Generic empire
29-04-2007, 05:35
General Sverik Iljievo checked his watch. He could barely hear himself think over the whir of the helicopter rotors, but he knew he was verging on late, something one couldn’t afford to be these days. He peered out of the window, watched the rolling green hills of middle Generia, and in the distance saw the grey horizon where the skyscrapers of Sofia, the Imperial capital, stood out over the flatlands on which it was built. He reached into his pocket for his cigarette case, and took one out, placed it between his lips, and ignited the tip with a paper match.
“How long?” he called to the pilot over the radio.
“Roughly twenty minutes, general,” came the response. Iljievo grunted and sat back. If it took a second longer, he would be keeping the Emperor himself waiting, as well as the entire Imperial military cabinet. It was an important meeting, judging just from the faces that would be present: a veritable who’s who of the Generian military and political leadership.
The subject was the war in Alberia, the costly “police action” invited by a series of declarations of secession several months ago, issued by everyone from militia leaders to arms cartel lords to Alberian orthodox priests. This all following the deployment of the Imperial army to the province to prevent exactly this. He had suggested the initial deployment, and the blood had been on his hands then, as it was now. The war had claimed close to 10,000 lives, 2,000 of which belonged to the Imperial army. Port Likiev, the largest port in the city had held out for a month before the various rebel militias, allied under the banner of the Organized Movement for Alberian Secession, had succeeded in cutting it off and forcing the Empire to withdraw its men by sea. The rebel flag now flew over the governor’s mansion there.
Elsewhere, the armies of the Empire had fared better, recapturing and holding large swaths of territory, including valuable oil fields and the rare mineral mines, which kept the economy going. Alberia was, after all, the largest source of oil and rare minerals in the Empire. To lose it would mean the devastation of the Generian economy, and it was exactly for this reason that Emperor Kazatmiru was growing concerned. Six months of fighting had become increasingly expensive, and some of his closest advisors were already beginning to suggest compromise with the Alberians; if not with the rebel fighters, than with the more moderate civilian leaders. Iljievo was almost inclined to agree, if he didn’t believe as he did that the war could be won.
As all of this raced through his head, the towers of downtown Sofia came into view. He checked the time again, and ground the butt of the cigarette under his heel. He sat back and closed his eyes, letting the drone of the engine relax him. He breathed deeply, for the last time.
On the highway below, traffic screeched to a halt as a fireball appeared overhead. The white trail of a rocket hung for a split second, like the stalk of a flower blooming orange and black. Chunks of twisted and charred metal fell to the ground, embedding themselves in the fields and the concrete. Among them were the sheared remains of the uniform of the supreme commander of the Imperial army.
-----------------
Kazatmiru’s face was stone set. He had aged visibly in just a few months, and the news he had just been presented with was pushing him closer towards an invisible line that a sane man could not possibly cross. The Marshal, Iljievo, had guided his hand for nearly a decade on the military front, and despite recent trials on the Alberian front, he remained one of two men with whom the Emperor placed his complete trust. The other, his chief advisor Lord Varus Tiberius Alexei, waited patiently at his side.
“It was certainly his helicopter that was destroyed?”
“Yes, your grace. There were no others within several miles.”
“How could they have known…” the Emperor said softly, half to himself.
“Military intelligence is already investigating. They think there might have been a mole, an Alberian sympathizer.”
Kazatmiru fell silent again. In the next room the Imperial military cabinet waited to begin a meeting that could no longer take place. The Emperor took a deep breath and got to his feet.
Stepping through the door, he confronted the dozen men before him.
“Gentlemen, I have tragic news. General Iljievo, my loyal servant for over ten years, was assassinated just a few moments ago when his helicopter was struck by a guided missile.”
The silence in the room was unbroken. Beyond the obvious tragedy, this revelation carried double significance. A new commander in chief would need to be chosen immediately. This could affect the direction of the entire war, not to mention Imperial military policy in general, something that was a rudder to a warlike Empire.
Kazatmiru, suddenly seized with a pang of emotion, uncharacteristic of himself, quickly excused himself. The men in the room began to slowly file out, rising separately. One, General Dejun, commander of the Imperial southeastern garrisons, remained behind. He was an odd man by his comrades’ accounts, a reclusive sort who was often silent and rarely slept. He was competent, however, and his experience and good council kept him in good standing with his peers and the emperor’s right hand. Recently, however, his opposition to the direction of the war had put him at odds with Iljievo, and consequently he was looked down upon by those who favored the prosecution of the war according to its current strategies.
This man, tall and dark haired, with a flash of yellow and red in his full beard, waited, sitting back in the chair in the empty conference table, apparently lost in thought. A moment later, another man entered the room. He wore the uniform of a Praetorian, the elite shock troops of the Empire, and held a colonel’s rank. He did not salute Dejun as he entered, and immediately took a seat across from him.
Dejun looked up, noticing him for the first time.
“Colonel Adem.”
“General.”
“You’ve heard the news?”
“Who hasn’t. They’re not being particularly conscious to security. It’s being blasted all over the open channels.”
Dejun grunted his acknowledgement.
“Everyone saw the explosion, as it was.”
“How did they ever manage to hit him coming into the city? I would have thought it impossible.”
“You and I both. Apparently the White Guard isn’t what it used to be. Security in Sofia has been uncomfortably lax.”
“All the best men have been called up and shipped north. We’re left with the rejects in the capital.”
“You’re obviously the exception, then, Colonel.”
Adem looked around, a hint of nervousness in his eyes.
“Are you certain it’s safe to speak here?”
“It’s the only room in this building that isn’t monitored. We have a few minutes before they’ll ask us politely to leave.”
Adem laughed, relieved.
“Then?”
Dejun leaned across the table. He lit a cigarette, and offered one to the Colonel.
“This assassination..it doesn’t matter who’s idea it was. The results are the same. The entire command infrastructure has been weakened.”
“You think the war is lost?”
“The war was over before it began, from the moment Iljievo deployed Imperial forces to Alberia.”
“You speak with a certain prejudice.”
“My heritage doesn’t cloud my judgement. Neither does yours.”
“It’s as much a part of us as our conscience. This Empire has betrayed itself. That’s the reason we’re talking, isn’t it?”
Dejun exhaled heavily.
“Don’t jump to conclusions. We are Generians, and we are Alberians. The two cannot be separated from one another. It’s the mistake the rebels have made, like their predecessors have for hundreds of years.”
Adem was getting agitated.
“Don’t begin to accuse me of not understanding that. The army has made me, taken me from the slums of Likiev and brought me to the table in Sofia. Don’t begin to accuse me of disinterest, or lack of gratitude.”
Dejun’s expression softened. He nearly smiled, sympathetically.
“I wouldn’t dream of doubting your commitment to either your people or your Empire. That is the reason we’re here, to talk.”
Adem sat back, impatient.
“Then talk.”
“Listen, the world is changing. This war shows us this as much as anything. The Alexian era is closing. He’s showing too much of his grandfather’s fist and not enough of his father’s restraint, his compromise. The winds are blowing in a different direction. This war is simply a matter of cutting off the nose to spite the face. The Empire cannot live without Alberia, and Alberia is nothing without her Imperial masters.”
“You’ve explained that to me, many times.”
“This murder opens a new hole in the Imperial fabric. We must act now or everything might come crashing down around us.”
“Like?”
“The entire Empire. Starting with the land of our birth.”
“There are those who want to compromise with the rebels…”
“We can’t do that. The rebels are criminals. They must be dealt with. The Alberian citizens, however, would for the most part fall into line should they be shown a gentler hand and a path to success, as the army has shown us. It’s simple capitalism: an incentive to succeed, to be a part of the system.”
“How then should we ‘act’”?
“It’s been done before. We have the muscle, and we’ll use it.”
“When?”
“Soon. A week.”
Adem started.
“A week? Are you serious?”
“There’s no alternative. If we delay, we’ll spiral too far. Kazatmiru will select a new general, and he’ll turn the war machine to his own devices. We have to exploit the uncertainty, or we’ll never gain the support of the army.”
“You expect them to support us? Us, Alberians?”
“We’re soldiers, the same as they. We have their interests at heart. This is a military Imperium, a soldier’s state. Yet it spits on them to serve the needs of the greedy politicos, men like Varus. Even Iljievo wasn’t free from the sin of power-brokering.”
Adem fell silent.
“Well? What do you say?”
“Tell me what you would have me do.”
“Your Praetorians control access to this city. They monitor the highways, and secure the movement of the officers. A week from today, you will shut the city down.”
“With 6,000 men?”
“It’s enough. My garrisons will rise up, and I’ll be in control of the city by noon.”
“Retribution?”
“It won’t come. I’ll make sure of it.”
--------------------
Port Likiev, Alberia
The grim specter of the Generian gunboats were silhouetted against the red rising sun. From the rooftops, dust and smoke mingled to create a grey frame through which the dawn’s light was tinted and distorted. The eerie light was cast on the jagged face of Bagatur Markovic, playing off of his red beard and blue eyes.
The ox of a man stalked back and forth on the balcony of a ruined hotel, watching the sea and the lightening sky. Below, he heard the occasional crack of gunfire of the thunder of a tank’s cannon. His hand rested on the curved hilt of a traditional Alberian long knife, a good luck charm that he had yet to use to spill human blood. He moved it to the pocket of his vest and withdrew a cigar, placing it unlit between his yellow teeth.
“Commander Markovic.”
The young Alberian, clad in a tattered uniform, brandishing a GIR-47, saluted.
“The General has come to see you.”
Markovic stepped through the door, off the balcony and into what was once a luxurious suite. General Dejun stood before him, in full uniform of the Imperial army. The two shook hands.
“Why have you come here, General?” growled the warrior.
“I have a proposition that’s too dangerous to make outside of face to face.”
“I’m listening.”
“I am willing to end this war, in our homeland.”
Markovic eyed the Generian warily, but allowed him to continue.
“In one week’s time, I am preparing to move into Sofia, and take the reigns of the Empire.”
“How?”
“Force.”
Markovic nodded.
“The only language you Generians understand.”
Dejun ignored the jibe.
“After that, things will change. The monarchy is old, in tatters. We will restore Generian pride to Generian citizens, including the Alberian people.”
“Alberians don’t want your Generian pride. We want a state.”
“Face facts, commander. What would your state be? A ruined hole.”
Markovic growled.
“That angers you because it’s true. You know it is.”
Markovic couldn’t deny this.
“In one week, lay down your arms, and you’ll be allowed to keep them, as a part of something larger.”
Markovic paced over to the window, looking out on the inner courtyard of the hotel.
“When your agents came to me with the suggestion yesterday, I was prepared to deny it. Your points are valid, however.”
“Don’t forget what else they told you.”
“What? Promises of guns, money?”
He laughed.
“It’s a fair deal, Markovic.”
“Yes, very fair to come from a Generian.”
“My blood is as red as yours.”
Markovic wheeled on him.
“A real Alberian wouldn’t disgrace his people with that uniform!”
Dejun stood his ground.
“I’m leaving, Markovic. If you’re willing to be part of something new, then do as I’ve said. One week from now.”
He turned to go, but halted as he reached the door. He turned slowly towards the rebel.
“How did your men know where Iljievo was going to be?”
The rebel grinned, revealing a golden tooth.
Dejun cracked a smile and left the room.
“How long?” he called to the pilot over the radio.
“Roughly twenty minutes, general,” came the response. Iljievo grunted and sat back. If it took a second longer, he would be keeping the Emperor himself waiting, as well as the entire Imperial military cabinet. It was an important meeting, judging just from the faces that would be present: a veritable who’s who of the Generian military and political leadership.
The subject was the war in Alberia, the costly “police action” invited by a series of declarations of secession several months ago, issued by everyone from militia leaders to arms cartel lords to Alberian orthodox priests. This all following the deployment of the Imperial army to the province to prevent exactly this. He had suggested the initial deployment, and the blood had been on his hands then, as it was now. The war had claimed close to 10,000 lives, 2,000 of which belonged to the Imperial army. Port Likiev, the largest port in the city had held out for a month before the various rebel militias, allied under the banner of the Organized Movement for Alberian Secession, had succeeded in cutting it off and forcing the Empire to withdraw its men by sea. The rebel flag now flew over the governor’s mansion there.
Elsewhere, the armies of the Empire had fared better, recapturing and holding large swaths of territory, including valuable oil fields and the rare mineral mines, which kept the economy going. Alberia was, after all, the largest source of oil and rare minerals in the Empire. To lose it would mean the devastation of the Generian economy, and it was exactly for this reason that Emperor Kazatmiru was growing concerned. Six months of fighting had become increasingly expensive, and some of his closest advisors were already beginning to suggest compromise with the Alberians; if not with the rebel fighters, than with the more moderate civilian leaders. Iljievo was almost inclined to agree, if he didn’t believe as he did that the war could be won.
As all of this raced through his head, the towers of downtown Sofia came into view. He checked the time again, and ground the butt of the cigarette under his heel. He sat back and closed his eyes, letting the drone of the engine relax him. He breathed deeply, for the last time.
On the highway below, traffic screeched to a halt as a fireball appeared overhead. The white trail of a rocket hung for a split second, like the stalk of a flower blooming orange and black. Chunks of twisted and charred metal fell to the ground, embedding themselves in the fields and the concrete. Among them were the sheared remains of the uniform of the supreme commander of the Imperial army.
-----------------
Kazatmiru’s face was stone set. He had aged visibly in just a few months, and the news he had just been presented with was pushing him closer towards an invisible line that a sane man could not possibly cross. The Marshal, Iljievo, had guided his hand for nearly a decade on the military front, and despite recent trials on the Alberian front, he remained one of two men with whom the Emperor placed his complete trust. The other, his chief advisor Lord Varus Tiberius Alexei, waited patiently at his side.
“It was certainly his helicopter that was destroyed?”
“Yes, your grace. There were no others within several miles.”
“How could they have known…” the Emperor said softly, half to himself.
“Military intelligence is already investigating. They think there might have been a mole, an Alberian sympathizer.”
Kazatmiru fell silent again. In the next room the Imperial military cabinet waited to begin a meeting that could no longer take place. The Emperor took a deep breath and got to his feet.
Stepping through the door, he confronted the dozen men before him.
“Gentlemen, I have tragic news. General Iljievo, my loyal servant for over ten years, was assassinated just a few moments ago when his helicopter was struck by a guided missile.”
The silence in the room was unbroken. Beyond the obvious tragedy, this revelation carried double significance. A new commander in chief would need to be chosen immediately. This could affect the direction of the entire war, not to mention Imperial military policy in general, something that was a rudder to a warlike Empire.
Kazatmiru, suddenly seized with a pang of emotion, uncharacteristic of himself, quickly excused himself. The men in the room began to slowly file out, rising separately. One, General Dejun, commander of the Imperial southeastern garrisons, remained behind. He was an odd man by his comrades’ accounts, a reclusive sort who was often silent and rarely slept. He was competent, however, and his experience and good council kept him in good standing with his peers and the emperor’s right hand. Recently, however, his opposition to the direction of the war had put him at odds with Iljievo, and consequently he was looked down upon by those who favored the prosecution of the war according to its current strategies.
This man, tall and dark haired, with a flash of yellow and red in his full beard, waited, sitting back in the chair in the empty conference table, apparently lost in thought. A moment later, another man entered the room. He wore the uniform of a Praetorian, the elite shock troops of the Empire, and held a colonel’s rank. He did not salute Dejun as he entered, and immediately took a seat across from him.
Dejun looked up, noticing him for the first time.
“Colonel Adem.”
“General.”
“You’ve heard the news?”
“Who hasn’t. They’re not being particularly conscious to security. It’s being blasted all over the open channels.”
Dejun grunted his acknowledgement.
“Everyone saw the explosion, as it was.”
“How did they ever manage to hit him coming into the city? I would have thought it impossible.”
“You and I both. Apparently the White Guard isn’t what it used to be. Security in Sofia has been uncomfortably lax.”
“All the best men have been called up and shipped north. We’re left with the rejects in the capital.”
“You’re obviously the exception, then, Colonel.”
Adem looked around, a hint of nervousness in his eyes.
“Are you certain it’s safe to speak here?”
“It’s the only room in this building that isn’t monitored. We have a few minutes before they’ll ask us politely to leave.”
Adem laughed, relieved.
“Then?”
Dejun leaned across the table. He lit a cigarette, and offered one to the Colonel.
“This assassination..it doesn’t matter who’s idea it was. The results are the same. The entire command infrastructure has been weakened.”
“You think the war is lost?”
“The war was over before it began, from the moment Iljievo deployed Imperial forces to Alberia.”
“You speak with a certain prejudice.”
“My heritage doesn’t cloud my judgement. Neither does yours.”
“It’s as much a part of us as our conscience. This Empire has betrayed itself. That’s the reason we’re talking, isn’t it?”
Dejun exhaled heavily.
“Don’t jump to conclusions. We are Generians, and we are Alberians. The two cannot be separated from one another. It’s the mistake the rebels have made, like their predecessors have for hundreds of years.”
Adem was getting agitated.
“Don’t begin to accuse me of not understanding that. The army has made me, taken me from the slums of Likiev and brought me to the table in Sofia. Don’t begin to accuse me of disinterest, or lack of gratitude.”
Dejun’s expression softened. He nearly smiled, sympathetically.
“I wouldn’t dream of doubting your commitment to either your people or your Empire. That is the reason we’re here, to talk.”
Adem sat back, impatient.
“Then talk.”
“Listen, the world is changing. This war shows us this as much as anything. The Alexian era is closing. He’s showing too much of his grandfather’s fist and not enough of his father’s restraint, his compromise. The winds are blowing in a different direction. This war is simply a matter of cutting off the nose to spite the face. The Empire cannot live without Alberia, and Alberia is nothing without her Imperial masters.”
“You’ve explained that to me, many times.”
“This murder opens a new hole in the Imperial fabric. We must act now or everything might come crashing down around us.”
“Like?”
“The entire Empire. Starting with the land of our birth.”
“There are those who want to compromise with the rebels…”
“We can’t do that. The rebels are criminals. They must be dealt with. The Alberian citizens, however, would for the most part fall into line should they be shown a gentler hand and a path to success, as the army has shown us. It’s simple capitalism: an incentive to succeed, to be a part of the system.”
“How then should we ‘act’”?
“It’s been done before. We have the muscle, and we’ll use it.”
“When?”
“Soon. A week.”
Adem started.
“A week? Are you serious?”
“There’s no alternative. If we delay, we’ll spiral too far. Kazatmiru will select a new general, and he’ll turn the war machine to his own devices. We have to exploit the uncertainty, or we’ll never gain the support of the army.”
“You expect them to support us? Us, Alberians?”
“We’re soldiers, the same as they. We have their interests at heart. This is a military Imperium, a soldier’s state. Yet it spits on them to serve the needs of the greedy politicos, men like Varus. Even Iljievo wasn’t free from the sin of power-brokering.”
Adem fell silent.
“Well? What do you say?”
“Tell me what you would have me do.”
“Your Praetorians control access to this city. They monitor the highways, and secure the movement of the officers. A week from today, you will shut the city down.”
“With 6,000 men?”
“It’s enough. My garrisons will rise up, and I’ll be in control of the city by noon.”
“Retribution?”
“It won’t come. I’ll make sure of it.”
--------------------
Port Likiev, Alberia
The grim specter of the Generian gunboats were silhouetted against the red rising sun. From the rooftops, dust and smoke mingled to create a grey frame through which the dawn’s light was tinted and distorted. The eerie light was cast on the jagged face of Bagatur Markovic, playing off of his red beard and blue eyes.
The ox of a man stalked back and forth on the balcony of a ruined hotel, watching the sea and the lightening sky. Below, he heard the occasional crack of gunfire of the thunder of a tank’s cannon. His hand rested on the curved hilt of a traditional Alberian long knife, a good luck charm that he had yet to use to spill human blood. He moved it to the pocket of his vest and withdrew a cigar, placing it unlit between his yellow teeth.
“Commander Markovic.”
The young Alberian, clad in a tattered uniform, brandishing a GIR-47, saluted.
“The General has come to see you.”
Markovic stepped through the door, off the balcony and into what was once a luxurious suite. General Dejun stood before him, in full uniform of the Imperial army. The two shook hands.
“Why have you come here, General?” growled the warrior.
“I have a proposition that’s too dangerous to make outside of face to face.”
“I’m listening.”
“I am willing to end this war, in our homeland.”
Markovic eyed the Generian warily, but allowed him to continue.
“In one week’s time, I am preparing to move into Sofia, and take the reigns of the Empire.”
“How?”
“Force.”
Markovic nodded.
“The only language you Generians understand.”
Dejun ignored the jibe.
“After that, things will change. The monarchy is old, in tatters. We will restore Generian pride to Generian citizens, including the Alberian people.”
“Alberians don’t want your Generian pride. We want a state.”
“Face facts, commander. What would your state be? A ruined hole.”
Markovic growled.
“That angers you because it’s true. You know it is.”
Markovic couldn’t deny this.
“In one week, lay down your arms, and you’ll be allowed to keep them, as a part of something larger.”
Markovic paced over to the window, looking out on the inner courtyard of the hotel.
“When your agents came to me with the suggestion yesterday, I was prepared to deny it. Your points are valid, however.”
“Don’t forget what else they told you.”
“What? Promises of guns, money?”
He laughed.
“It’s a fair deal, Markovic.”
“Yes, very fair to come from a Generian.”
“My blood is as red as yours.”
Markovic wheeled on him.
“A real Alberian wouldn’t disgrace his people with that uniform!”
Dejun stood his ground.
“I’m leaving, Markovic. If you’re willing to be part of something new, then do as I’ve said. One week from now.”
He turned to go, but halted as he reached the door. He turned slowly towards the rebel.
“How did your men know where Iljievo was going to be?”
The rebel grinned, revealing a golden tooth.
Dejun cracked a smile and left the room.