Generic empire
01-06-2007, 06:11
(Semi-Closed)
Corporal Andrei Bojanic peered over the frozen ridge, beholding the endless expanse of white plain that was the Alberian Steppe in all its monotonous grandeur. Raising a pair of binoculars, he scanned the apparently deserted plain all the way to the point where the white ground melted into the white sky. Far to his right lay the frozen North Sea of Generia. To the left, barely visible in the distance lay the Deska Mountains, and among them the ancient Military Pass. The barren space between encompassed thousands of miles of snow, ice, pitfalls, low rises, canyons invisible from too great a distance, and two armies who wanted nothing more than to utterly eviscerate each other and carry the heads back home as trophies of victory.
To call the Alberians an army, however, would be a bit misleading. In reality, the foe was a collection of warlords, diplomats, and gangsters who shared the same non-Generian ethnicity, and who were united only in their desire to free the long troubled province from the iron grip of Imperium. Since the war began, nearly a year ago, with the bombing of the Orev hotel and the ensuing military occupation by Emperor Kazatmiru’s Army, the Alberian rebel organizations had made alliances, broken them, and spilled the blood of their rivals as frequently as they had joined battle with Generian Imperial Forces. To Corporal Bojanic, who had passed through the mountains with the 132nd Imperial Regular Infantry six months ago, it was still a daily struggle to determine who, exactly, was his enemy.
Enemies, however, were by no means in short supply. The evacuation of Port Likiev, the largest city in the vast Alberian province, and its fall to Alberian rebels under warlord Blagoja Diniv had marked the first sign that the Empire was in trouble, and that the Alberian “Crisis” was quickly becoming a full-fledged war. Massive arrests of known Alberian separatists in the weeks following the bombing and prior to the outbreak of armed conflict in Alberia had done little to curb the enthusiasm of the angry young militants, tired of the oppression of their province and ethnicity that had been the norm for a thousand years.
Still, even then the lines (as now) were poorly drawn between Imperial loyalists and die-hard Alberian separatists. Corporal Bojanic was himself one quarter Alberian on his mother’s side. He, like so many others, had escaped discrimination by joining the ranks of the Generian Armed Forces, oddly enough one of the most egalitarian bodies on Earth. When he was ordered to go to the home of his ancestors and make war on the Alberian rebels, he answered without hesitation. He was a part of the complex machine that was the Empire, and blood ties to traitors would not subvert his commitment to it.
Now, he raised his hand and gestured towards the plain before him. Instantly, a dozen men appeared out of the snow dune behind him, and the troupe advanced at a crawl. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a brief flash of light. Reflecting later on the incident, he was certain that this flash was what saved his life. He rolled to the right just as the snow beside him exploded in a cloud of white dust, the hiss of a bullet following shortly behind. A subordinate pinpointed the origin of the shot, and instantly delivered a finely placed round between the eyes of a sniper half a mile away, hidden in the snow.
Such was the manner in which the battle of the Steppe was fought: painstakingly, cautiously, by small groups of men hunting each other across the ice fields. There was nowhere to hide, and yet they managed. The rebels waited, and alternately moved quickly to attack Imperial supply convoys or bases hidden beneath the ice while meanwhile the forces of the Empire hunted the separatists in small squads or from the air, eliminating them one at a time, or bombing them en masse.
It was a polar hell, and had been so for nearly a year. Things, however, were about to change.
----------
Daniil Filev was a diplomat. His title was obscure. In reality, very few people knew exactly what he did, or why he did it, or who filled the little manila envelope with his payment every month for services rendered to the Imperial Government. They knew he served the Emperor, that he was a close friend of Grand Vizier Lord Varus Tiberius Alexei, and that he was not a man to pick a fight with.
He was slim, and of only average height. He wore a suit like a second skin, and was a traditionally handsome man. He wore a goatee in the style of the foppish cosmopolitans of Generia City, neatly trimmed and without a mustache. His hair, like his eyes, was dark. His skin tone also betrayed a mixed ancestry, possibly Bormanian or even Pacitalian. In reality, he was the bastard son of an old Generian aristocrat and a 15 year old foreign prostitute, put up for adoption at birth and taken in by a man who would later become a high ranking foreign service minister and his wife, a young Sofian heiress. Lord Varus would become his Godfather several years later, when he was baptized as a young man into the Generian Orthodox Church.
He wore a crucifix and a dab of foreign cologne. His wallet was always full. He carried a slim knife in his shoe, and possessed three passports, though he seldom went anywhere pretending to be anyone but a representative from the most powerful individuals within the Generian Imperial Government.
Now, he was stepping off a plane onto a snow-covered landing strip in northern Alberia, twenty miles from the frozen coast. He had a briefcase handcuffed to his arm, and a handkerchief pressed to his face to keep his nostrils from freezing. In the blinding snow, he felt himself grabbed by the arm and dragged, and allowed it to be so. A moment later, he was in out of the storm, standing in a large room with bare walls. A heavy iron door closed behind him. A window and a naked lightbulb swinging from the ceiling were the only sources of light. The man who had dragged him stood nearby, drying his face and wiping his boots on the concrete floor.
He was a large man, bald, with a red eagle tattooed on the back of his neck. A GIR-47f carbine was slung across his back. The man stood to his full height and looked Filev over.
“You are the Emperor’s bitch?” said the man, with a heavy northern accent.
“I represent His Majesty’s Imperial Government.”
The man chuckled. Filev showed little emotion.
“Come.”
The man flipped a light switch, illuminating a previously darkened staircase, leading several stories down into the Earth. Filev followed him, clutching the briefcase. They came to an iron door. The man knocked and it was opened. They stepped into a second concrete corridor, obviously a remnant of an old Imperial military bunker. Out here on the Steppe there were hundreds. One never knew which were still being used, and it was not befitting of one to attempt to find out.
Filev followed the man down the corridor, and they came to a second door, this one wooden. Again, the man knocked and it was opened without question or hesitation. They stepped into a room, unusually well lit, and warm; an old officer’s residence, perhaps. There was a desk and a bookshelf, as well as a few chairs and an empty wastepaper basket. The room was empty save for a single individual, standing facing them.
“The Emperor’s bitch,” said Filev’s escort in Alberian, a language he assumed the Generian did not comprehend. The second man chuckled. He was of smaller stature than the first, but still much larger than Filev. He too was bald, and his bare forearms were covered in tattoos, such that it was difficult to find a bare patch of skin.
He stepped forward.
“You come from the Emperor?” he said, smiling a silver smile. He looked as though he had no idea as to the purpose of a “dentist.”
“Yes,” replied Filev.
“You bring something for me?”
“Yes,” Filev replied again, and held up the case. “If you please.”
The man nodded and walked over to the desk. Bending down, he came up with a heavy ax, and motioned for Filev to approach. The Generian did so, without the hesitation that might be common in a lesser man. He laid the case on the desk and stretched the chain connecting the cuffs so that it would be an easy mark. With brute strength, the Alberian raised the ax and let it fall, severing the chain as if it were butter. Filev backed up a bit and massaged his wrist, upon which the single cuff remained. He stepped up to the case, and adjusted the combination before sliding it over to the man.
The Alberian opened the case, revealing it to be full of clean stacks of crisp 100 Genera bills. He grinned again, from ear to ear.
“This,” he said, motioning at the case, “buys you five minutes of my time. It also ensures that I won’t kill you afterwards. However, as the contract has not been written, this article will be subject to change depending on what you say.”
The man was still smiling.
“I am here on behalf of the Generian Imperial Government. My superiors, including His Majesty, Emperor Kazatmiru, wish to make a deal with you, Evgeny Desiovic.”
“A deal,” laughed the man. “A deal?”
“Yes. We are willing to spare you, should you agree to our conditions.”
“Spare me?” said the man, laughing and incredulous. His companion laughed too, though he eyed Filev as if he were mad.
“Yes. Spare you. Over the past six months we have watched you and your organization of militants and cartel thugs wage war against Imperial soldiers, stationed here lawfully to preserve order in the Imperial province of Alberia.”
“Alberia is free!”
The man’s countenance had changed dramatically. There was rage in his eyes. He took a step forward. His hand was on his hip, close to the wooden hilt of a long knife. Filev continued, however, unfazed.
“The Empire has every right to slaughter you and your men without any form of trial or appeal. As of this moment, the Empire is currently training several guided missiles on this very location, prepared to incinerate you should you refuse to cooperate.”
The man’s expression was a look of complete incredulity and that of a man insulted.
“Impossible!” he cried. Gesturing towards the ceiling, he continued: “you were brought here blindfolded. You were not followed. There are no devices on you to track your whereabouts. These were our conditions! You have met them!”
“There are other ways to find men, Mr. Desiovic. Other men can often help us with that.”
“You are spewing nonsense! My men are completely loyal to me! It is I that have led them to their victories over your Emperor’s bitches, and the Cartel dogs! I am their savior! Alberia will be free by my hand!”
Now it was Filev who cracked a smile.
“You don’t pay well enough to ensure complete loyalty, Mr. Desiovic.”
Desiovic was glowing with rage. He looked over at the Alberian guard, who shrugged in confusion.
“What are you telling me, Filev? Are you here to kill me?”
“No, Mr. Desiovic. I’m here to pay you; to give you exactly what you just said you wanted: Alberia under your thumb.”
Desiovic took another step forward. His expression had changed once again. No longer full of anger, he looked interested, perplexed, as if he was misunderstanding the strange little man standing before him.
“What do you mean?” he spoke slowly.
“I mean that you and the Empire can do business. You have proved yourself. As you have said, you have defeated the Cartels, and engaged in even battle with Imperial soldiers. You are no coward. You do your race proud. Generia, should you choose this over death, is willing to make you an offer. When the spring comes, and the Empire makes war again along the coast and on Port Likiev, your armies will not join the Confederation of Militias in repelling the offensive. You don’t need to help us, you need only not hinder us. There is no dishonor in this.”
Desiovic slammed his fist on the desk.
“Your being here dishonors me, Imperial pig! My countrymen and I will fight and die side by side!”
Filev now took a step forward.
“What have they done for you? Only two months ago you were busy killing the men of Avin Dima’s smuggling cartel-turned-rebel militia. You are a stronger man than they are, and you are smarter. You know an opportunity when you see it.”
“You are insulting me, dog. You should go if you value your life…”
“It’s you who are insulting yourself, Desiovic. Choosing death in a bunker beneath the ice is no way for a man to prove himself. You could lead your armies triumphantly into Port Likiev, after the Empire has defeated your rivals for you. You could have both the pardon and even the employment of the Emperor as well as the reputation among your people as the one who brought a better life. We can give you stewardship of the new Alberian Steppe province, and an army with the best equipment to rule it with.”
Desiovic was quiet.
“Make the right choice today, Desiovic. Your people will thank you. All you have to do is pull your men back when the Empire launches its newest offensive. Then, you can have everything you want. Eternal glory, wealth, and reputation.”
The Alberian glared intently at the Generian.
“The Emperor will give you three days to decide. If you haven’t by then, then we will kill you.”
“You will never find me…”
“Would you put your life on that?”
Desiovic grunted.
“I will consider your offer. Leave me.”
Filev turned, and walked towards the door. As he stepped into the darkened corridor, he was smiling.
Corporal Andrei Bojanic peered over the frozen ridge, beholding the endless expanse of white plain that was the Alberian Steppe in all its monotonous grandeur. Raising a pair of binoculars, he scanned the apparently deserted plain all the way to the point where the white ground melted into the white sky. Far to his right lay the frozen North Sea of Generia. To the left, barely visible in the distance lay the Deska Mountains, and among them the ancient Military Pass. The barren space between encompassed thousands of miles of snow, ice, pitfalls, low rises, canyons invisible from too great a distance, and two armies who wanted nothing more than to utterly eviscerate each other and carry the heads back home as trophies of victory.
To call the Alberians an army, however, would be a bit misleading. In reality, the foe was a collection of warlords, diplomats, and gangsters who shared the same non-Generian ethnicity, and who were united only in their desire to free the long troubled province from the iron grip of Imperium. Since the war began, nearly a year ago, with the bombing of the Orev hotel and the ensuing military occupation by Emperor Kazatmiru’s Army, the Alberian rebel organizations had made alliances, broken them, and spilled the blood of their rivals as frequently as they had joined battle with Generian Imperial Forces. To Corporal Bojanic, who had passed through the mountains with the 132nd Imperial Regular Infantry six months ago, it was still a daily struggle to determine who, exactly, was his enemy.
Enemies, however, were by no means in short supply. The evacuation of Port Likiev, the largest city in the vast Alberian province, and its fall to Alberian rebels under warlord Blagoja Diniv had marked the first sign that the Empire was in trouble, and that the Alberian “Crisis” was quickly becoming a full-fledged war. Massive arrests of known Alberian separatists in the weeks following the bombing and prior to the outbreak of armed conflict in Alberia had done little to curb the enthusiasm of the angry young militants, tired of the oppression of their province and ethnicity that had been the norm for a thousand years.
Still, even then the lines (as now) were poorly drawn between Imperial loyalists and die-hard Alberian separatists. Corporal Bojanic was himself one quarter Alberian on his mother’s side. He, like so many others, had escaped discrimination by joining the ranks of the Generian Armed Forces, oddly enough one of the most egalitarian bodies on Earth. When he was ordered to go to the home of his ancestors and make war on the Alberian rebels, he answered without hesitation. He was a part of the complex machine that was the Empire, and blood ties to traitors would not subvert his commitment to it.
Now, he raised his hand and gestured towards the plain before him. Instantly, a dozen men appeared out of the snow dune behind him, and the troupe advanced at a crawl. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a brief flash of light. Reflecting later on the incident, he was certain that this flash was what saved his life. He rolled to the right just as the snow beside him exploded in a cloud of white dust, the hiss of a bullet following shortly behind. A subordinate pinpointed the origin of the shot, and instantly delivered a finely placed round between the eyes of a sniper half a mile away, hidden in the snow.
Such was the manner in which the battle of the Steppe was fought: painstakingly, cautiously, by small groups of men hunting each other across the ice fields. There was nowhere to hide, and yet they managed. The rebels waited, and alternately moved quickly to attack Imperial supply convoys or bases hidden beneath the ice while meanwhile the forces of the Empire hunted the separatists in small squads or from the air, eliminating them one at a time, or bombing them en masse.
It was a polar hell, and had been so for nearly a year. Things, however, were about to change.
----------
Daniil Filev was a diplomat. His title was obscure. In reality, very few people knew exactly what he did, or why he did it, or who filled the little manila envelope with his payment every month for services rendered to the Imperial Government. They knew he served the Emperor, that he was a close friend of Grand Vizier Lord Varus Tiberius Alexei, and that he was not a man to pick a fight with.
He was slim, and of only average height. He wore a suit like a second skin, and was a traditionally handsome man. He wore a goatee in the style of the foppish cosmopolitans of Generia City, neatly trimmed and without a mustache. His hair, like his eyes, was dark. His skin tone also betrayed a mixed ancestry, possibly Bormanian or even Pacitalian. In reality, he was the bastard son of an old Generian aristocrat and a 15 year old foreign prostitute, put up for adoption at birth and taken in by a man who would later become a high ranking foreign service minister and his wife, a young Sofian heiress. Lord Varus would become his Godfather several years later, when he was baptized as a young man into the Generian Orthodox Church.
He wore a crucifix and a dab of foreign cologne. His wallet was always full. He carried a slim knife in his shoe, and possessed three passports, though he seldom went anywhere pretending to be anyone but a representative from the most powerful individuals within the Generian Imperial Government.
Now, he was stepping off a plane onto a snow-covered landing strip in northern Alberia, twenty miles from the frozen coast. He had a briefcase handcuffed to his arm, and a handkerchief pressed to his face to keep his nostrils from freezing. In the blinding snow, he felt himself grabbed by the arm and dragged, and allowed it to be so. A moment later, he was in out of the storm, standing in a large room with bare walls. A heavy iron door closed behind him. A window and a naked lightbulb swinging from the ceiling were the only sources of light. The man who had dragged him stood nearby, drying his face and wiping his boots on the concrete floor.
He was a large man, bald, with a red eagle tattooed on the back of his neck. A GIR-47f carbine was slung across his back. The man stood to his full height and looked Filev over.
“You are the Emperor’s bitch?” said the man, with a heavy northern accent.
“I represent His Majesty’s Imperial Government.”
The man chuckled. Filev showed little emotion.
“Come.”
The man flipped a light switch, illuminating a previously darkened staircase, leading several stories down into the Earth. Filev followed him, clutching the briefcase. They came to an iron door. The man knocked and it was opened. They stepped into a second concrete corridor, obviously a remnant of an old Imperial military bunker. Out here on the Steppe there were hundreds. One never knew which were still being used, and it was not befitting of one to attempt to find out.
Filev followed the man down the corridor, and they came to a second door, this one wooden. Again, the man knocked and it was opened without question or hesitation. They stepped into a room, unusually well lit, and warm; an old officer’s residence, perhaps. There was a desk and a bookshelf, as well as a few chairs and an empty wastepaper basket. The room was empty save for a single individual, standing facing them.
“The Emperor’s bitch,” said Filev’s escort in Alberian, a language he assumed the Generian did not comprehend. The second man chuckled. He was of smaller stature than the first, but still much larger than Filev. He too was bald, and his bare forearms were covered in tattoos, such that it was difficult to find a bare patch of skin.
He stepped forward.
“You come from the Emperor?” he said, smiling a silver smile. He looked as though he had no idea as to the purpose of a “dentist.”
“Yes,” replied Filev.
“You bring something for me?”
“Yes,” Filev replied again, and held up the case. “If you please.”
The man nodded and walked over to the desk. Bending down, he came up with a heavy ax, and motioned for Filev to approach. The Generian did so, without the hesitation that might be common in a lesser man. He laid the case on the desk and stretched the chain connecting the cuffs so that it would be an easy mark. With brute strength, the Alberian raised the ax and let it fall, severing the chain as if it were butter. Filev backed up a bit and massaged his wrist, upon which the single cuff remained. He stepped up to the case, and adjusted the combination before sliding it over to the man.
The Alberian opened the case, revealing it to be full of clean stacks of crisp 100 Genera bills. He grinned again, from ear to ear.
“This,” he said, motioning at the case, “buys you five minutes of my time. It also ensures that I won’t kill you afterwards. However, as the contract has not been written, this article will be subject to change depending on what you say.”
The man was still smiling.
“I am here on behalf of the Generian Imperial Government. My superiors, including His Majesty, Emperor Kazatmiru, wish to make a deal with you, Evgeny Desiovic.”
“A deal,” laughed the man. “A deal?”
“Yes. We are willing to spare you, should you agree to our conditions.”
“Spare me?” said the man, laughing and incredulous. His companion laughed too, though he eyed Filev as if he were mad.
“Yes. Spare you. Over the past six months we have watched you and your organization of militants and cartel thugs wage war against Imperial soldiers, stationed here lawfully to preserve order in the Imperial province of Alberia.”
“Alberia is free!”
The man’s countenance had changed dramatically. There was rage in his eyes. He took a step forward. His hand was on his hip, close to the wooden hilt of a long knife. Filev continued, however, unfazed.
“The Empire has every right to slaughter you and your men without any form of trial or appeal. As of this moment, the Empire is currently training several guided missiles on this very location, prepared to incinerate you should you refuse to cooperate.”
The man’s expression was a look of complete incredulity and that of a man insulted.
“Impossible!” he cried. Gesturing towards the ceiling, he continued: “you were brought here blindfolded. You were not followed. There are no devices on you to track your whereabouts. These were our conditions! You have met them!”
“There are other ways to find men, Mr. Desiovic. Other men can often help us with that.”
“You are spewing nonsense! My men are completely loyal to me! It is I that have led them to their victories over your Emperor’s bitches, and the Cartel dogs! I am their savior! Alberia will be free by my hand!”
Now it was Filev who cracked a smile.
“You don’t pay well enough to ensure complete loyalty, Mr. Desiovic.”
Desiovic was glowing with rage. He looked over at the Alberian guard, who shrugged in confusion.
“What are you telling me, Filev? Are you here to kill me?”
“No, Mr. Desiovic. I’m here to pay you; to give you exactly what you just said you wanted: Alberia under your thumb.”
Desiovic took another step forward. His expression had changed once again. No longer full of anger, he looked interested, perplexed, as if he was misunderstanding the strange little man standing before him.
“What do you mean?” he spoke slowly.
“I mean that you and the Empire can do business. You have proved yourself. As you have said, you have defeated the Cartels, and engaged in even battle with Imperial soldiers. You are no coward. You do your race proud. Generia, should you choose this over death, is willing to make you an offer. When the spring comes, and the Empire makes war again along the coast and on Port Likiev, your armies will not join the Confederation of Militias in repelling the offensive. You don’t need to help us, you need only not hinder us. There is no dishonor in this.”
Desiovic slammed his fist on the desk.
“Your being here dishonors me, Imperial pig! My countrymen and I will fight and die side by side!”
Filev now took a step forward.
“What have they done for you? Only two months ago you were busy killing the men of Avin Dima’s smuggling cartel-turned-rebel militia. You are a stronger man than they are, and you are smarter. You know an opportunity when you see it.”
“You are insulting me, dog. You should go if you value your life…”
“It’s you who are insulting yourself, Desiovic. Choosing death in a bunker beneath the ice is no way for a man to prove himself. You could lead your armies triumphantly into Port Likiev, after the Empire has defeated your rivals for you. You could have both the pardon and even the employment of the Emperor as well as the reputation among your people as the one who brought a better life. We can give you stewardship of the new Alberian Steppe province, and an army with the best equipment to rule it with.”
Desiovic was quiet.
“Make the right choice today, Desiovic. Your people will thank you. All you have to do is pull your men back when the Empire launches its newest offensive. Then, you can have everything you want. Eternal glory, wealth, and reputation.”
The Alberian glared intently at the Generian.
“The Emperor will give you three days to decide. If you haven’t by then, then we will kill you.”
“You will never find me…”
“Would you put your life on that?”
Desiovic grunted.
“I will consider your offer. Leave me.”
Filev turned, and walked towards the door. As he stepped into the darkened corridor, he was smiling.