NationStates Jolt Archive

Mariton, Rimbaldt, United Kingdom

Baying dogs and chirping insects heralded the arrival of another warm, clear, and all-around beautiful day in Mariton, a small coastal city located on the southeastern shores of Rimbaldt Island, a province of Azazia. Magnificent and opulent homes with wrap around verandas and small spires at the top fronted the sandy coastline, both the verandas and spires modern remnants of old sailor family homes and the widow’s peaks once occupied by concerned wives. Now however, they merely served as signals of wealth and a quiet link to the past of the old seaport of Mariton.

On one of those verandas, painted a pale pastel yellow, an older gentleman sat rocking back and forth with the wood groaning and creaking with every movement. A wicker table placed next to him held a small saucer and a cup of tea, a piece of mint dangling half in and half out of the red liquid. At the other side of the table sat a younger man, his side of the table occupied by a coaster and an ale produced by a distant brewery, its location in Mariton owing only to the younger man’s home laying far to the west.

The time is coming, the older man mused, the soft sea breeze blowing backwards the weeds that grew on the dunes beyond the white fencing. His time is nearing the end and I dare say that even he knows it.

I concur, the younger man said, sipping his chilled, but not cold beverage. Our problem remains with the situation after he departs.

Too much has changed far too quickly.

Indeed. For a long moment the two men sat alone in their thoughts, the dogs’ ruckus dieing down to be replaced by the soft crashing of the Pacific Ocean upon the sandy beaches not too far distant in front of them. The problem, I believe, is that the newest members naturally ally themselves far more readily to him and his colleagues than they ever would us. We need a way in.

Absolutely. And give it some time, it may well still come.

Somewhere on the Azazia Sea

From a cushioned seat aft of the wheel, Lord Salisbury looked forward with great enthusiasm at the men who crewed his private schooner, taken out for the day as the weekend would send home much of Parliament and by necessity leave much of the government away from the situation in New Albion, still roiling in intensity. However, it had become necessary to take a step back and to show the people that New Albion remained but a peripheral crisis not one that threatened to consume the entirety of the UK.

At his side reclined his Chief of Staff, Howard Robertson, invited to spend the weekend with the Prime Minister at sea and on the plantation in Salisbury. The younger man wore dark sunglasses and his bald head shone as a result of the oils and chemicals that protected his scalp from the unrelenting sun and reflected light from the sea. If I may ask, why did you invite me, Robertson asked, unable to endure the continuing silence. I still have much to do back in Imperium and at the very least the situation in Hamptonshire mandates some senior staff coverage.

The Marquess of Salisbury continued to look upon his ship, one of the few passions in his life and one he had ignored far too readily since being elevated to the premiership years ago. Without shifting his gaze, the Prime Minister allowed himself a sigh of exasperation. You have seen the latest demographic report from the Home Office, no?

Anticipated population growth and urban development patterns? Some three hundred pages of statistics and pie charts?

That is the one, Salisbury replied with an unseen smile. Buried amid those hundreds of pages is a fact, an unsettling fact to some but one I see as inevitable. Robertson turned his head, for his reading of the report had been but perfunctory at best. Throughout the history of this country, Robert, men and women like ourselves have dominated politics, economics, and even cultural affairs and it now cannot be helped that such dominance will end. Is coming to an end.

Like us?

People of our descent. Not just British, but the Spaniards, the French, and the Germans and the Dutch. Our hold on the population is untenable given our expansion into Novikov, those ethnicities represent now just some 48% of the population – yet the only individuals not of said backgrounds in the cabinet are Iain and Ivan. Out of some near 15 or so people, only two represent the different cultures and peoples of the United Kingdom. It stands now only because of the recentness of the paradigm shift; but come the next electoral cycle the DSP could stand to lose its slim majority.

A majority we enjoy only because of Borovic, Robertson added, referencing the fact that the expanded Parliament gave the DSP government control only through the support of the Novikovian Liberal Democrat Party, led by Milos Borovic.

Indeed, the Prime Minister muttered. Sadly, I believe that with a momentous chapter of Oceanian history closing my final pages are also being written.

Robertson shook his head. Far from it, Your Lordship. Your approval ratings are currently at some 65% and you remain popular within the party and the electorate as a whole.

That is but the quiet before the storm, Howard. Look overseas and you see the departure of Lord Rosecrans from leadership of the Hamptonian government while in Timiocato the bid to have Ell replaced by Sorantanali seems to have failed. While I do not doubt the Big Three can and will continue, I question whether or not the time is coming in which I would best serve the Crown and Country by grooming my replacement and establishing a new party for a new chapter of Oceanian history.

A long silence followed, Robertson not entirely certain if he had heard everything he believed himself to have heard. Never before had the Prime Minister spoken so blatantly about his personal political future, and in truth Robertson liked little of what the man was saying. Wait, a new party and your successor? What are we talking about here?

Howard, later this year will be the first of the by-elections in which Novikovians vote for their MPs in Parliament. Incrementally, our hold on the government will become weaker and weaker for as a matter of fact Novikovians will not vote for DSP candidates, they will vote for their known political parties. And while Borovic is now an ally, he will only be one so long as the Novikovian parties do not organise into a single bloc, a bloc that could be wielded with great effectiveness if it acted in concert with even some DSP or Conservative MPs. I regard it as inevitable that in the long-term Novikovians do not want to see the man that ordered their annexation as their head of government, even if we are bringing them an astounding economic recovery. I regard it as inevitable that the next government will contain a more ethnically diverse and representative selection of MPs. I do not, however, regard it as inevitable that said government will be from our own party. And so we must now begin to take steps to ensure that the DSP survives.

Vickers Shipyard, Devonport, Bennington Province, United Kingdom

With a smash of glass and a bubbling of alcohol, a giant groan echoed throughout the shipyard as the massive hull slid backwards into the estuary of the River Huxley. Although much work remained, the final form of the gun cruiser had begun to take shape. After the war with Novikov, the Royal Navy had learned a great deal of replacement work was needed and that older mothballed ships could simply not suffice in modern combat. Although victory had been accomplished, the Admiralty agreed to a plan to replace nearly one thousand of its combat vessels within the next thirty years. The HMS Devonshire[/], named after the local county that had suffered greatly in the opening stages of that war, was one of the finest vessels in the new fleet.

From the platform at the front of the ceremonies, a thin man stood proudly clapping in a grey suit, a black tie studded with thin lines of silver-coloured thread. Nearsighted, he proudly wore wire thin glasses, coloured matte black, while from his pocket hung a gold chain attached to which was a late 19th century pocket watch, a gift from his late great grandfather through his now also deceased grandfather. He was Campbell Downing, the Democratic Socialist MP for Devonshire, a man responsible for, among other things, ensuring the survival of the Vickers Shipyard in Devonport.

Since childhood, like many of his friends and colleagues, Downing had loved the sea. When Vickers announced intentions to consolidate its operations in nearby Philadelphia and Portsmouth, Downing scrapped together enough support in Parliament to organise the Devonport waterfront as an economic rehabilitation zone in light of the damage by Novikovian attacks. The result was significant tax breaks for businesses that agreed to stay or move into Devonport and rebuild the city. Vickers stayed and so did the shipbuilding that had come to define the maritime town.

On this day, however, Downing neither desired nor had the spotlight, for that fell squarely on the Defence Secretary, standing promptly at the centre of the stage. Much of the Naval Act of 2006 had been his doing, although MPs like Downing who hailed from shipbuilding towns had lobbied for contracts to be given out to companies that owned and operated shipyards in their constituencies. Fortunately, Downing was among the lucky ones and Devonport seemed sure to remain a centre of UK shipbuilding for the next few decades.

After the ceremonies had concluded and the crowds dispersed, Downing stood quietly by the railing watch the tugs and private vessels sailing to and fro in the harbour. The quickly built podium, made of wood, creaked as the heavy footsteps revealed the presence of another to the local MP. He turned around and found the Defence Secretary behind him.

[i]I thank you again for coming, Mr. Secretary. You have done Devonshire a great honour.

Sean O’Donnell nodded, allowing his own hands to rest on the cool steel tubing that formed the barrier between men and the sea. My pleasure, my pleasure entirely. Although I assume by now you realise this conversation is not about the pleasantries of launching a new warship.

I take it you are referring to the Fuel Efficiency Bill before the Commons? Downing replied with a sly smile. He had taken some heat from his party for putting forth a bill long demanded by the Green Party, one that would mandate an increase in fuel efficiency for the billions of automobiles in the United Kingdom likely to be purchased in the coming years.

That is the one. The Defence Secretary concentrated not on the MP from Devonshire, but on a small Royal Navy frigate resting at anchor out in the harbour. You do realise that such regulation of the automobile industry goes against the Prime Minister’s stated aim to reduce unnecessary regulation of the UK economy, correct?

I do indeed. However, I believe that the Prime Minister fails to realise that the moral obligation to preserve and protect the environment pushes the bill into the area of necessary regulation. Additionally, the current extrapolation of market standards appears to be but ten kilometers or so below that which I propose.

O’Donnell turned slowly, the small of his back leaning against the railing. He paused to wave to a young boy whose emphatic waving seemed only to want a return gesture. That may be so, but pushing it up to 22 kilometers per liter will make it extremely difficult for foreign competition to enter UK markets.

Then we have the added advantage of strengthening the domestic manufacture of automobiles.

But we alienate those parties who wish to trade with us.

Downing shook his head. Mr. Secretary, there are but a few things in this world that transcend politics and this event highlighted national security, one of those things. However, I believe your entire argument fails to take note that the environment is another such area of concern. Businesses must meet regulations put forth by foreign governments; UK products must clear safety standards abroad. Why should foreign automobiles not clear efficiency standards in the United Kingdom?

Outside Zvolen, Novikov, United Kingdom

Damn fish, why don’t you bite, muttered Radovan Noskovic. With a line in the water of a small lagoon just a meter from the ocean, the 33-year old former submarine officer had fought unsuccessfully with several fish that day. To Noskovic it seemed that ever since surfacing on the day of surrender, the fish seemed to retreat from a man who had failed to die serving his country. A man who had failed to save his country.

The war had seen the destruction of Zvolen, at one time home to the summer residence of the monarchy of Novikov. Now, the summer palace had been transferred to the Crown of the United Kingdom while the port of Zvolen remained in disrepair. In truth, Noskovic failed to see the immense capital pouring into the infrastructure of the remainder of the town, the gateway to the west of Novikov. Since the death of his three brothers during the war, all having served proudly underneath the sea in the same service as Radovan, Noskovic held nothing but contempt for the Butcher of Poldi’sk, the man Oceanians honoured as Lord Salisbury.

No luck today, eh? a deep, but seemingly cheerful voice called out from behind Noskovic.

Nie. Noskovic responded loudly. What the hell does it look like with an empty crate… he muttered under his breath, referring to the container he had brought to hold his catch. A container that now held nothing but half melted ice.

Then would you have a moment to talk?

Noskovic turned around and found a man dressed oddly, a sharp, pale blue suit – not odd for its colour or style but rather the muddy shorelines of Zvolen during low tide. The submariner shrugged and thrust his fishing rod deep into the soft mud before pushing himself up from his chair, now half sunken into the same deep, slimy sea bottom. And you are, he asked, climbing onto the higher dune where the businessman stood, hands in his pockets.

Anthony Cartwright, the man responded warmly.

Noskovic noticed the distinctly Oceanian accent, stiff and formal. You’re not from Zvolen, are you? he asked pointedly, eyeing the visitor with suspiscion. Despite the growing popularity of the UK throughout Novikov, many like Noskovic, those who had lost a great deal in the war, resented those who now claimed dominion of the lands of Novikov.

Cartwright shook his head and gave a polite, but deep laugh. No, to be forthright I hail from Imperium. Well, he added after a pause, I suppose it more correct to say I hail from Wellington, but that I work in Imperium.

The Slovak shuddered at the mention of the Oceanian capital, a land and city so far removed from the muddy shores of Zvolen. Well, what can I do for you?

Run for office.

Noskovic laughed. Unlike Cartwright he laughed impolitely, almost insultingly at the suited man standing before him. After a good half minute of solid, belly-aching laughing, the amateur fisherman regained his composure. Are you serious?

Indeed. Mr. Noskovic, I represent a very, shall we say powerful interest in the United Kingdom. As the Novikovian political situation stands, your political parties largely stand for closer integration with the United Kingdom. My, interest, rather would prefer to keep our two peoples at a distance. Not independence, mind you, but a substantial degree of autonomy. However, as I just noted, your political parties do not seem to look at autonomy as a viable option for relations with the greater United Kingdom. Mr. Noskovic, I represent an interest that would like to see the creation of a new Novikovian party. A party that would stand for autonomy. A Novikov for Novikovians. Cartwright pulled his right hand from his pant pocket and quickly thrust it into his jacket, removing it a moment later with a plain and simple business card clutched between his first two fingers. Should you wish to discuss this further, this is how you can reach me. Cartwright nodded towards the shoreline and then his wrist watch. I suspect, however, that you will need to either retrieve or push back your fishing operations. I wish you the best of luck, and please consider my proposal. The man in the pale blue suit put his hand back in his pocket and then turned about, walking through the brush whistling an upbeat little tune before heading down the hill and out of Noskovic’s sight.

Office of the Chief of Staff to the Prime Minister
The Citadel, Imperium, New Britain Province, United Kingdom

Clink Robertson watched the ice cubes begin to melt in his small glass, melting before he even had the chance to pour in the bottled water he kept cool in the micro-refrigerator in his office. For the past day or two, the international furor over the acquisition of New Albion had calmed down, no longer were pesky elements of the foreign press clamoring for the multiparty conference in Portland. Not that Robertson had been too keen on Sarzonian interference, but it would have helped his own aims.

The relative quiet of the day thus allowed the Chief of Staff to dig out some folders from his days as the Deputy Chief of Staff, when he had been tasked with ensuring that the legislative agenda of the government sailed through Parliament. From those days, he had not thrown out reports and summaries of leading MPs and a few local party members not elected to Parliament. From the beginning, the Prime Minister had made it almost an official policy to bring in fresh ideas and young blood into his Cabinet as a way of keeping the party relevant. The inherent problem, however, remained that sometimes the new people were not up to the task of national and sometimes international politics. And so Lord Salisbury’s unpublicized decision to begin the process of selecting and then grooming a successor would be extremely difficult to implement.

With a slight sigh, barely audible over the humming of the office’s air conditioner, Robertson pulled out the first file. So, Mr. Keith Adams, he muttered, what exactly do you bring to the table?

Avinapolis, Royal Crown Colony of Avinapolis, United Kingdom

Wafting across a slight breeze, a sweet scent reached the open nostrils of Benjamin Yorke, the leader of the Conservative Party who sat on the 15t story balcony of a restaurant, overlooking the Mary Jane Strait, across which lay Jacksonton, one of the largest settlements in the Verdant Archipelago Union. Yorke, however, had not come to visit the VAU but rather the prosperous city and colony of Avinapolis, under the direct sovereignty of the Crown. When the Verdant Archipelago had been rediscovered by an Azazian fishing vessel, the lands upon which Avinapolis sat had been ceded to Imperium in recognition of the importance of the discovery. Now the city of Avinapolis served as the banking capital for the VAU, which had seen much economic and industrial growth as the result of UK capital. Yorke saw in Avinapolis a political opening and he had traveled the thousands of kilometers to see the island for itself. To see the possibility for himself.

Ignore it, came a soft voice, distracting Yorke from the scent that now permeated the open air restaurant. The Conservative MP turned his head and found that his young waitress had returned. On her hand rested a small tray, topped with what the politician counted to be six drinks – one of which she removed and placed before him. I can tell you are not from here, she said with a smile, that scent comes from a local plant species. The scent of a sweet fruit lures in many plant-eating animals, which are in turn eaten by a carnivorous plant. Yorke swallowed hard, his eyebrows rising in slight shock to the brutality of the local environment. Again, she smiled, while the rest of the UK’s citizens kill the plants and trees, here in Avinapolis the plants and trees are always ready to kill UK citizens. She paused for a brief moment, contemplating her own words. But, anyway, your food shall be out in a moment. Yorke watched her walk away, her hips shifting and swinging in a fashion designed to attract the attention of her male customers. He smiled, if only he were still a young man.

He turned back to the strait, watching freighters stacked with containers pulling into and out of the busy ports of Avinapolis and, in the distance, Jacksonton. The rapid growth of the VAU had meant a rapid rise in importance for Avinapolis, to a point where the personal prosperity had begun to manifest itself in political grumblings for want of more representation in Parliament. Enter Benjamin Yorke and, as the other chair at his table screeched from being jerked backwards, he turned to find Miles Clark, the local leader of the Conservative Party. Thank you for joining me, Miles.

No, no my friend, it is I who should thank you, the rotund, red-bearded man replied jovially. Thank you for taking the time out of your surely busy schedule to visit Avinapolis. It is more than the DSP has done, he added with a wink.

Yorke smiled, taking a long sip from his wine, knowing all too well that Clark was lying for the Colonial Secretary had visited the colony not more than two months ago. And in recent days the Colonial Secretary had become a man with significant political capital, though in truth Clark would not likely be up to speed on the latest in Imperium, nor should he be.

So to what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. Yorke?

As you are well aware, since having been officially confirmed as the new leader of the party, I have every intention of visiting the main constituencies and determining for myself the will and wants of the people. I cannot lead the people without understanding the people.

No truer words were ever spoken, Clark responded quickly – unaware of the allusion to a semi-famous line written by an Oceanian author of the early 20th century. Yorke simply continued his contented smile. I think the most obvious will of the people is to see a peaceful solution to this most unfortunate situation in New Albion. Instead, however, the Prime Minister seems to content to allow the situation to spiral out of control and it disturbs me personally to see the Royal Navy dispatching numerous ships from right here in Avinapolis. If the Khailfah is to strike at any territory of the United Kingdom, it would likely first be here in Avinapolis.

Well, I do believe that for the moment the Prime Minister is doing a satisfactory job of keeping the situation under control, Yorke responded dryly. As the leader of the Conservative Party, Salisbury had kept him informed to some degree of the latest deployments and movements of the Royal Navy. Clark’s concerns of ships being deployed overseas was nonsense, as they simply had been moved offshore to better protect the islands of the archipelago. I do, however, have some concerns about the future of Avinapolis with regards to the Royal Navy base.

As do I, Clark chimed in on cue.

The acquisition of New Albion, Yorke continued, unwilling to hear any low reasoning from an obvious inept leader, puts into serious jeopardy the continuing dominance of HMNB Avinapolis, as the natural harbours of Dawesport offer more berthing and even deeper berthing than those present here in the Archipelago. This will afford the Royal Navy the opportunity to base its newer dreadnoughts and super-dreadnoughts in Dawesport, closer to the frontlines, so to speak. While I doubt the government would ever allow such a strategic position as Avinapolis to become discarded, I do fear that the government will significantly reduce the presence of soldiers, sailors, and airpersons to a level detrimental to the regional economy.

Yes, yes, it seems most unfortunate that the government seems willing to create the situation where this becomes a political issue. Although, I must say, it would be far more advantageous to the colonies if we had a much greater means of presenting our case in Imperium. Something akin to, Clark waved his hands out towards the VAU, which existed now in a commonwealth with the United Kingdom, a greater commonwealth of the colonies, that had adequate representation in Parliament.

Finally, Yorke had what he wanted to hear. Interesting, he coolly muttered, so do you believe you have enough representation in Parliament

No, far from it. We are still awaiting the official creation of the House of Assembly, something put off time and time again by the Prime Minister.

Do you want independence from the Crown? Yorke asked, all too aware that while independence could be locally popular, it would never be so in the broader United Kingdom.

No, no. At worst for the Crown, some form of regional autonomy. We have far closer trading relations with the VAU than the UK, but government to government contacts must be made through Imperium when it would be far simpler to simply meet with the people living across this strait.

Indeed…

Office of the Prime Minister
The Citadel, Imperium, New Britain, United Kingdom

I do not agree with it, Alistair, not at all.

I do not particularly care if you disagree, it was done in the interests of Crown and Country and thus it is done.

Far from the prying eyes of the press, the Office of the Prime Minister was shielded from unnecessary interruptions for the keeping of appearances, and within the office the friends of the Prime Minister found the opportunity to be perfectly frank. Although as the quiet, intent stare of Lord Salisbury hinted, he found the opportunity less and less to his liking.

For some time, he and the Foreign Secretary had agreed to have daily meetings about international affairs, befitting the increasing role the United Kingdom seemed to be taking in global affairs. However, with the situation in New Albion apparently winding down without much work on Deveraux’s part, Salisbury found himself on the defence.

You went entirely over my head, and completely bypassed the Foreign Office, Deveraux added coolly. If I am to continue to function as the Foreign Secretary I need to be in charge of diplomatic relations with foreign governments.

I understand, Emily, but I believe in this situation we had much more to gain by sending Iain to Istanbul rather than you.

The bloody Colonial Secretary? That is far too rich for even your blood, Alistair, Deveraux snapped back.

Salisbury eyes narrowed, and exactly what insinuation are you attempting to communicate?

None whatsoever. Deveraux smiled as only women can and picked up her cup of tea, taking a long sip while Salisbury continued to glare at his friend.

Caliz, Azazia Province, United Kingdom

Far from the stuffy drawing rooms of Imperium, the warm breezes of the Pacific washed over the sun-drenched beaches of Caliz, a Spanish-influenced tourist mecca where resorts lined the private beaches up and down the coast, while on islands offshore men and women could relax in their lounge chairs on their fantastically expensive private homes.

Ivan Valovich was one of those men.

Having beaten a life-threatening bout of prostate cancer through heavy treatment of chemotherapy, the former Foreign Minister now reclined in quiet seclusion on his own beach, allowing the sun to tan his pasty white skin and warm his shriveled and shrunken body. He had, for several years, been the senior diplomat in Imperium respected domestically and abroad for his warm and compassionate demeanor. In a cabinet of bright youths, he played the role of the all-knowing grandfather pointing and steering ambition away from the temptations of power. And then cancer had forced him from government and forced him even from Parliament. Now he lay on a lounge chair, enjoying the sunlight reflecting off the blue, green, and bronze glass facades of Caliz.
At some point, over the gentle crashing of the waves almost at his feet, Valovich heard the phone ringing from within the foyer, and then the soft voice of his daughter answering. Drifting in and out of sleep, the seventy-something man felt the soft and delicate fingers of his daughter upon his rough shoulder. Dad, she asked softly, unsure as to whether he was awake.

Yes, who is it?

It’s… she paused, as if not believing who she had just spoken to.

Well, come on, then, Valovich added after a lengthy pause.

The Prime Minister. He wants to know if he can come out and visit you tomorrow.

Avin International, Philadelphia, Oceania Province, United Kingdom

Welcome back, Mister Y orke, an older gentleman called out to the luggage-grasping arrival. In the older man’s hand was a cup of tea, the scent of mint poking out of the small hole at the top of the cup. Would you care for a drink? he asked.

No, Lord Uxbridge, I believe I shall be quite fine. The two men broke into smiles and half-heartedly embraced. So I believe, having spoken to Conservatives in Avinapolis, I now know an issue upon which we can divide Salisbury’s party.

Splendid, absolutely splendid. Lord Uxbridge, the shadow Foreign Secretary, represented the old-guard of the Conservative Party and brought to Yorke the core of the Conservative base, secured only because of Uxbridge’s high position on the opposition front bench. Both men knew, however, despite Uxbridge’s age, that the old-guard of the party needed to be forced into the modern day and age. And doing so would require a redefinition of a political party.

The two continued on through the terminal chatting about Uxbridge’s wife, suffering from Parkinson’s Disease, and about the weather in Avinapolis and Imperium before reaching the chauffeur who had driven the Uxbridge limousine from Imperium – a lengthy drive that required crossing the New Brittany Strait. As the doors finally shut, the two were guaranteed the privacy needed.

And so what is this issue, Uxbridge finally asked, running a hand over his bald head.

Yorke smiled broadly. The Conservative Party has always stood for less government interference in the affairs of the individual, no?

Uxbridge nodded at the rhetorical question.

Well, at the moment we face a nominally socialist government that is withdrawing from the public sphere and granting more and more to the private sphere from the national healthcare system to education and even to areas such as defence. But where is the withdraw at the level of governance? Yorke paused, his lips turning into an arrogant smirk. We see more and more centralised control over colonial and commonwealth affairs. What if we begin to advocate for a political devolution.

What about our unitary state?

We retain it, but grant unto the home countries and the colonies the right to govern their own affairs. Novikov has kept its legislative assemblies, Borovic is still the Novikovian Prime Minister. Why not let Juristan and the Indian Islands create their own assemblies and legislate on domestic matters. Why not create a new commonwealth or federal system for the colonies that binds them closer to us, but in so doing gives the people a say in their own governance.

Uxbridge nodded after a moment’s thought. We will be turning away from our century’s old claim to being the social conservative. We will be, in some ways, giving up our empire.

In some ways, but in another way we bind the colonies to us as equal partners in Oceanian progress and prosperity. We can paint the Socialists as hypocrites supporting the existence of a two-tier citizenry while also undermining their entire claim for being a party of democrats. There is nothing less democratic than outright imperialism.

The older politician finally smiled. While you have been gone, something has come up that may very will give you the appropriate platform to make that case to the public.

Really?

Indeed, a little nation called Ansuria. As Uxbridge went on to relate the details surrounding the current event, the limousine continued northwards towards Breningrad where it would head east and cross the strait and arrive in Imperium.

I’ve almost got it, sixteen year old Mikhail Gensky extended his arm and with it the broom handle in his hand, the heavy handle slapping awkwardly against the side of a cardboard box. Briefly, the box teetered on the edge of the wooden shelf before falling to the dusty wooden floor boards of the tool shed, an elaborate two-story building built by Gensky’s grandfather – the second story being for the storage of boxes such as the one now laying half-spilled on the floor.

Good one, his girlfriend Maria teased, Gensky twisted his face to mock her in return before putting the broom aside and plopping himself on the floor, thrusting his hands into the contents of the box.

Do you really think he would’ve kept anything of value in an attic, she asked, a finger finding itself twirling her long blonde hair in tight coils. And besides, the funeral was yesterday – shouldn’t you wait before going through his things.

Gensky shook his head, fully aware of the fact that Elizabeth Hawke, a premier Oceanian women’s clothing store, had advertised their grand opening of a shop in the new Grozny city centre. He tuned her out while she prattled on about respecting dead elders, not the brightest of girls in his neighbourhood, she was one of the best looking. He found several old medals and medallions, black and white photographs of nameless individuals whose faces he could not recognise. At the bottom of the box his hands came across a micro-cassette tape, interesting, he unwittingly spoke aloud, drawing the attention of his girlfriend.

What is it?

A tape.

What’s on it?

How would I know, he shot back. Picking himself up off the ground, he thrust the tape into his coat pocket and brushed the dust off his jeans. Let’s go back to the house, he added, this time much more softly, having noted the disapproving silence and stare.

The house itself was similarly unremarkable outside of the fact his grandfather had built it himself, and as such the front door happened to be slightly crooked and the upper floors had settled in such a fashion that a marble placed on the eastern side of the house rolled all the way across to the far western side. But it was a quiet place in the hills north of a city bustling with increased traffic and business. The Oceanians had shelled the city to rubble, like much of the rest of Novikov, during a failed attempt to seize the city during the close of the war. Novikovian troops had sealed themselves up in Grozny, knowing full well that in the open fields and plains beyond the suburbs their armour and infantry would be slaughtered by a much larger, and mercilessly relentless UK invasion force.

Unbeknownst to his family, Gensky had taken up arms during the siege of Grozny, coming across a security checkpoint unlucky enough to have been obliterated by an artillery shell – the only surviving bits a semi-automatic rifle and some ammunition, all of which the boy-soldier took for his own use.

Reaching the house, climbing up the wooden steps, he threw open the screen door and made a point to hold it open for Maria. He led her to the family room from which the family had yet to remove the television and other electronic equipment, most of it far more sophisticated than his simple grandfather knew how to use – though he had always made a point to keep it and when his family visited, to try and use it. He found the video recorded the tape had been designed for, and pushing out the television, quickly began to connect wires and cords while Maria excused herself to use the bathroom. He laughed to himself when she realised the bathroom was an outhouse.

By the time she had returned, he had connected the recorder and rewound the tape. He patted the seat on the sofa next to him and with the press of a button turned on the television, and then the tape.

On the small television screen, a blurry image appeared, made more difficult to distinguish from what appeared to be branches and foliage obstructing the groups of persons beyond the brush. The two teenagers jumped at the sound of a large explosion, a voice shouting in English, artillery just for you, you damned Novie bastards! Unlike his girlfriend, Gensky had always excelled at school and found himself able to speak not just his native Slovak, but also Czech, Russian, and English. She looked at him while rifle fire cackled in the distance. He shrugged, indicating that the man had shouted nothing of consequence.

For a brief bit Gensky heard the familiar sound of Novikovian rifle and machine gun fire, people shouting in English commands to open fire on certain positions, for suppressing fire, and for more artillery. After a few minutes, however, the firing died down and a woman soldier approached the Oceanian soldier who appeared to be in charge, a white flag, sir, seventeen prisoners in all.

Bring them here. In the minutes that followed, Maria stood up and went to the kitchen for a glass of water, preferring that to anything else because of what she termed its ‘low calorie content’ while Gensky sat mesmerized by amateur footage of the war. With a heavy, melodramatically exasperated sigh she sat back down on the sofa next to him while a group of obviously Novikovian soldiers were led at rifle point up to the Oceanian commander, their hands placed atop their heads.

A series of orders were given in English and the butt stocks of rifles sent the Novikovian soldiers to their knees. Ve surrender, one of the prisoners struggled in broken, but manageable English. The remaining Novikovians exchanged nervous glances in fidgety silence while the Oceanian officer thumbed through documents apparently collected by his subordinates.

Artillery battery I see, the Oceanian asked, throwing the documents at the face of the Novikovian who had spoken some English.

Áno, the prisoner responded, yes, yes, he then added quickly in English.

The battery stationed over in Nitra?

Yes.

The Oceanian officer snapped his fingers and several riflemen walked over to the ad hoc interrogation. The battery that fired nerve agents on our regiment?

The Novikovian tilted his head, the Oceanian nodded to a man apparently trained as a translator who quickly relayed the question.

Áno.

The Oceanian brought his hand to his forehead and rubbed his temples. We lost over a hundred men and women that day, he spoke quietly, just audible to the camera behind the brush. Shaking his head, the officer walked away and off the television screen. A moment later his voice could be heard saying something this time unclear. Its result was far from it, however. The riflemen spaced themselves out, brought their rifles to their shoulders and opened fire. Seventeen Novikovian soldiers lay dead on the blood-stained ground, the few who moaned and cried in pain were silenced with additional shots to the heads.

One of the executors spat on the dead bodies before looking up at his comrades, alright, lads, we have an objective to meet. HQ would like us in Grozny before nightfall.

Then the tape ended; the two teenagers sat in stunned silence. Maria rose and ran to the kitchen, Gensky hearing the sounds of her vomiting and throwing up the little food she had eaten thus far. In truth, he had witnessed Novikovians in Grozny executing captured Oceanians and so he simply shook his head – nonetheless he stood up and retrieved the tape and put it back into his pocket. He would hand it over to his father, who had a friend working in one of the few Novikovian broadcast companies still in business and not yet owned by an Oceanian company.

By the end of the day the tape was being aired on Novikovian television, though few Novikovians had working television sets as most relays and broadcasting centres had been destroyed during the war. It was, however, picked up by the KBC and other Oceanian media outlets who began airing the tape’s less gratuitous segments. Within a time span of 24 hours the tape, or more often the whole piece edited for content, had been broadcast for the world to see.

Dawesport, Royal Crown Colony of New Albion

Since the usurpation of the Khailfah’s rule, hundreds if not thousands of individuals had begun to move into the former sleepy seaside port. Other individuals preferred to stay away from the island and send to the colony their money, their capital. Construction and financial companies had received much of the Oceanian investment, the labour for each sector being provided by the local Muslim population for the former and the ever-growing Oceanian emigrant population for the latter.

Ibrahim Richardson’s large thumb slowly rubbed his nose, lightly coated in the sweat and moisture in the oppressively humid equatorial air. From between his lips hung a crude paper containing a locally cultivated tobacco plant, puffs of smoke the only interruption in the man’s silence. His silence unnerving to the patrons of the waterfront café, who sat underneath umbrellas and parasols and chatted about this and that beneath the larger shadow of a massive Royal Navy warship laying at anchor in the harbour, ever deepening thanks to the construction and engineering crews of the same Royal Navy.

Richardson had been born in Calivo, a small town in the southern half of the island, those lands now under the dominion of the Khailfah al Muslimeen, lands where his Muslim brothers lived without fear of reprisals by the Oceanian heathens who had stolen the land of his people. Finally, though, the colony had progressed to a level where he could express his displeasure with the authorities. Beneath the glare of the sun, he puffed out more sweet-smelling smoke as a small boat motored away from a nearby pier that jutted out a great distance into the harbour. The pier was itself the main civilian pier for the city and it allowed those standing upon it access to the sea.

As his lips puckered, the cigarette jumped up and down, obscuring the boat behind one of his few vices. He closed his eyes and a moment later heard a familiar crackling sound; upon lazily opening his eyes splashes erupted ahead of the motorboat, now on a course to hit the side of the dreadnought. Around him people began to stir, chairs pushing out and people gathering at the railings that kept man and woman from falling into the harbour. Feeling the urge, he picked up his duffel bag and began to move with the rest of the growing crowd towards that pier.

Picking up momentum as the intensity of the warning shots increased, the crowd became a mob rushing to the pier, watching the small boat attempt to evade the gunfire. Richardson looked around him, feeling the sweat clinging to arms of the Oceanian financiers upon their lunch breaks. Smelling the sickening scent of Oceanian capitalism. Of Oceanian imperialism. Of Oceania.

Allahu akbar.

The Colonial Office, Imperium
New Britain Province, United Kingdom

It has been confirmed that at 13:21 local time, a small vessel departed a civilian marina in the city of Dawesport after which it made a high-speed run upon the HMS Vengeful, which successfully engaged the craft and destroyed it before the explosive laden vessel reached its target. Iain Bashir paused, and reached for the glass of water underneath the podium’s platform. He took a moment before picking up the glass, steadying his hand so as to hide the anger and frustration roiling just beneath his skin. Unfortunately, he continued after taking a quiet sip, it seems as if the destruction of the vessel and the subsequent commotion was but the precursor to a larger and more conventional suicide bombing. Amongst the onlookers an individual who had wrapped himself in explosives and carried a bag full of ball bearing and nails detonated himself. Thus far, local authorities have confirmed 63 dead and 120 wounded. Many critically.

The Citadel, Imperium
New Britain Province, United Kingdom

Howard Robertson frowned watching the Colonial Secretary deliver the formal announcement of the day’s events in Dawesport. Between the recent discovery of video evidence of alleged Oceanian war crimes in Novikov and the continued unrest in New London the suicide bombing in Dawesport seemed only to highlight a growing discontentedness within the UK. And that had Robertson frowning, and rubbing his bald head.

He had been forced to put on hold plans to create a new political party that would effectively merge the Democratic Socialists of former Azazia and the Liberal Democrats of Novikov; many Novikovians had begun to express their dissatisfaction with Borovic’s government in Poldi’sk in street protests – any linking of Borovic to Lord Salisbury would only be adding further powder to an already overstuffed powder keg.

Meanwhile in Recedentia, limited combat operations in the mountains would likely require the deployment of reinforcements that would otherwise be redeployed out of places such as New Albion, New London, or more likely Novikov.

Zvolen, Novikov, United Kingdom

For the first time in what seemed a long time, the port of Zvolen had reached capacity, freighters and container ships lay at anchor in the strait waiting their turn to offload their cargos. Radovan Noskovic sat upon a crate within his small wooden rowboat resting in a calm lagoon away from the main harbour, but close enough to smell the scent of diesel and salt water. Since his first meeting with members of the mainstream Oceanian political parties, Noskovic had done some exploratory work and reached out to former Novikovian military officers now unemployed – though he had to admit many had begun to enroll in the equivalency classes being offered by the Royal Armed Services of the UK.

He felt a slight tug on his line and then began to reel in his dinner. Overhead an RAF fighter roared, disturbing the serenity of the sea and causing Noskovic to pause and thus let loose his dinner. Soon, another and another aircraft soared past and the former submariner turned politician reeled in his line to find his bait gone. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before turning the boat back, finding the oars and rowing himself into shore.

Upon arriving at the small marina where he docked his rowboat, he found a giant locker for his gear, to the top taped a small poster featuring his face. Since his conversation with Cartwright he had indeed registered a new party: the Novikov Restoration Party (NRP), and while small he had managed to become the frontrunner for the city of Zvolen and its constituency in the Oceanian Parliament. By all accounts, within three weeks he would need to rent an apartment in Imperium and head north.