we need to reach Port Elizabeth as quickly as possible.

Somewhere Over the Pacific

Bashir’s small jet had thrown itself into a steep dive, attempting to reach the surface of the ocean where the pilots hoped that the missiles fired by the RAF interceptors might just lose the business jet. Yet, the blips on the radar continued to close and Bashir continued to sweat along with the pilots. Each sweep of the radar revealed the blips racing closer and closer.

God help us, the pilot muttered, his face white as he looked up at Bashir.

Then a crackle and a burst of static came over the pilot’s headset, just loud enough for Bashir to make out. At that moment the two blips disappeared and the three men looked at each other in thankful amazement.

Parliament Flight Seven, this is Redbird Flight Leader, call sign Apollo. Sorry for the scare, but orders from Imperium are to shoot down your flight, and the appearance must be made, the ammunition expended. Welcome to Port Elizabeth, Mr. Minister.

As Bashir looked out the cockpit windows he saw two sleek Viper fighters flash by the business jet. The pilot and co-pilot exchanged a glance between themselves before looking back at Bashir. The three closed their eyes and laughed, their bodies still shaking in fear but it was laughter all the same.

Tapia, Royal Crown Colony of Port Elizabeth

The air stank of rotting carcasses while the air, heavy with tropical moisture, felt oppressive to a man accustomed to cooler and often drier weather. Short and dressed in a tropical linen suit of a slightly off-white colour, the short man looked through dark sunglasses at the fields that stretched for kilometers beyond the thatch huts at the edge of what was primarily an agricultural community. Unlike the colony’s primary city, Tapia offered no true harbour but rather the mouth of a broad and shallow river that frequently inundated the alluvial plain it bisected, which over millions of years had produced a particularly fertile soil that had been until recently a secret known only to the native Jipangunesians.

In the distance of the clear blue sky, yet to be tainted with heavy fumes and smokes of industrial pollutants, the clouds shifted and revealed the setting sun to the short man, who quietly stroked his brown goatee. Behind him, in the centre of the town of just over five thousand, were a dozen Royal Marines who sat on boulders and the pedestals for poorly carved public monuments that glorified the imperial ambitions of the United Kingdom – all blithely ignored by the native population who in Tapia had yet to see little of the “enlightened rule” of the United Kingdom. With rags and oil they carefully cleaned the components of their matte black rifles, compact in their bullpup design but fully lethal in their ability to penetrate body armour and light vehicle armour. Having been designed in the wake of the Novikovian War they had not yet seen the tests of battle, though the Marines cleaned their weapons now in the grim anticipation of having to pull their triggers against fellow citizens of the UK. Among them walked a single man, his helmet fastened and the small plastic screen that relayed tactical data had been retracted as it would serve no use other than to drain his first battery pack and there was no real estimate on how long until the men would reach their objective.

The man in the linen suit watched the sun fall behind a large and quite dormant volcano, it’s higher peaks covered in a white snow that seemed to pierce upwards from the island’s velvety canopy of verdant greens. Behind him the sound of heavy footsteps began to echo between the various buildings, all low to the ground and built with no apparent concern for urban design, the grey asphalt and concrete highway a kilometer down the road appearing to be the outer extremities of the United Kingdom’s civilisation, though in truth the massive fields were owned by large corporations that paid for the natives to build what the man considered to be largely substandard homes. Turning around he found the leader of the Royal Marines at the front of the double-rowed column, the barrel of his rifle pointed towards the compacted dirt road that formed Tapia’s Main Street, as the English speaker’s had come to jokingly refer to it. Are we still on schedule, the civilian asked, his eyes now all but completely hidden behind his shades.

Indeed, sir. Now, if I may say so, I believe it’d be best if you take shelter, sir. We just have to setup a few more things before we head to our own shelters.

Very well then, carry on.

The Royal Palace at Newcastle

Jolly good, then, Andrew said with a hearty laugh that shook the phone held loosely against his ear. Have we confirmed his death?... Not yet, hmm… well get on that Daniel, we can’t be having Tetley’s government heading overseas now can we?... Exactly my sentiments… Is there anything else?... No, then I’d like a briefing in say three hours about the progress of the search for Mr. Tetley. Take care, Daniel. With a quiet click, King Andrew hung the phone up. A maladroit fool of a Prime Minister, Andrew sneered towards his chief of staff. It’s been days and he still can’t find that traitor and to top it off, my own navy has significant problems in remembering to whom they swore an oath of allegiance.

Almost twenty-four hours ago a report had surfaced in the UK media about the Deputy Minister of Defence storing himself away on a freighter bound for Pacitalia when in fact the minister in question had been seized during the early hours of the siege of the Citadel and sent to a third-party country where he had been interrogated on the loyalty of the Royal Armed Services to Tetley – and almost regretfully the man had died during the interrogation requiring an excuse for his sudden disappearance. Given the letter that Ell had made public to the United Kingdom, it seemed all but certain that the man regarded with contempt by Andrew would grant asylum to Tetley and his cronies and so had been born the story some anonymous citizen gave to ABN that this deputy minister was en route to Pacitalia. Perhaps sinking a mega-freighter off the Pacitalian coast would finally show not just the Pacitalians, but the whole world no interference was welcome in the United Kingdom. She had been witness to two bloody revolutions in her past when nobody entered the fray and during the war against Novikov, no countries offered their assistance and so the UK was left to fend for herself. Andrew didn’t see why now should be any different.

Which was why the letter sitting on the small table next to his leather chair troubled him. The Dominion wished to find what they were calling a “viable diplomatic solution,” by meeting with the traitor and Andrew’s new government in a neutral land. His chief of staff caught the King’s eyes wandering towards the small piece of paper, and with a slight bow of his head he offered his own advice. Sire, we ought to go. Silence hung between the two friends and allies for moments on end. Your Majesty, to present the face of the new government as the legitimate government it truly is we must convince the international community, especially our allies, and to do so we need to show them we are capable of talking with traitors. The awkward silence continued to permeate the living room of the sovereign, the words of the chief of staff echoing off the thick and cold stone walls. If nothing else, sir, we would force Tetley to respond and in so doing he would give away his location.

At last the stillness ceased as the tall frame of the King shifted in his seat while his eyes gently closed as his mind worked out intricacies and possibilities. Indeed, he muttered inaudibly. I want a public response, open for the world to see, that we are willing to meet with the traitor, and call him such, and discuss a peaceful solution to the crisis. In the meantime, order Epsilon Force to ready a covert mission to eliminate Tetley as a threat to the United Kingdom.

Certainly, Your Majesty.

Official Statement of His Majesty, King Andrew I

His Majesty, King Andrew I respects the Dominion and its numerous offers of assistance to the United Kingdom in its past; and for those reasons is willing to personally attend the proposed conference in New Caledonia with his Prime Minister and Minister of Foreign Affairs. The Pacific region cannot be allowed to fall prey to the terrorist activities of Alistair Tetley and we are willing to work with our allies from the Union of World Powers to ensure stability and prosperity for the whole of the Pacific even at the cost of swallowing Azazian pride.

Tapia, Royal Crown Colony of Port Elizabeth

The Kulay Tree, as English speakers butchered the native pronunciation, can be found only in Jipangunesia and usually as a small tree that occupies a large amount of space with many thin networked roots that despite their small size are extremely strong. For centuries the natives had been using a “refined” weaving of the Kulay root for use in their bows and as string in their own societies. Now however, it lay on the street level, the thin and lightly coloured organic matter near impossible to spot amongst the dust covered Main Street. Lance Corporal Rodney Melbourne huddled below the window of a small dwelling which sported walls made of thick reinforced plaster, signifying a local merchant of some wealth. Melbourne did not particularly care as he had a piece of Kulay root in his hand and knew well that it lay attached to an anti-personnel mine across the street and to activate it he need only pull too hard on the root and release the mechanism that would then allow the small and cheap weapon to send shrapnel ricocheting off the buildings to either side of the street. Also against the wall but on the opposite side of the window was Private Sean O’Leary, younger than Melbourne and also unlike Melbourne not a veteran of armed conflict. The two would ordinarily have been using a lightweight machine gun tasked to the squad, and indeed it lay across the room butted up against the corner, but their CO had tasked them with a task equally fitting to their duty as machine gunners, cutting down men with searing pieces of metal. In the distance the sound of a diesel engine could be heard, the soundwaves passing through the narrow hole Melbourne had drilled just centimeters above street level and through the panes of glass. From his pack he withdrew a small contraption he had thrown together: a periscope consisting of a personal mirror and a small lightweight piece of wood from home. It had helped in the hills and berms of Novikov as his unit had fought to cross a train yard with numerous raised tracks. Here, he would use it to look out the small window and as the sounds indicated, an antiquated diesel truck bearing the flag of the UK rumbled down the street, young men with rifles hanging off the sides.

Down the street Lieutenant Sarah Miller watched the approaching truck from a more head’s on view, her hand resting upon the shoulder of her unit’s marksman, already training his weapon on the truck. A knocked over public trashcan denoted Melbourne’s station while a wooden rain-collection barrel marked a road intersection one block closer to Miller’s position. She had seen the truck coming from the last bend in the highway, a modest four lane ground-level road that cut through the jungle and led away from Port Elizabeth to the east, with a stop for the airport, a Royal Army depot, and a small native village before reaching its terminus: Tapia. Easy Charles, she said quietly, easing herself down behind the edge of the roof. Remember, wait till it reaches the barrel.

Yes, ma’am, came the cold, determined reply.

The diesel truck rolled along, bouncing off the unpaved street as it did every other day with the routine Royal Army patrol. The Royal Marines in Tapia had learned of the trips from a native who disliked the perfunctory nature of the visit: drive through town and then stop to fish in the river instead of patrolling the streets and enforcing the law. Miller’s commander decided that the patrol would solve the one nagging problem his force had: transportation. She watched, her brown eyes warm in anticipation of the surprise her enemy faced. Through her binoculars she could see one soldier undisciplined enough to be dangling his fishing rod out the canvas covered sides of the bed. At last, the truck pulled even with barrel and two loud shots rang out throughout the small town. With one tire blown out the truck’s front end swerved and slammed into a small building, the second had taken out the driver. A third shot quickly took out the soldier in the passenger seat and left the vehicle officially driverless.

Melbourne had jumped at the first shot and through his periscope watched the truck slam into the next building down, a force of energy that shook dust from his station’s ceiling. The quick second had come as no surprise, being part of the plan but he noticed the third had taken a bit longer than had been anticipated. Charles had obviously been growing lax in his moving target training Melbourne mused with a sly smile. From the end of the block he heard various shouts undoubtedly coming from an officer and the NCOs who were attempting to direct the soldiers into combat against an unknown enemy. Sure enough, he overheard some gruff man instructing his troops to head back “towards the last intersection.” All traces of his smile disappeared and he nodded over to O’Leary who crawled over to the corner and readied the machine gun for use, his foot tapping quietly on the floor in nervous anticipation of what would be the private’s first shots ever fired in anger. The sound of footsteps intensified as men swore and shouted obscenities that were quickly ordered ceased by a tough NCO. A fourth shot rang out and Melbourne heard a metallic twang as the sniper’s round shredded the trashcan. The signal had been given and Melbourne pulled tight the tripwire, which was then broken as a nameless soldier tripped while running full speed. The mine blew and send metal into the young men and women who wore the same flag as Melbourne on their sleeves. His ears ringing at the sound of the explosion and with sharp pain in his left arm from an errant piece of shrapnel, he looked over and found O’Leary slumped against the backwall, a shard of glass from the window sticking straight out of his forehead, blood pouring out into a thick puddle. Shrugging off the pain, Melbourne dashed to the heavy weapon and let loose the trigger sending hundreds of rounds into the soldiers in the street. He felt a sharp stab in his right foot as an infantryman’s rifle fired indiscriminately into the thin-walled building, a round striking Melbourne in the foot though he kept the fire up until the shouts outside died down to moans and blood-impeded cries of pain as men drowned in their own blood. For his part Melbourne slumped against the wall next to O’Leary where he finally passed out.

Several blacks to the north, away from the sounds of gunfire and the detonation of the mine, the man in the linen suit sat outside a small café of sorts that had sprung up by an odd native entrepreneur. Serving a native tea with a natural sweetener, Alistair Tetley enjoyed the first cup of Tapia Tea – and found that he enjoyed it, though he’d have to order it next time without the side of death and destruction he could hear. However, it ended rather quickly and Colonel Harrison strode up in his combat uniform, a rifle slung around his neck and hanging close to the front of his chest. Offering a quick salute he stood at attention before Tetley. My lieutenant reports that the Royal Army unit has been destroyed, sir, and that we’ll have the vehicle up and running within two hours, they need to replace the wheel.

Any prisoners, Tetley asked before sipping his tea.

No, sir. They were all killed.

Any casualties on our side?

One KIA, and one WIA, sir. The wounded soldier will live, but he apparently took a round in his foot and his arm – he can fight, but not that well.

That’s a bloody shame, Colonel. Tetley tilted his small cup upwards and finished the smooth beverage, its warmth spreading down his throat and easing the small knot of tension that had formed. He didn’t know it but the tea blend also contained a local narcotic that aided considerably in easing that tension. Anything else, Colonel?

This, sir, Harrison said, retrieving a piece of paper from his a pocket. Apparently one of allies from the UWP wishes to host talks between you and Andrew’s government in an attempt to diffuse this crisis peacefully. It was an open broadcast and so we’ve taken no risks in my bringing it to you, sir.

Very good. Tetley took the note and felt the heavy weight of the paper in his hand. Moving quickly to put it on the table, his slow loss of motor control from the narcotic meant that the sharp edge of the paper sliced his index finger, a drop of crimson splattering on his white linen without his notice. Instead, he leaned back into the chair and attempted to soak in the rays of the tropical sun.Thank you, Colonel, you’re dismissed.

Thank you, sir.

They still called it the Oval Office, even though the man seated behind the desk was only a Prime Minister, not a President. Yet, as Foreign Minister Mark Warner and Defence Minister Benjamin Cardin filed in, they saw the same sense of command, of power, out of Prime Minister Timothy Kaine as from any President.
"I'm sure you're both aware of the situation in Azazia," Kaine said, once both Ministers had taken their seats, then continued, "We have to support Tetley; the current leadership there is subverting the democratic process."
"At this time, we can't afford to prepare for a new war, and certainly not with Azazia," Cardin replied curtly. A look of concern flashed on, and off, his face. He continued, "With the situation in Corinthia deteriorating, we may be forced to commit forces there, which makes us even less prepared for war."
"Well?" Kaine asked. "We can't afford war; what can we do? We need to show Andrew that we disapprove of his government without threatening him; we don't have the power for that." The room went quiet for a minute.
"We'll annoy him then; it's what a war with us would be anyways, for a power like Azazia," Warner said. Smiling suddenly, he went on: "We'll make him reapply for his embassy, for his free-trade agreement, and maybe even make Azazia Petrol reapply for TBEX; we'll force Andrew" - Cardin shuddered slightly at the mention of the King's name - "to redo minor, bureaucratic tasks of little importance. A way of showing him that we don't quite recognize his regime, but that we're unwilling to break relations with them yet."
"Get on it then," Kaine replied. "And make sure that they won't declare war on us in the process."

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

Your message has been dispatched, Mr. Prime Minister.

Daniel Collins looked over at his staffer, whose form distorted through the glass and brandy he held delicately in his hand. Not long ago, the word had come down from ABN that the FPD had won the elections in Pacitalia, as expected, and so he had quickly written a letter to the man who would become the next Prime Minister of Pacitalia – barring any disaster or acts of God. Although the letter could have waited until morning, there was a pressing need to release it as quickly as possible.

Sitting in his low-lit office, Collins reflected on the past few days that had seen him rapidly attempt to expand the UK’s foreign business ties and relationships with smaller nations. And yet despite all of the progress so far the offer from the Dominion remained squarely on his desk, Tetley’s name sticking into his eyes and causing a source of consternation that failed to alleviate as the days wore on. But more important than a man on the run was the fact that a Royal Navy submarine had sunk an unarmed merchant freighter outside Pacitalian waters, a move that Collins seriously doubted even Tetley would pull given his reported close friendship with that Ell fellow. Which left no doubt in Collins’ mind who had ordered the strike. ABN had of course been reporting that a deputy minister had been onboard the ship, but like King Andrew, Collins knew the true whereabouts of the official – in the atmosphere as dust from a cremation conducted out of the country.

And as Collins took a sober pleasure from his drink, he knew that Andrew would not likely stop at a civilian freighter and so despite the late hour in the United Kingdom he had sent the dispatch as quick as possible to the Pacitalian government, hoping that his colleagues across the sea would see him not as an enemy but a potential partner. The board was quickly being set, but the pieces remained cloaked to all the world.

Outside Fort McKenzie, Royal Crown Colony of Port Elizabeth

That’s our target, Mr. Prime Minister.

Tetley pulled himself away from the ergonomic binoculars, the rubber mold leaving a faint red mark around his eyes. He continued staring out between the trees at a distant fenced-in compound that sported a large tower and the flag of the United Kingdom and the Royal Army. Handing the binoculars back to Colonel Harrison he scratched his goatee. You’re certain, Colonel?

Indeed, your lordship. There are more detachments between Port Elizabeth and Havre Avila, but this is it between Tapia and the capital – and all I need is the word, sir.

From behind another thick-trunk tree, Howard Robertson emerged, now sporting a shaved head done to help in the tropical heat. He wore a look of concern upon his face and he tapped his boss on the shoulder, how many would support you, Mr. Prime Minister? How many loyalists?

Tetley threw a glance back at his new chief of staff, word having reached him before setting off that Heath’s plane had never made it to Imperium and was presumed lost. His stare sent a chill down Robertson’s spine as he saw no emotion, no empathy, no humanity. It matters not, Howard. I can’t take the risk. Turning back to Harrison, who gripped a small radio in his hand, he nodded. Execute, Colonel.

Dozens of kilometers from their location, beyond the horizon from the coast of Port Elizabeth, Locke received a small burst transmission, relayed through a receiver in Tapia from Tetley’s position outside the Royal Army base. He crumpled the paper in his hand, tossing the paper into a small wastebasket as he tossed from his mind the results his actions would cause. Fire, he exhaled.

For several long moments, Tetley and his increasingly rebel army waited in a tense silence. Quietly at first the chirps and squawks of the jungle were drowned out by the shrill whistle of large munitions that quickly found their target. Through the set of binoculars Tetley watched a fireball erupt where Harrison had earlier indicated a main barracks for the compound. He winced, but comforted himself knowing that most of the men in the base died instantly without any clue as to what really was going on about them. In a few more moments, the fire from the heavens had ceased and thick black smoke from an underground fuel storage poured into the air, while occasional explosions shook the forest as ammunition cooked off inside the massive infernos that consumed the post.

I’ve seen enough, Tetley declared quietly. Harrison issued a quick whistle and four Royal Marines solidified around them, having been masked by the jungle for quite some time. The group headed quietly back to the waiting truck, its engine idling on the highway as Tetley and his small army made its way to Port Elizabeth. As Tetley entered the passenger seat, Blaine appeared from the bed of the truck and tapped on the politician’s shoulder. Yes, Geoffrey?

News from the outside, sir, from ABN.

And?

Prime Minister Ell’s party has won their elections.

Tetley allowed himself a brief smile, well it’s good to see democracy still functions in some places in this world, alright, Colonel, he added, turning towards Harrison, who sat in the driver’s seat. Let’s get moving.

Artega International Airport, Artega, Bennington

Quietly folding the tall, narrow and heavy-weight paper back along its crease, Tyler Colair smiled with his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses while his toned arms revealed themselves through the short-sleeved and light linen shirt and pants. Standing motionless in a small queue line, drummed his fingers against his pant leg as the smiling hostesses and ushers smiled so broadly that Colair could barely contain his laughter. Finally as he made his way through the slow moving line he presented his tickets and his passport.

Ah, Mr. Cross, you’ve come a long way from Jacksonton.

I most certainly have, Colair responded in an accent found only in the Verdant Archipelago amongst the Jacksonians. As much as I love you Azazians, I still think we have it a bit better down in the Indian.

Why not take an Oceania Airways flight direct to Jacksonton?

Colair winked, have you seen your own fares recently? The whole lot of them exchanged polite laughter as the hostesses ripped off the appropriate stub and handed the receipt back to Colair, who promptly stuffed the oversized paper into his breast pocket. Have a nice day, he called out while he walked towards Oceania Airways Flight 1977, non-stop to Port Elizabeth.

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

The sun had risen over the island of New Britain, and before it so too had Collins. Upon his night table he found a small sealed envelope placed there by his personal aide while he slept. Although still in his nightshirt and boxers, he opened the manila folder and withdrew a small piece of paper that at the bottom contained the signature of Prime Minister Ell of Pacitalia. Reading the letter carefully, Collins bit his tongue and held his lips pursed together before slowly stuffing the letter back into its envelope. Next to that folder lay a folded piece of paper that Collins quickly opened, where he found a letter from King Andrew, addressed to the Pacitalians and dated just two hours after Collins’ had been sent. And the two were in quite obvious contradiction.

The Royal Palace at Newcastle

For his part, King Andrew awoke with a smile as felt the soft satin of his bed sheets covering his body rub gently up against his skin. He had fallen asleep quite angry at his Prime Minister, but overnight through the assistance of pleasant dreams he was relieved of the tension and once more Andrew knew freedom from stress and worry. Except for the location of Tetley, whose whereabouts remained a mystery.

Despite his wishes, Prime Minister Collins had struck out on a solitary course to run the United Kingdom, flying in the face of the agreement the two men had brokered quite some time ago. So far as Andrew understood it, Collins was simply to run the government and not the country – and yet here he was determining foreign policy and making foreign policy statements all on his own without the input of the sovereign of the UK. It simply couldn’t stand, but then again, it could wait until after his breakfast of biscuits and tea.

Port Elizabeth Regional Airport

Upon Tetley’s request the mission to the capital had stopped at the exit for the airport, whereat Tetley directed Harrison to drive to the airport itself and to wait for him outside the building. From a large glass walkway, the former Prime Minister double checked on the vehicle, ensuring it had remained in place while he had strode into the building with neither fanfare nor recognition. Outside the baggage claim, however, he came across a single man dressed in linens who happened to be wearing heavy sunglasses through which Tetley could not read a single emotion. Taking a gamble he walked up to the man, Mr. Cross?

The man nodded with a smile. Indeed, sir, I take it you are my chauffeur?

Yes, sir. Right this way. Tetley smiled as his grand scheme began to coalesce into concrete pieces.

Outside Port Elizbaeth, Royal Crown Colony of Port Elizabeth

Harrison sighed as he swerved out of yet another lane on the highway to avoid a pedestrian pulling a wooden cart the wrong way down the now six-lane highway. Despite the Prime Minister’s half-hour delay at the airport, for a reason he would not disclose, the travel to the capital had been relatively uneventful until they had reached the outskirts of the colony’s primary city, denoted by a slow swelling of people on the automobile highway, which only rarely seemed to support an automobile.

Despite what Harrison knew as the best wishes of Lord Salisbury, sitting quietly beside him in the passenger’s seat, the colony of Port Elizabeth had yet to produce significance of any sort for the UK. Like many others in the country, he had hailed the move to retake what had formerly been a small British outpost since fallen into an awful state of decay but the natives had advanced little since the voyages of the British explorers and they remained mired in the Paleolithic in spite of the glass high-rises that had begun to take shape along the capital’s waterfront. But some progress had been made, Harrison had witnessed three automobiles driven by dark-skinned individuals, presumably natives, and even in Tapia there had been a few merchants dressed in Western business suits, not the finest on the market but still nice given their surroundings. Nevertheless, this was where Tetley would found the armed resistance to Imperium and they would have to make use of the uneducated natives as best they could.

The truck continued to slow among the throngs of natives moving in and out of a place they simply saw as a giant marketplace. The men and women in the back had been cleaning their rifles for the majority of the trip and now they held them gingerly in their arms, taking furtive glances out to the narrowing streets which were known to be ripe with gang-related crime. A nervous private swung his head about as he saw a small object in mid-flight, headed directly for the bed of truck, the soldiers having removed the canvas cover during their stop at the airport. Grenade! The private shouted, but before he could do anything else a small reddish-orange object landed amongst his comrades, one of whom quickly took it in his own hands and with a raise of the object to the crowd behind the truck, took a bite.

It’s a mango, Jones, you dumbshit, the grenade victim called out after swallowing an extremely juicy bite.

Shut up Walter, how the fuck would I—

The private was cutoff by an older man, his face covered in small scars his eyes cold and blue and staring the two young boys down. Knock it off you two, pay attention. Jones, you did good paying attention… but next time make sure it’s a damn grenade and not a bloody mango.

Sure thing, Sarge, Private Jones answered somewhat despondently.

On the other side of town, Iain Bashir sipped a tall glass of iced tea, a native yellowish-orange fruit sticking on the side of the glass. Not quite a lemon, it was still a citric fruit and Bashir found it still quite good – just odd. After a short talk with the café’s owner he had discovered that Sir Prescott had instituted a stiff set of import regulations that banned a great number of fruits from the Home Islands and abroad in an attempt to preserve the natural bio-diversity of the island. Even though Bashir was the, well now former Minister of Colonial Affairs, he had been unaware of any such efforts. If he ever returned to power he would need to make sure he had a better grip on what was going on in the UK.

Like most people, he too had heard of the offer from the Dominion – but with no firm word on the whereabouts of Prime Minister Tetley he was unsure whether or not he would be accepted as a representative of the legitimate government. In a private meeting with Sir Prescott, he had been assured that Bashir would be welcome him in Port Elizabeth so long as his profile remained low – the royal governor had informed him that the Royal Army had all but assured him they would remain loyal to King Andrew and that so would Prescott if he knew what was good for him. And so since his arrival Bashir had lain low, renting cheap apartments with cash, his credit cards were likely being watched by Andrew and his goons.

From down the street he heard the familiar rumble of a diesel engine and he tilted his glass upwards attempting to quickly finish his drink in case he needed to leave in a hurry. Digging into his pocket he pulled out a large coin consisting of a silver-coloured ring surround a gold-coloured coin in the centre which bore the seal of the United Kingdom. Glancing back at the menu, he saw the 2CC coin covered the drink. Looking out in the direction of the truck he found the men hanging from the sides of the truck bed carrying a much sleeker-looking weapons than the patrols he had become accustomed to. Growing curious, he took his straw hat from the seat opposite to him and placed it atop his head at such an angle that through the hat and the sunglasses he now put on that his identity could be well-masked.

As he crossed the street ahead of the truck, he found a familiar face sitting in the passenger seat, a face that stopped Bashir cold. What the bloody hell, he mumbled to himself as he stood by the street on the newly laid down sidewalk. Taking off his hat and sunglasses he began to wave frantically as the truck lumbered on before Tetley’s head turned and found his Minister of Colonial Affairs. Bashir watched his boss quickly issue an order to stop the truck, which slowed to a halt before Tetley threw the door open.

Jumping down to the street, Tetley’s face beamed, my God, Iain… I thought for sure…

No, Mr. Prime Minister, Bashir responded with an enthusiastic smile of his own. Although to warn you the military here is loyal to the Crown – though Prescott told me he’d keep me hidden so long as I stayed out of sight.

That’s excellent news, Iain, excellent news indeed. How far to the Royal Governor’s office?

A few blocks down that way, Bashir said pointing to a large concrete high-rise that had its reflective green grass arranged in the shape of a palm tree.

Tetley nodded and turned back to Harrison in the truck, have Howard and Geoffrey and yourself get off and have your lieutenant take the truck to the next target. I just need you to buy some time. He watched as Harrison shouted some orders back to the squad in the truck while Robertson and Blaine climbed out the back of the truck, which by now had created a small traffic jam of carts and kiosks pulled by muscled natives. The whole group stepped out of the way while a new driver took charge and led the truck off towards Havre Avila. Well, I think it’s time we had a meeting with Sir Prescott.

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

How soon until we can get this through the Commons? Collins handed his chief of staff a document that contained the list of bills he wanted to be voted upon in the coming days. First upon the list was a bill that would specifically limit the powers of the monarchy when it came to military deployments and issuing orders. Additionally, there were other bills that would seek to limit the monarch’s ability to dissolve Parliament and to call for new elections. The snub had occurred in the wake of the Pacitalian elections had only revealed to Collins what was likely to become a more severe problem in the coming days and weeks – Andrew seemed not to realise that the United Kingdom was a democracy and would not tolerate an absolute monarchy. Yet, that had not stopped him from ordering Collins to appear before him in a few hours for a “briefing.”

I think we can put it before Parliament later this afternoon, but it should take a few days of debate as the remnants of the DSP will likely blather on about the illegitimacy of your Parliament and such.

They can always be counted upon for such though. But still, I’d rather not have it delayed too much. Anything else going on?

As if by cue, his personal aide burst into his office waving a piece of paper. Mr. Prime Minister, you’re not going to believe this.

What is it?

Tetley, sir. He’s surfaced in Port Elizabeth and he’s accepted the invitation to the Dominion. He’s leaving for there as we speak.

Collins face dropped, he had secretly been hoping that the man had been killed somehow and that he would never surface again. If would be so kind as to send this paperwork over to Parliament and submit it for debate, I think I shall be advancing the time for my meeting with His Majesty.

David Yorke International Airport
Imperium, New Britain

I need a shave, Colair mumbled to himself running his hands over the stubble that had sprouted in the time that felt like days since he had lost showered. Two flights in less than twelve hours and I’m bitching, Colair added, dear God I’m getting old.

In his late thirties, Colair’s personnel file listed dozens of honours and medals – most of which would never be known to the outside world. Having already served in the Royal Marines, the Royal Star Marines, the Royal Guards’ Epsilon Force, and now as a member of the Secret Intelligence Service – nominally a retired former Royal Marine – he had been resting in a small private home off the coast of Bennington when he had received a private e-mail at an account few knew about. Like most days in his retirement he had set out to fish, but fell asleep by the time he reached the deck of his little sailboat and so lay there until noon when his wrist watch started to beep and alerted him to the amount of time he had “wasted.” At that point he had gathered his fishing rod and tackle box before returning to the boathouse and then his small cabin, where his laptop whirred, cooling the processors as it had turned itself on to alert Colair that he had received an e-mail.

After making himself a small sandwich and pouring a cold beer, he settled down to read the e-mail and found that Prime Minister Tetley was not truly lost – but was rather seeking his help. Colair smiled at the great risk the man had taken, not knowing whom Colair would support. And although Colair didn’t much care for the internationalist policies of Tetley, some of which had resulted in his service abroad, he cared neither for the means in which he had been removed from power nor the indifference of the populace he had served reasonably well for nearly a decade. He sent back a simple message, signifying his intent to meet with him in Port Elizabeth and quickly typed in the address to Oceania Airways, a company with whom a useful alias maintained a frequent flyer’s club membership – something that would entitle to him to free drinks and a free upgrade to first-class service.

Now, however, as he scratched the constant itch all over his face, he looked upwards at the miles of signage that pointed this way and that until he finally found the universal symbols for the men’s room. It had been a long flight.

The Royal Palace at Newcastle

King Andrew paced on his balcony, cursing the city below, cursing the inept government he had not yet been able to abolish. From the moment he had entered into the agreement with Daniel Collins, he had rued the decision to let Parliament continue – the people had not cared when Tetley was exiled and he now doubted they would do anything more if he permanently dissolved Parliament. The people were incapable of governing themselves; perhaps in the past in cities like Athens where the people could walk from one end of their country to the next within a few days democracy had worked well. Yet in the modern world, in a nation of over four billion people, what hope was there for the average Azazian citizen to understand the intricacies of international alliances and business?

And yet people like Tetley and that Ell chap, people like Collins, like David Yorke, all these people valued the input of idiots and charlatans. They would counter saying no single man could rule – but a single man who was well educated, he could do a far better job than men and women who had money to buy votes. And here was that fool of a Prime Minister, Tetley, attempting to retake his nation through diplomacy utterly unaware that only military power could secure a nation of four billion people. Collins had no hope; he was a mere puppet unaware of the marionette pulling the strings. The Conservative Party did his bidding, they had few true political heavyweights, and when the time came, the elimination of Collins would leave Parliament fully within his control.

But first he would have to attend to this Tetley chap down in Port Elizabeth. Soon enough the time would come, Epsilon Force would be en route to the colonial city and would be waiting for him upon his return from the Dominion. But now, as he watched a black limousine taking the winding road up to his palace, he knew he needed to attend to yet another needy liberal.

Port Elizabeth Regional Airport

Tetley glanced at the familiar settings, a moderately sized airfield of post-modern design with familiar shapes constructed out of concrete and steel and glass. Not long ago he had released a statement with the Royal Governor’s assistance that announced his intent to fly to the Dominion for the proposed meeting and to the chagrin of the few reporters in the backwater colony he had left without a statement knowing full well that Andrew would rather have him terminated before having to meet with him face to face. And so they had made the best speed possible to Port Elizabeth Regional, where they’d fly direct to the Dominion and wait for Andrew and his entourage.

Hours ago he had met with one of the UK’s most honoured soldiers and special service agents and managed to convince him of the need to restore a legitimate government for the sake of the UK at home and abroad. But as the time for this meeting grew nearer and nearer, the sands of time were quickly drifting into the past. Behind him, carrying his luggage from the bed of another military truck were Robertson and Blaine, who would accompany him to the Dominion while Harrison remained to secure Prescott and the city of Port Elizabeth from the remaining forces under Andrew’s command.

While Tetley settled into his small aircraft, he looked out the paned glass at another airliner landed on the runway, unaware that the men sent to kill him were onboard, looking out the windows at Tetley’s own small jet aircraft. To themselves they silently cursed, they could get him on their return but they’d have preferred to do it before the target left the island.

Royal Air Field at Emperor’s Field
Outside Imperium, New Britain

Identification, sir.

The small laminated plastic card held a magnetic strip that the sentry swiped through a personal data device. A quiet whir and a beep signaled that the computer was linking to the base’s network and verifying the identity of Air Marshal Weatherton. A moment passed as the data was relayed back to the sentry, his rifle slung over his shoulder while his gloved hands took out the card and handed it back to the Air Marshal. Thank you, sir, you may proceed.

Thank you, airman. Air Marshal Weatherton took the card and shoved it in his breast pocket before slightly pushing on the accelerator and easing his sleek black sedan into one of the United Kingdom’s most controlled, most secure military facilities.

Originally designed as a private airport for the then emperors of the Commonwealth, the airfield had survived in the modern era by becoming the official airport for the use of the Royal Family as well as His Majesty’s Government and their invited guests. The artificial isolation and the nature of the base as private property of the Royal Family allowed the government to exclude journalists, much to their press’ dismay. For this mission, however, Air Marshal Weatheron had been chosen because of his safety record and political acceptability to the passengers he was due to transport.

The drive was long, but scenic with trees planted in a fashion to appear as if driving through a thick forest. Finally, his sedan pulled through the forest and into a clearing where an underground parking garage allowed green space to dominate the base, although the underground facility eliminated the possibility of planting trees and so started the grass fields on which the runways crisscrossed. Handing his identity card to one more sentry, Weatheron pulled into the facility and parked his car.

After taking the secure elevator to the surface Weatheron felt the warm sun on his face and out of sheer necessity he withdrew a pair of sunglasses from his pocket as he followed the slate path to the glass-enclosed operation centre for the facility. Saluting the airman and airwoman standing guard by the door he entered and found an impatient civilian standing about, his foot rapidly tapping the ground. Where have you been, sir? His Majesty has been waiting for over ten minutes now.

I’m sorry, son, I just got tied up in traffic. Everything else all set?

Yes, yes, let’s just get going.

The Prime Minister is aboard?

His Majesty, the Prime Minister, and the Foreign Minister have all been waiting for over a half-hour, sir. The flight was supposed to leave ten minutes ago.

Again, my apologies.

Weatheron and the aide walked quickly to the aircraft, which sat with the official Royal Guardsmen already departed as their ceremonial duty was to Andrew and not to Weatherton. Damn shame, he said looking over at the aide.

What’s that?

I missed the ceremony, I love the Royal Guard, they’re so precise.

Uh huh.

Just don’t ever tell the RAF folks I ever said that.

Sure thing, the aide replied with not a trace of care or concern in his voice.

With a quick knock on the door, another aide flung open the door, which revealed the stairs to board the aircraft, which Weatherton and the other man took quickly. I’ll have the plane in the air in a few moments, if you’ll just go take your seats.

Somewhere Over the Pacific

Tetley leaned back in his chair, for the first time he could finally relax. In the past few days he had not had the opportunity to sleep much let alone change his clothes or shave or shower. Across the aisle he noted that Robertson and Blaine were out like lights while Harrison sat in the rear of the plane snoring. Slowly, he let his eyes clothes and allowed himself to drift to sleep.

Hundreds of kilometers away, Andrew sat quite awake in his own seat, a copy of the latest Economist in his hands – despite the liberal drivel of Dr. Jackson, the magazine did have some salient points about the recent situation in Space Union, one he’d need to pay more attention to in the weeks to come. Ever so slightly he watched his glass of wine slide back towards him as he sat on a rear-facing seat. Delicately picking the glass up by the stem he was unable to avoid spilling a bit on his finely pressed silk suit that likely cost nearly as much as the aircraft.

The tall man rose sharply and handed his glass over to an aide, whose eyes darted about unsure of what exact action to take. Andrew snapped his arm upwards and pointed it towards the back of the plane, the mess, Carlton. The drinks would have come from the mess. Shaking his head at the idiocy of his own staff, Andrew worked his way towards the cockpit, which he found locked. This is your sovereign, King Andrew, I demand you open this door, Air Marshal, he shouted while his fists pounded on the door.

In the rear compartment Daniel Collins sipped a glass of brandy, up until the point where Andrew had started shouting the flight had been enjoyable, albeit behind schedule. He glanced over at the white haired Roberta Kline, who had been invited along to give the UK some credibility with the foreign press that would likely be covering the meeting. I’ve sent the bills to the House of Commons, Roberta.

Very good, Daniel. In due time, that raving madman will be somewhat contained. I daresay that he is sometimes the worst image of the UK that we could put in front of a camera.

As the shouting intensified Collins shook his head and laughed. Indeed.

Andrew, for his part, was infuriated until the door opened quite suddenly and surprised him. He found Air Marshal holding a small rectangular device in one hand while in his right he held a small handgun. Looking about the cockpit Andrew found the remaining flight crew laying slumped in their seats. What the… who the…

Shut up, sir. This is a small little device that is obscuring our exact location and is interrupting the recording processes of the voice recorders and flight data recorders. This is a handgun that I used to kill the remainder of your flight crew.

Who in the hell are you?

Collins had been half listening to the conversation and slowly stood up, making his way forward until he found Andrew being pushed back at gunpoint into the main cabin. Who in the bloody hell are you?

My name, sir, is Tyler Colair, a member of the Secret Intelligence Services and under orders to restore legitimate government to the United Kingdom. At this point we are in the middle of nowhere over the Pacific Ocean and with this little device, nobody can locate this plane. And now, by order of the rightful Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, Alistair Tetley, Marquess of Salisbury, good day, gentlemen. Colair released the safety and fired a round each into the heads of Andrew and Collins. Seeing the now blood splattered Roberta Kline in her seat, fumbling with her seat belt, he smiled coldly, the feeling of executions quite familiar to the UK’s premier secret agent. And madam, as for you… Colair pointed with his gun up at the light display above Kline’s seat where the sign indicating that passengers should have their seat belts on was lit. You should have remained in your seat. Colair pulled the trigger put a round through Kline’s head as well. He systematically moved through the rest of the plane, executing every last one of the dozens of staff members and flight attendants. Lastly, as the plane continued to race towards the ocean’s surface, he went to the back of the mess where he withdrew the standard escape equipment for a plane with a royal onboard: a parachute. As the plane reached an acceptable altitude he opened the rear door and exited the aircraft, deploying the parachute and watching as the aircraft crashed into the ocean below him. Never to be seen again.

Tetley was awakened with a quiet nudge, Sir, came a voice from the darkened cabin. Sir, this just came in from Imperium. The co-pilot handed over a note that Tetley read aloud after putting on his glasses.

At 13:23 this afternoon, contact was lost with the plane carrying His Majesty King Andrew, Prime Minister Collins, and Minister of Foreign Affairs Roberta Kline. Last reported position was at… blah blah blah… coordinates… model something or other… somewhere over the Pacific. Tetley handed the note back to the co-pilot. Well, we best be turning around.

Destination, sir?

Imperium, if you please.

24 Hours Later

Official Statement from the Prime Minister

My fellow Azazians, today we see the tragic end of a truly horrible crisis that nearly divided the United Kingdom. After twenty-four hours, there has still been no luck in locating the wreckage of the aircraft that carried King Andrew, Prime Minister Collins, and Minister of Foreign Affairs Kline. For the sake of continuity and in the wake of what I consider gross improprieties on the part of the Conservative Party, I have returned to Imperium to once more take charge of the government of the United Kingdom and to lead us through these times, times that will force us to look at the essential character of ourselves as a people and of our system of government.

At this hour, retroactive to 13:23 Imperium Time, Prince George of New Britain is being raised to the throne as King George I. Although only twenty, the second oldest nephew of the late King Michael is fully qualified to succeed to the throne and bring an end to the constitutional crisis that has plagued this great nation. In the coming days I will work with the remaining Conservative ministers and my own surviving ministers to create a unifying government. And so I ask each of you to lay aside your political differences and join with neighbours and enemies to work to restore the now tarnished greatness of the United Kingdom.

God Save the King, and may God Preserve the United Kingdom.

To PM Alistair Tetley, Marquess of Salisbury -
It is indeed good that the late troubles have been ended. We gladly welcome you back to your position as head of Azazia's government, and wish you luck in the times ahead.
Sincerely,
PM Timothy Kaine of The Beltway