Azazia
23-08-2006, 05:46
Far from fields of combat where battle was entered and far from the fledgling colonies and dependencies, the city of Imperium hummed with life, automobiles stopping at the outer limits of the city centre, most drivers abandoning them in favour of the mass-transit system supported by the taxes and fees levied on automobiles within the heart of Imperium. And so it was on an unremarkable day, cumulus clouds drifting lazily overhead in the cerulean skies while the rapid rhythms of street artists drumming upon tins and cans echoed in the canyons of concrete and glass where suited men and women controlled the fates of pounds and persons.
Between two lanes of automobiles ran a small automated tram, running between a raised platform hiding the electrified third-rail. Stephen McKay tilted his head, his eyes gazing into the rivers between the canyon walls, his face, hair, and suit reflected off windshields and sunglasses while the tram sped along its dedicated route – traffic diverted underneath the line where appropriate. Satiating his need for observation, he stretched his left arm, bringing to the world a sleek grey titanium watch, its black hands and Roman numerals standing out on the sapphire face. Almost there, he muttered, snapping his wrist and sending his arm back within the pinstriped sleeve of his coat.
Along the canyon walls, the local vegetation beamed and glistened, though McKay pushed from mind the subconscious urges to purchase that new pinstripe suit, or the new Calypso hybrid convertible, or even the stylishly simple diamond necklace around the elegant neckline of an unseen woman. Instead, he forced his gaze down to his lap, his fingers fumbling to shuffle around the latest copies of the Economist and the Financial Review, knowing full well that he would be somehow mentioned in either.
Treasury Station next stop, a feminine voice lilted softly while an LCD panel lit up briefly, displaying in its unique sans-serif font ‘Treasury Station’. McKay collected his newspapers and magazines, thrusting them into an open pouch of his messenger bag while half-listening to the reminders to take all of his personal belongings with him upon exiting the tramcar.
Almost imperceptibly the tram slowed, the automobile traffic to either side disappearing as the tram entered a dark, narrow passage that opened up to reveal a large and heavily populated station within the Treasury Building. The original marble structure, of course, had not been designed for such transit systems and as such the tram had entered into an annex constructed in the late 20th century, opened in 2001, that aesthetically blended seamlessly into the mid 19th century construction designed for imperial majesty and regal splendour.
At last, the tram stopped, only the smallest of jolt signaling the end of McKay’s ride, and gripping the overhead chrome bars, he pulled himself up and then walked briskly out of the car and into the station. Among the many suits of blacks, greys, blues, and tweed he spotted the bright reds of the ceremonial Royal Army unit tasked with defending the building, the King’s Georgetown Guards. McKay knew, however, that among the suits were the unseen members of the domestic security service and metropolitan police.
Out of habit, the suited McKay began his short walk to the security terminals that limited access into the actual Treasury building. Despite his personage a stern faced man held out his hand, a matte-black rifle hanging around his chest. Identification card, sir, a near robotic voice commanded.
Digging into his breast pocket, McKay withdrew a small plastic card and handed it to the soldier, who wordlessly extended from his other hand a small handheld device onto which McKay placed his hand. A moment later a light blinked green and the soldier allowed the first sign of humanity. Welcome to His Majesty’s Treasury, Chancellor McKay.
Thanks, Tom.
Prostejov, Novikov, United Kingdom
Damn you, lad, back it in, back it in!
Commander Paul Beckett RN threw his head back and laughed at the scene, an aged man whose style of speech betrayed his origins in the dockyards of Breningrad waving his arms hysterically and shouting at a young man with an unshaven face, a cigarette hanging precariously from his lips, who had already determined he would park the lift front-end first despite the signage, in English, directing him otherwise. He watched a moment longer, the man from Breningrad swearing up and down until he finally shouted nyet at the young man, who immediately applied the brakes and stopped the vehicle within centimeters of the older man.
Like much of Novikov, the city of Prostejov had suffered significant damage during the long two months of combat, Royal Air Force air strikes and Royal Navy bombardments leveling most port cities such as this; and so it had fallen upon men like Beckett to verify that the reconstruction programmes funded by Parliament were on track. In this case of Prostejov, the warehouse facility he stood within had been dedicated to the requisite materials necessary to dredging the harbour and deepening the port to make it more accessible to deep-draft Royal Navy warships and merchant vessels. All of it part of the several billion pound Colonial Defence Act passed by the Novikovian Parliament.
From the concrete covered spot where he stood, Beckett could make out the superstructure of one of the new Novikovian Cassard class frigates, its navigation radar spinning slowly, from the mast flying both the Novikovian ensign as well as the Oceanian ensign. In time they shall come around, he said to nobody. With the absurd humours of language difficulties subsiding, Beckett continued on his walk towards the ad hoc office at the far side of the site, a trailer with wooden steps leading to an aluminum door decorated by the flag of the United Kingdom and one of pre-Oceanian Novikov. Bounding up the steps quickly, Beckett closed his fists and knocked twice waiting until the baritone come in could be heard.
Good day, Mr. Kebin, Beckett began, removing his officer’s cap and sitting in the seat to which Kebin beckoned with his thick, hairy, muscular arms. I am Commander Beckett, we spoke on mobile phone earlier this week about my inspection.
Ah, Mr. Beckett, welcome to Prostejov, the burly middle-aged man exclaimed, a warm, bright smile growing to take up much of the bearded man’s face. I take it you had a pleasant flight?
Beckett smirked, Prostejov’s airport had yet to reopen with much attention being focused on Poldi’sk and Zvolen and as such he had flown from Breningrad to Poldi’sk, transferring to a local carrier that flew him the short distance between the Novikovian capital and its western port city, from which he had taken a ferry to Prostejov. Indeed, a most pleasant flight, he responded calmly without intonation of any sort. Again, as you are likely well aware I am here to represent the interests of the Royal Navy, which has invested considerable sums of money into the channel and port deepening projects with which we anticipate being able to complete a fully modernised naval facility capable of hosting several large displacement capital ships.
Kebin’s smile continued, his hands disappearing beneath his desk to the sound of opening and shutting drawers. This, Commander, he replied, pushing a manila folder across the cheaply manufactured desk, is what I believe you are looking for.
Taking the folder slowly into his hands, Beckett’s fingers peeled the edges apart and revealed several colour charts and maps on glossy paper detailing the depths of the harbour in an isolinear fashion. I see that the channel approaches have been brought to almost one hundred percent planned depths, very good work Mr. Kebin.
Thank you, Commander.
However, I must say that I am most perplexed by this, Beckett’s brow furrowed while pushing back a single small image. This appears to be dredging for the local marina, is it not?
Suddenly Kebin’s smile disappeared, his eyes darting about quickly. Perhaps, Commander, he stammered in response. Of course as project supervisor I’m not privileged enough to know about what exactly my crews are doing.
Beckett raised an eyebrow, but you are project supervisor, are you not?
Well, I suppose it depends upon what you mean by supervisor.
Philadelphia, United Kingdom
In a city of glass cathedrals, No. 2201 Roberts Road remained relatively unspectacular. At 98 stories, the sheer faces of glass, the apexes of which created intricate geometric faces that as a whole shrunk upon their construction and placement to the pointed spire, were coated with reflective materials that in summation created the brilliance of light developed by Abbot Suger but on a commercial scale. For this cathedrals and the others surrounding it were dedicated not to Suger’s deity of God but rather to the Pound, the god that ruled all of mankind regardless of his belief.
The cathedral on Roberts Road, address No. 2201 had been built for AzJur Telecom and financed by CBN plc, a large Oceanian banking and investment group. Upon the 98th floor a small circular conference room afforded the occupants a view of the River Cerisa and the Brittany Mountains, studded with towers and antennae visible hundreds of kilometers away. Many of those towers and antennae were owned by the company the men and women in the room ran.
Well, a thick, barrel chested man proclaimed more loudly than truly necessary, I daresay that AzJur Telecom has witnessed a watershed moment in our corporate history. The silver-haired CEO beamed an actually honest smile, and I would like to congratulate this board on transforming the possibility of such a magnificent success into reality.
Politely, but still enthusiastically, the room erupted in applause, for the company had just received a short letter from the Colonial Office and Ministry of Defence approving its bid to take the lead in developing a redundant communications system for the Oceanic Empire – a network that would provide both civilians and military personnel with secure and unfettered access to the rest of the Empire. Now the CEO of one of the most influential Oceanian companies pressed a button on the well-polished wooden table, connecting him to the secretary downstairs, as the room was accessed through a private elevator connecting it to the lobby on the 97th floor. Marian, bring up the good stuff.
A moment later corks were popped and champagne flowed. The Treasury had approved the privatisation of what had once been Crown controlled colonial telecommunications networks and combined with the successful bid, AzJur had in one day become the holder of the majority of the market share for domestic UK telecommunications from broadband to mobile to landline technology.
Ilaerta, Oceanian East Recedentia
This is not good, William, not good at all. Major-General Scott Rawlins moaned. A former brigade commander in Novikov, Rawlins had been promoted to command the 3rd UK Mechanised Infantry Division, tasked with defending the Crown Colony of East Recedentia – and from the paper he held in his hands it seemed as if he could do little to fulfill his mission. He glanced up at his aide-de-camp, William Morgan, we have rifles not working, armoured vehicles being blown to hell and back, and a significant deficiency in tanks and artillery pieces. I hear the same thing from every brigade commander.
Rawlins let the paper fall from his hands and land upon his desk. With bushy eyebrows and sagging cheeks, he looked continuously as if he was pouting although in this instance the two men in the room knew pouting would be an appropriate response. Any word on replacement personnel and or equipment, Rawlins asked rhetorically.
Not yet, sir.
With a heavy sigh, the general withdrew a fountain pen from its well and scribbled out a quick note. I hate to do this, but from what I understand Imperium has a representative here in the colony, not necessarily a fact-finding mission per se but if he can alert the government to our situation all the better.
Between two lanes of automobiles ran a small automated tram, running between a raised platform hiding the electrified third-rail. Stephen McKay tilted his head, his eyes gazing into the rivers between the canyon walls, his face, hair, and suit reflected off windshields and sunglasses while the tram sped along its dedicated route – traffic diverted underneath the line where appropriate. Satiating his need for observation, he stretched his left arm, bringing to the world a sleek grey titanium watch, its black hands and Roman numerals standing out on the sapphire face. Almost there, he muttered, snapping his wrist and sending his arm back within the pinstriped sleeve of his coat.
Along the canyon walls, the local vegetation beamed and glistened, though McKay pushed from mind the subconscious urges to purchase that new pinstripe suit, or the new Calypso hybrid convertible, or even the stylishly simple diamond necklace around the elegant neckline of an unseen woman. Instead, he forced his gaze down to his lap, his fingers fumbling to shuffle around the latest copies of the Economist and the Financial Review, knowing full well that he would be somehow mentioned in either.
Treasury Station next stop, a feminine voice lilted softly while an LCD panel lit up briefly, displaying in its unique sans-serif font ‘Treasury Station’. McKay collected his newspapers and magazines, thrusting them into an open pouch of his messenger bag while half-listening to the reminders to take all of his personal belongings with him upon exiting the tramcar.
Almost imperceptibly the tram slowed, the automobile traffic to either side disappearing as the tram entered a dark, narrow passage that opened up to reveal a large and heavily populated station within the Treasury Building. The original marble structure, of course, had not been designed for such transit systems and as such the tram had entered into an annex constructed in the late 20th century, opened in 2001, that aesthetically blended seamlessly into the mid 19th century construction designed for imperial majesty and regal splendour.
At last, the tram stopped, only the smallest of jolt signaling the end of McKay’s ride, and gripping the overhead chrome bars, he pulled himself up and then walked briskly out of the car and into the station. Among the many suits of blacks, greys, blues, and tweed he spotted the bright reds of the ceremonial Royal Army unit tasked with defending the building, the King’s Georgetown Guards. McKay knew, however, that among the suits were the unseen members of the domestic security service and metropolitan police.
Out of habit, the suited McKay began his short walk to the security terminals that limited access into the actual Treasury building. Despite his personage a stern faced man held out his hand, a matte-black rifle hanging around his chest. Identification card, sir, a near robotic voice commanded.
Digging into his breast pocket, McKay withdrew a small plastic card and handed it to the soldier, who wordlessly extended from his other hand a small handheld device onto which McKay placed his hand. A moment later a light blinked green and the soldier allowed the first sign of humanity. Welcome to His Majesty’s Treasury, Chancellor McKay.
Thanks, Tom.
Prostejov, Novikov, United Kingdom
Damn you, lad, back it in, back it in!
Commander Paul Beckett RN threw his head back and laughed at the scene, an aged man whose style of speech betrayed his origins in the dockyards of Breningrad waving his arms hysterically and shouting at a young man with an unshaven face, a cigarette hanging precariously from his lips, who had already determined he would park the lift front-end first despite the signage, in English, directing him otherwise. He watched a moment longer, the man from Breningrad swearing up and down until he finally shouted nyet at the young man, who immediately applied the brakes and stopped the vehicle within centimeters of the older man.
Like much of Novikov, the city of Prostejov had suffered significant damage during the long two months of combat, Royal Air Force air strikes and Royal Navy bombardments leveling most port cities such as this; and so it had fallen upon men like Beckett to verify that the reconstruction programmes funded by Parliament were on track. In this case of Prostejov, the warehouse facility he stood within had been dedicated to the requisite materials necessary to dredging the harbour and deepening the port to make it more accessible to deep-draft Royal Navy warships and merchant vessels. All of it part of the several billion pound Colonial Defence Act passed by the Novikovian Parliament.
From the concrete covered spot where he stood, Beckett could make out the superstructure of one of the new Novikovian Cassard class frigates, its navigation radar spinning slowly, from the mast flying both the Novikovian ensign as well as the Oceanian ensign. In time they shall come around, he said to nobody. With the absurd humours of language difficulties subsiding, Beckett continued on his walk towards the ad hoc office at the far side of the site, a trailer with wooden steps leading to an aluminum door decorated by the flag of the United Kingdom and one of pre-Oceanian Novikov. Bounding up the steps quickly, Beckett closed his fists and knocked twice waiting until the baritone come in could be heard.
Good day, Mr. Kebin, Beckett began, removing his officer’s cap and sitting in the seat to which Kebin beckoned with his thick, hairy, muscular arms. I am Commander Beckett, we spoke on mobile phone earlier this week about my inspection.
Ah, Mr. Beckett, welcome to Prostejov, the burly middle-aged man exclaimed, a warm, bright smile growing to take up much of the bearded man’s face. I take it you had a pleasant flight?
Beckett smirked, Prostejov’s airport had yet to reopen with much attention being focused on Poldi’sk and Zvolen and as such he had flown from Breningrad to Poldi’sk, transferring to a local carrier that flew him the short distance between the Novikovian capital and its western port city, from which he had taken a ferry to Prostejov. Indeed, a most pleasant flight, he responded calmly without intonation of any sort. Again, as you are likely well aware I am here to represent the interests of the Royal Navy, which has invested considerable sums of money into the channel and port deepening projects with which we anticipate being able to complete a fully modernised naval facility capable of hosting several large displacement capital ships.
Kebin’s smile continued, his hands disappearing beneath his desk to the sound of opening and shutting drawers. This, Commander, he replied, pushing a manila folder across the cheaply manufactured desk, is what I believe you are looking for.
Taking the folder slowly into his hands, Beckett’s fingers peeled the edges apart and revealed several colour charts and maps on glossy paper detailing the depths of the harbour in an isolinear fashion. I see that the channel approaches have been brought to almost one hundred percent planned depths, very good work Mr. Kebin.
Thank you, Commander.
However, I must say that I am most perplexed by this, Beckett’s brow furrowed while pushing back a single small image. This appears to be dredging for the local marina, is it not?
Suddenly Kebin’s smile disappeared, his eyes darting about quickly. Perhaps, Commander, he stammered in response. Of course as project supervisor I’m not privileged enough to know about what exactly my crews are doing.
Beckett raised an eyebrow, but you are project supervisor, are you not?
Well, I suppose it depends upon what you mean by supervisor.
Philadelphia, United Kingdom
In a city of glass cathedrals, No. 2201 Roberts Road remained relatively unspectacular. At 98 stories, the sheer faces of glass, the apexes of which created intricate geometric faces that as a whole shrunk upon their construction and placement to the pointed spire, were coated with reflective materials that in summation created the brilliance of light developed by Abbot Suger but on a commercial scale. For this cathedrals and the others surrounding it were dedicated not to Suger’s deity of God but rather to the Pound, the god that ruled all of mankind regardless of his belief.
The cathedral on Roberts Road, address No. 2201 had been built for AzJur Telecom and financed by CBN plc, a large Oceanian banking and investment group. Upon the 98th floor a small circular conference room afforded the occupants a view of the River Cerisa and the Brittany Mountains, studded with towers and antennae visible hundreds of kilometers away. Many of those towers and antennae were owned by the company the men and women in the room ran.
Well, a thick, barrel chested man proclaimed more loudly than truly necessary, I daresay that AzJur Telecom has witnessed a watershed moment in our corporate history. The silver-haired CEO beamed an actually honest smile, and I would like to congratulate this board on transforming the possibility of such a magnificent success into reality.
Politely, but still enthusiastically, the room erupted in applause, for the company had just received a short letter from the Colonial Office and Ministry of Defence approving its bid to take the lead in developing a redundant communications system for the Oceanic Empire – a network that would provide both civilians and military personnel with secure and unfettered access to the rest of the Empire. Now the CEO of one of the most influential Oceanian companies pressed a button on the well-polished wooden table, connecting him to the secretary downstairs, as the room was accessed through a private elevator connecting it to the lobby on the 97th floor. Marian, bring up the good stuff.
A moment later corks were popped and champagne flowed. The Treasury had approved the privatisation of what had once been Crown controlled colonial telecommunications networks and combined with the successful bid, AzJur had in one day become the holder of the majority of the market share for domestic UK telecommunications from broadband to mobile to landline technology.
Ilaerta, Oceanian East Recedentia
This is not good, William, not good at all. Major-General Scott Rawlins moaned. A former brigade commander in Novikov, Rawlins had been promoted to command the 3rd UK Mechanised Infantry Division, tasked with defending the Crown Colony of East Recedentia – and from the paper he held in his hands it seemed as if he could do little to fulfill his mission. He glanced up at his aide-de-camp, William Morgan, we have rifles not working, armoured vehicles being blown to hell and back, and a significant deficiency in tanks and artillery pieces. I hear the same thing from every brigade commander.
Rawlins let the paper fall from his hands and land upon his desk. With bushy eyebrows and sagging cheeks, he looked continuously as if he was pouting although in this instance the two men in the room knew pouting would be an appropriate response. Any word on replacement personnel and or equipment, Rawlins asked rhetorically.
Not yet, sir.
With a heavy sigh, the general withdrew a fountain pen from its well and scribbled out a quick note. I hate to do this, but from what I understand Imperium has a representative here in the colony, not necessarily a fact-finding mission per se but if he can alert the government to our situation all the better.