NationStates Jolt Archive

"The successful revolutionary is a statesman, the unsuccessful one a criminal." - Erich Fromm, Escape from Freedom

Marerius Airport, Diherad, "Free" Marerius

It no longer bore its former name, but the citizens of the ex-colony of "Free" Marerius still referred to it as such. They had carried the name of "Yaforite" Marerius for over five and a half thousand years. A few more would not have made much of a difference to the common people in the streets. But, in a small way, it did. To the common people, the very word "Yaforite" had a sense of ownership, a sense of oppression associated with it. It did not matter that the empire had been gone for nearly half a century. The connotation of the word "Yaforite" had still been there.

It had not been easy for Arman Adro to even gain independence for the former imperial colony, no matter how much the citizens wanted it. Arman Adro had had to work against the very system in Marerius. It was so much a class-oriented society, based purely on wealth, concepts nearly incomprehensible to a Yaforite. But Arman Adro had done it, and had received great acclaim from members of all three major parties. It was to his credit that he didn't want to go into politics. It was strange, then, that he had refused his opportunity to return to Marerius which, "free" or not, was exploding again.

"And you've been to Marerius, my good Field Commander?" Field Commander Saphara Paharad felt herself jolted out of her thoughts. She nodded curtly. It had been along the time of Arman Adro's tenure, when he had "freed" Marerius in the first place. She had been the commander of his honor guard. "And you have fought these rebels, yes?" She looked at the man on the other side of the plane, staring him directly into the face. A small smile seemed to play around her lips, but had anyone mentioned it, it would have been gone instantly. She enjoyed verbal banter, but she did not enjoy when the joke was turned on her.

"If you already know the answer to the question, Nakhran, why do you keep asking?" Nakhran Narimov grinned widely in response. He tended to joke around far too much, but it in him it was less infuriating than intriguing. He was a good-looking man, a mix of light-skinned Buchianan bloodstock and darker Yaforite breeding. He was one of many who had been caught in the middle when the Yaforite-Generian War (what was known in Generia as the "War of Yaforite Aggression" and in Yafor 2 as the more fancy "War of the Wolves") had flared up between the countries. It had taken someone like him to begin the process of restoring relations between the two countries. His success there had been the pathway that had brought him here.

"I remember what the old governor used to call it. A hellhole. Because it is one." Surprisingly, one of the other commanders on the plane volunteered his words. Syad and Tanis were the captains under Saphara. Eldran was her burly, taciturn lieutenant. It had been one of the lighter captains who had spoken (Nakhran supposed that it was Tanis, but he had never been very good with names). He was more interested in what the man had to say. A hellhole. It was what he had been expecting. Marerius was never anything better than that, and, too often, it was worse. From what he heard on the ground, this was one of those times.

The plane banked, suddenly, and began on its descent. It was a small plane for a journey of the length that they were going on, but Yaforites, being the environmentalists they were, believed in not wasting space or fuel. As a result, they had stopped six times to refuel on the way. Nakhran didn't exactly mind, but the Yaforite compulsion to preserve every drop of natural resource possible was slightly annoying, at times. Part of him told him to relax, to enjoy how it was. The other part of him told him to preserve everything he could for the next generation. Nakhran figured that this was the real difference between Yaforites and everyone else; instead of living for the moment, Yaforites lived so that that everyone could have what they needed, for a "future moment", essentially. It was strange, but it was more a break in upbringing than anything else.

"Does he really have to fly like that?" Kaira, Nakhran's fifteen-year-old daughter asked, in a whiny tone. Saphara glared at the girl. Nakhran sighed. It may have been a mistake to bring her along, but he could not have left her behind. Her mother, a Buchianan, was dead. He had no family himself to speak of. Perhaps with a friend? But Nakhran had no idea how long he was going to be here. Perhaps a year. Perhaps a month. Perhaps for the rest of his life. Kaira glared right back at Saphara, as if daring the soldier to "do her worst". Nakhran sighed again. He would have to work to keep the Field Commander away from his daughter, no matter what happened.

The plane finished its descent and slammed down, crashing to the ground in one of the bumpiest landing of Nakhran's long diplomatic career. Looking out of the window, Nakhran spied a group of people, mostly overweight and well-dressed, standing along the tarmac, surrounded by servant carrying good. "Looks like we have a welcoming party." he said, somewhat sardonically. Saphara laughed, then spoke, her voice still full of her laughter. "Pilot, please take us to a gate on the other side of the tarmac, thank you." She quickly rode over the other man's protestations. "This is how it works in Marerius. If we want to bring peace back to this place, we insult everyone we can until we get it done."

It was a risky solution, but one that would work, but only if they could get it done correctly. Only then.

[OOC: Welcome to the second RP about Marerius. For other information, please read The Two Words That Bring Freedom (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=490459), which provides background and such. To join in, please telegram/MSN/IRC me. Thanks.]

Not far from the roiling politics of Diherad, the Afon Lloyd meandered through a wide valley dotted to the east with parcels of cleared land and ripening crops. Upon the hillsides to the north the leaves of tea plants rustled in the warm winds blowing across Sarnia from the northeast, a storm due to drop several centimetres of rain in a week or so--at least according to the Meteorological Office.

Amid the greens, yellows, and browns that coloured the alluvial landscape, a concentration of grey and white appeared upon a small rise around which the Afon slowly curved, speeding up just a notch as the river's width narrowed briefly. In the far western reaches of Oceanian Sarnia, the city of Bryn Caer served as an administrative centre, and more importantly, an agricultural centre for the surrounding farms.

Two motorways and a two-track railway emanated from the city of nearly two hundred thousand. One of the motorways and the railway provided an east-west corridor, linking the city to the industrial heartland around Atherton and by extension to the distant capital of Avalon-on-Avon. The other motorway, ostensibly to allow for development of the coastal regions north of Bryn Caer, was most frequented not with automobiles and lorries, but rather tanks and other combat vehicles.

The ongoing discussions with the Sarzonian government in Woodstock, although unknown outside Georgetown and Woodstock, had provided the room for the Ministry of Defence to redeploy its limited forces in the colony from its southern border to the western borders: Geletian and Yaforite territory.

And then the Yaforite colony was no-longer Yaforite.

It was free.

The change in the winds had been sudden; a continent colonised by foreign powers had witnessed its first taste of independence. Its first real taste of native government. And while Oceanian Sarnia was considered a loyal settler colony, the few indigenous peoples and a minority of the few restless settlers now had a role model. And they needed only to look across the Afon Lloyd, only to stand upon the riverfront and look at the towers of steel and concrete rising from the river to realise the sinews of connection and interdependence were forming, strengthening.

First it would be a joint motorway/railway bridge, bringing people and cargo from distant seaports into the continental hinterland of Mareius. Next, cultural exchanges, diplomatic relations, political contacts. Revolution.

From a small high-rise in Bryn Caer, Sir Basil Ashford watched the construction of the bridge, the first concrete link between the two political entities. His fingers tapped slowly, rhythmically against the polished glass table behind which he stood. Upon the desk, figures and tables of trade data. Various estimates of the benefits and risks of doing business with Free Mareius.

Ashford had arrived in Sarnia an experienced administrator of Oceanian colonies. He was described in some very small and discreet circles as a loyalist, or an imperialist, or a crown-sympathiser. He had no evidence, indeed, none of the intelligence services had yet broken into nationalist cells dedicated to independence; but everyone in the government knew such cells were being formed. Perhaps just outside of his reach, just across the river.

Rumours had slowly worked their way from Diherad to Avalon-on-Avon of an unsettled atmosphere. Whispers of a return of Yaforites could be heard between the rubbed insect legs and the croaks of the frogs in the Afon Lloyd. Hints of conflict echoed off the hillsides, in and out of forests who had heard many such things in their centuries of existence. But they could not counsel Ashford, nor his superiors in Georgetown. So Ashford had come to Bryn Caer, to see Mareius for himself.

And there Mareius lay, but perhaps a few kilometres into the land beyond the river, where a motorway and railway were simultaneously under construction. Along which Oceanian goods would someday travel. And along which Ashford feared payments in pounds and notions of nationalism would be returned. He turned slowly away from the otherwise picturesque view, largely unspoiled by urbanisation and faced a tall man, upon whose broad brown shoulders were epaulets of rank in the army.

"So General, what say you?"

The grey-haired man walked closer to the plate glass window, eyeing for himself Free Mareius. He had been along the southern border with Pavanne for over a year, where the army had been the sentry, preventing a Sarzonian invasion of the Oceanian colony. He had served in Novikov on the westward drive towards Zvolen. Now he had reached what he realised would be his last real field command, the distant colony of Oceanian Sarnia.

"Your Excellency," he began in a subdued, yet confident air, "the Mareians are surely not fools. While we have limited forces in theatre, at the moment, they must know we can draw upon dozens of infantry divisions and simply overwhelm them by sheer numbers. The RAF can sortie hundreds of fighters and darken their skies. We ought to have sentry posts along the border, as we do to the south. Alert fighters and rapid-reaction forces of platoon size to counter any potential incursion of rebel forces or rebel-sympathisers. However, the Mareians hold two significant cards."

"And they are?"

"One, they are inland, landlocked, sir." As much as the general hated to admit it, the Royal Army had never been the senior service, nor the favoured service in the United Kingdom. Those positions had always belonged to the Royal Navy. The Admiralty existed as its own separate cabinet office, maintaining their own member of cabinet as an equal to the defence secretary. They received a larger portion of the defence budget and had more men and women in uniform than the army. "The Royal Navy could do nothing but perhaps launch air-strikes and deep-penetration cruise missile strikes. Both, however, would necessarily arrive from launch positions in Oceanian waters."

"The second," the general continued, "is they have real experience in fomenting revolution and an insurgency. They forced the Yaforite government to reconsider their arrangements in Sarnia; at the end of which they have all but pulled out leaving a vaccuum across the river. They know that they need not send tanks across the Lloyd, but merely ideas and a few people with organisational knowledge. And ideas, sir, are far harder to kill with bullets."

"But you can still post sentries, no?"

The general nodded curtly. "Indeed. I would recommend the deployment of the Rangers to sentry posts." The Royal Sarnian Rangers were one of the few indigenous infantry units formed in the colony as all the other units had been flown in from various postings throughout the Empire. "The Rangers, sir, are locals. They know the forests and the valleys. They know the routes and the river fords. I would keep the mechanised and airborne units in reserve; let the rangers identify the incursions and vector the heavier units to counter them. As for airpower, just keep the RAF on alert."

It took but forty-eight hours, but slowly mechanised units began to shift while engineers and infantrymen coordinated on a system of sentry posts and watchtowers along the border with Mareius. They enjoyed a river border, long open views with but one half-built bridge between them. Though it was well understood that skiffs frequently crossed. It was how men like Ashford and the general obtained copies of Diherad dailies and other public documents smuggled out of Mareius. Now the two hoped they could keep a better eye upon such transits.

Rural Marerius, A Meeting-Place

Gulrad filed in with the other people, feeling distinctly out of place. It was not that he was different in his background - they all came from the same mud huts and farm villages that surrounded the area. It was not that he had not gone through everything that they had - they all had had to endure famine, hatred, and racism. It was not that he did not believe in freedom, nor their right to truely possess it. It was more that Gulrad felt that violence was not the right way to get what they had wanted. Violence may have been a factor in independence (though Gulrad suspected that the protestors had been more of one), but it would not be a factor now. Violence had a way of having unforeseen consequences. Unfortunate ones.

As of now, however, Gulrad was less interested in furthering his own views regarding getting freedom for all. Nazfir was a very important man regarding the struggle (both non-violent and violent methods), and, beyond that, he was also Gulrad's brother-in-law. Family loyalties were strong in rural Marerius (as they were in many places) and Gulrad partly felt that it was integral that he go. Of course, Nazfir also had very interesting views himself and Gulrad would probably learn something regarding the fight for freedom. As more and more people filed in, soon the meeting area began to seem cramped, but a space remained in the middle of the pack, which soon began to fashion itself as a circle. In the center, the lone light in the room shone down as a middle-aged, lean man with a curling black mustache began to speak.

"The hour comes!" His voice was rich with emotion, but loud enough that no one had trouble hearing. It was one of Nazfir's characteristics. He could talk in a way that made anyone listen. He was a charismatic, intelligent leader and, though Gulrad probably would not have liked to admit it, he found himself admiring the Marerian, who said whatever he wished, without fear of retribution, because he knew he had doing the right thing. It was very admirable, in its way, but Gulrad found himself, unlike almost everyone else there, disagreeing with much of what the man had to say. Gulrad knew that he was alone, but he also was confident that he, too, was doing the right thing. It kept him going as well.

The man in the center of the crowd continued to speak. "We had revolution once, or so they said. We have our freedom, or so they said." His voice was casually mocking, as if falsely indulgent. "Does this feel like freedom to you?" An angry mutter ran through the assembled crowd. "Is freedom having to work twice as hard to satisfy the richest of the rich?" There were more angry noises in the crowd. "We created this revolution! We worked, we killed, we protested!" Nods passed through the area. "But in our moment of triumph, in our ultimate moment of success, we had our revolution stolen away, by those who hate us and oppress us!" A few shouts of outrage echoed through the crowded room.

A nudge on Gulrad's elbow forced him to turn. He nodded at the person who had nudged him, his brother Shadan. "Didn't expect to see you at one of these meetings, brother." Shadan whispered. He was more than simply a sympathizer - he was one of Nazfir's closest supporters. "What do you think?" Gulrad shrugged, though it was difficult, with the crowd around him. "He's certainly skilled at what he does." Shadan nodded, though Gulrad knew he wasn't looking for analysis. "He hasn't said anything surprising. He's basically only said things that everyone knows are the truth - that are the truth." Gulrad quickly amended his comments at his brother's stare.

"But we need freedom again, brothers!" Nazfir was speaking loudly once more, and his voice was uplifting, catching every man in the room in its spell. "We need a something new, a new start! We need a change in the winds!" Through the room there was shouts of assent. "Brothers, we need a revolution! We need a new chance at freedom for the people, a new chance at what we truely deserve!" A roar swept through the crowded spaces as every man, even Gulrad, roared in agreement.

"But this will not be easy." Nazfir now spoke in a soft voice, like a friend to each man. "We have much ahead of us. Many of us will die in the fight for we deserve, and they will be remember as martyrs." The room had taken on a more somber tone. "But our time has come. And, brothers, I know the perfect vehicle to show the land-owners and the Yaforites and everyone else that we are not afraid. That we will not falter. That we do not fear. That we are ready to give our all for what we deserve."

[OOC: The rest of this post - Nakhran arguing with the Marerian government and the thing that Nazfir promises coming to pass, I will have tomorrow.]

(Tag as I desperately try to remember what if any was my involvement in this part of the world. Damn it, I wish that I had more time on-line!)

[OOC: BG, I'm guessing that you had a colony on Sarnia. Going by the map (http://img280.imageshack.us/img280/9479/sarniaboundriesgrid4ci.opt.png)of Sarnia, you border Marerius and Oceanian Sarnia to the north. Makes you a player in RP, I guess.]

Diherad, "Free" Marerius

Nakhran Narimov was seething with anger. He tended to waver from mood to mood anyway, but certain things took him to one extreme or the other. One of these was plain idiocy. He loathed people who followed ideologies and plans that they too knew were wrong, and yet tried to convince themselves that they were right. He simply hated those who refused to see the truth, not even if it were pointed out to them under a microscope. What irritated him the most, however, was those people who deliberately lied - who essentially admitted that they were lying - but felt compelled to press the fantasy that they were describing. They were dishonest too much, or so Nakhran thought, and Nakhran despised dishonesty more than anything.

The man sitting across from Nakhran was the root cause of all his anger. He was large (overly so, thought the Yaforite, who, due to his anger, was willing to look for any flaws in the other man), with a round body and face. He was the representative of the "Government of Marerius" that Nakhran had had to meet, and ten minute of him had convinced Nakhran that the "government", as it was, was neither democratic nor "of the people". The other man was arrogant, rude, and seemed to look upon Nakhran as neither an equal nor a better, but as a fly (or some such animal) to be squashed and ignored. It was a strange post to take with an diplomat, and particularly one like Nakhran, who had not liked the man upon sight.

The other man was named Sferin Bako, and, as Nakhran had heard three times before, his family was not only an old and glorious one, but it also had royal Yaforite blood in it (apparently his great-great-great-great-granduncle had married a second cousin of the emperor's sister's second husband, which wasn't really royal blood anyway), and he was very proud to admit it. The fat man seemed to do everything in his pompous, proud way, and it was something that continued to irritate Nakhran to no end - but he tolerated it, if only because he knew that he wasn't in Marerius to declare war (no matter how much he would have liked to).

"It is utterly impossible." Sferin Bako declaimed, as if talking to a minion or fool of some sort. "To let your troops," he put a strange emphasis on "your", as if it were an insult to his pride, or some such, "have free reign inside our cities," his emphasis on "our" was one of, well, pride, "would be an insult to our independence. I am afraid, Diplomat, that it is utterly impossible to let your troops either set up checkpoints or to patrol across anywhere - even Sector 3." Sector 3 was the richest suburb of Diherad, where the government was located.

Nakhran was beginning to see the mistake that Arman Adro had made when he had left. Arman had gained the respect of the populace, yes, but he had failed to put any boundaries on them when he had departed from the country. As a result, the "independent democratic government of Marerius" was really not very democratic at all. Instead, it was in the hands of the rich landowners, all of whom could trace their lineages back to the Middle Jakuriat Period. It was as if from tyranny had come tyranny, for the common people. It was very sad.

"I am warning you, Mr. Bako, that unless you let us protect you, there will be an attack and people will die. You, even." Nakhran tried to add a sense of urgency to his voice. Sferin Bako pretended to contemplate it for a second, then shook his head. "Of course not!" His tone was as if he were some sort of genius and Nakhran was a country bumpkin. "You are very wrong, Diplomat Narimov. We will not be attacked, and I am sure of this. Please, check your facts this time." Sferin Bako gave a huge belly laugh.

It was only his daughter's hand on his shoulder that prevented Nakhran from lashing out at the Marerian.

Riverplain, Marerius

It was known on the Oceanian side as "the city across the Lloyd", but Riverplain was far more than that. It had been colonized not as long ago as many of the other cities of Marerius, and thus bore an anglicized name (a literal translation of its native name, in fact). It was almost directly on the Afon Lloyd, and, as a result, it was a trade town, as well as a town that depended on the rise and flow of new ideas. It was not a large city (with a population numbering in the thousands), but it was large enough, with an important enough location, to be counted as a necessary city in Marerius. Moreover, with Marerius at last free, Riverplain would most likely be an important part of developing and fostering a relationship with Marerius' new neighbors.

One thing that also made Riverplain vitally important was the fact that it was the site of the Marerian building of the Oceanian Sarnia - Free Marerius bridge. The bridge was being built simultaneously from both sides (both as a symbolic message and also because it would be finished faster that way) and, as a result, the alloted space was full of concrete, trucks, and scaffolding. Naturally, the building on the Marerian side was moving a lot slower than the building on the Oceanian Sarnia side, but that was to be expected. Most people were just proud of the Marerians for trying.

The man at the edge of the lot was clearly no worker. His battered clothing revealed him to be a rural Marerian (a type often seen in the cities in these changing days), but his very presence was surprising to many of the workers. "What're you doing here?" inquired the guard on duty (he was one of two, working the evening shift, the prize in a dice game), not completely interested in why the man was actually there. "I've got a pass." he replied, showing a piece of paper with writing and a seal.

The guard looked a little more interested, then (people tended not to show their passes) and asked to see it. After trying to read the scribbles on the sheet of paper for about seven minutes, he realized that it was not, indeed, a pass at all, but a crude forgery. By then the man was gone, and the guard congratulated himself on "driving away the trespasser". Five minutes later, the entire work site exploded.

Later, all the main nations of Sarnia, as well as the Yaforites, received communications stating that "Attacks would continue" unless "True Democracy" was granted to all of the parts of Sarnia, most importantly Marerius. Most likely, such a communication would have been received with a certain amount of surprise by the Oceanians and others, who thought Marerius truely was free. The Yaforites would hazard the true meaning of the communication, however. It mean that Marerius (and Sarnia as well) were once again exploding into flames.

The Streets of Diherad, "Free" Marerius

Field Commander Saphara Paharad grinned. It was good to be out again, out fighting, out marching, out in the air, exercising, and yet keeping the peace. That alone was one reason that she had joined the military (she, like all the rest of the Yaforite soldiers around her, had volunteered. The Grand Democratic Duchy only accepted volunteers) - for the exercise. Saphara had always been in shape (in high school she had been a champion runner), but there was something about the military that went beyond merely "being in shape". Perhaps it was the fact that Yaforites were so well-trained, that they had to go through such rigorous training and exams. Or perhaps it was something else. It didn't really matter. All that matter was that all Yaforite soldiers tended to be in shape, and Saphara loved that.

Well, not all. She slowly raised her hand, motioning the seven-score or so soldiers around her to stop. She huffed, exhaling air softly. "I need more of this, Eldran." Her burly, taciturn lieutenant gave a faint smile, saying nothing, letting the emotion barely touch his face. That was just how Eldran was. He rarely ever said anything, that he didn't have to say, and he rarely let anything unwanted steal onto his face. That was how Saphara liked him. Eldran was efficient and skillful, something she had never before had in a second, and something that she doubted that she would have had again. Having someone like him around made up for his faults.

It was a good thing that Sferin Bako had given in to Nakhran Narimov. Saphara had seen the stubbornness in the Marerian's when he had been a arguing with the Yaforite even before the news of an attack in Riverplain had come through. She hated the thought of Sferin Bako afterwards, protesting that "it was not possible to patrol the streets" that he was "not afraid of some peasants". It was mildly amazing that Nakhran had even got through to the fat Marerian. From what she had seen of the Marerian rich, they were not the easiest to get through to. Of course, Nakhran could be very forceful when he needed to. There was no doubt about that.

So now they were patrolling. The "Achaea", the principle Yaforite submachine gun, that she carried now hung loosely on her back, her arms free. She was well-protected enough, with her bulletproof vest tight across her midsection. The Grand Democratic Duchy had spent a lot of money on making these more comfortable, and she was glad that they had. It was snug on her chest, not constricting her air flow, and yet allowing her some freedom of movement. The Achaea was light, and Saphara, for some reason, was reminded of her scouting days, when they had traveled lightly for their long hours, when they had run thousands of miles to prepare for the advance of the rebel army. Those had been the days, fighting for freedom and justice. Now...she didn't even know why they were here. "For freedom and justice, I suppose." she muttered under her breath.

From the corner of her eye, she saw one of her troops smiling politely at her. The grin dropped away from her face. "We're not slacking off here! We're on patrol!" The smile slid off the soldier's face as he whipped his head forward, the very epitome of the "perfect soldier". She gave a little laugh inside of her. They had all been young once. They had all done the same things. "Be glad that you aren't at the checkpoints, men. There, you'd actually have to do work." She supposed that she wasn't exactly considered old, though. She was not even near middle age, and very fit, nonetheless. It felt good to reminisce, though.

They continued on their way, passing by each street and moving a few Marerians this way and that. Patrol duty was not difficult duty, however, and she was glad it was not. Several times there were Marerians who objected (one even drew out a knife from his pocket - Eldran quickly removed the notion that it was possible to attack them without damage to one's body), but on the whole, she guessed, it was a fairly successful patrol, though her career as a patroller was short enough that she guessed that she wouldn't have known a good patrol from a bad. The Marerians seemed rather polite and uncaring about the Yaforite presence, though, but she suspected that was due more to the fact that they were city-dwellers than anything else.

Suddenly, sound ripped through the city. Saphara and the rest of her troops turned, almost in unison, to the source of the sound. Smoke was curling its way up to the north and there were sounds of shouting. Saphara immediately gaged what it was. An attack. "Let's move!" she shouted to her soldiers, "This is why we're here!"

[OOC: Sorry, it's not a very good RP, but its the best I can manage right now.]

Smoke still wafted into the crisp blue skies above Bryn Caer, a blurry black scar that marred the otherwise perfect day and the picturesque scene. The day's winds had managed to blow much of the smoke eastward, over the Oceanian territory and those that stared long enough at the mess could find a small helicopter darting in and out of the particles, trying to avoid them as best as they could.

Inside the small Black Falcon helicopter, Major General Sir David Keating listened to the geography lessons from a colonial officer in the Sarnian Rangers, pointing out tributaries and obscured routes of approach. Across the Lloyd, through a pair of binoculars, Keating could see for himself that much of the Mareian work site was in ruins. Indeed, Oceanian engineers had preliminary reports that the anchors on the Mareian side had been damaged and that much of the work already done would be scrapped. The UK had, however, been fortunate, only a few Oceanian engineers on the Mareian side had been injured by shrapnel and one civilian in Bryn Caer grazed by a far-flung piece of concrete. Keating, however, feared that the attack was nothing but the harbinger of a time of instability for what had been, until now, one of the United Kingdom's most prosperous and successful colonies.

Keating turned to face the two officers of the Rangers flying with him to observe the situation. The taller one, younger and fresher faced, was officially senior; a brigadier commanding the Sarnian Rangers officially outranked the man sitting besides him, shorter though physically fit and adorned with scars not caused by accidents. "Colonel," Keating said, addressing the junior officer, "I want your assessment of the readiness of the unit to conduct limited recce across the Lloyd."

Before the blast, Keating had advised Sir Ashford to keep Oceanian involvement strictly limited to the Oceanian side of the border. However, the blast that had wounded Oceanian citizens and damaged Oceanian investments had been followed by a terse message pointedly directed to Ashford. It had been made abundantly clear that Oceanian Sarnia could well be targeted. To defend the territorial integrity of Oceanian Sarnia, Keating needed information on rebel and insurgent bases and arms caches. Unfortunately, thus far, satellite intelligence had provided only semi-reliable information.

The colonel nodded and leaned back into his seat, taking only casual notice of the brigadier's disgruntlement about being taken out of the conversation. "Sir, I have no doubt about the theoretical capabilities of the Rangers. They have trained extensively here, in the Home Islands, and one battalion even in Novikov for joint operations with the Novikovian special forces. Actual combat experience, however, has been limited to policing the Oceanian-Sarzonian border."

"General Keating," the brigadier hastily added, almost interrupting the colonel, "the Rangers are ready for active operations; indeed, we shall not have any practical experience unless called upon for our first operations. I recognise that many of my boys have not fired a round in actual combat, but the attack on that bridge site, sir, is nothing but a veiled attack on our homeland. And we will fight for our homeland."

Keating nodded, internalising his sneer towards the brigadier, who had answered a question without it being directed towards him. His concerns, however, were valid and inline with Keating's own thoughts, and by extension the general staff's. But as his colonel said, a colonel placed as the brigadier's 2IC for the reason of providing at least one seasoned officer, the Rangers were ready only on paper. At the very least, Keating reasoned to himself, Mareius and the United Kingdom were not at war, and while the government in Diherad might not appreciate surreptitious Oceanian incursions and military operations, all attempts to suppress any growing insurgency would likely be inline with their own aims and machinations.

"Brigadier," Keating finally said, emphasising the man's rank, "prepare one company of your Rangers for recce operations inside Mareius, insertion to be either by rivercraft or helicopter, your choice."

"Sir," the colonel added quietly, "I would recommend by river. While I have not been thoroughly briefed upon the nature of the Mareian defence forces, a helicopter would be easier to detect than a few small rowboats or rigid-inflatables crossing a narrow river."

The Sarnian officer nodded thoughtfully and took a brief moment. "I concur, Colonel. General Keating, I would opt for a river insertion and would like to place a requisition order for four river skiffs. I can have one company ready to move in roughly four hours."

Several hours later, Captain Andrew Marshal watched the moon dip below the treeline on the distant Mareian shore of the Afon Lloyd. His B Company would wait until the few hours between moonset and sunrise before crossing the river into a lightly wooded area south of Riverplain, chosen really to hide the landing of his men. Royal Navy personnel had been flown in from Port Royal on the eastern coast to operate the skiffs, the personnel all familiar with the river crossing insertion.

"Take command, sub-lieutenant," Marshal quietly commanded the Royal Navy officer. The sailor nodded and pushed the skiff out of the small harbour formed by a small creek entering the Lloyd. Marhsal watched the sub-lieutenant speak quietly into his radio and in a few minutes, under silent windpower, the skiff was moving quietly across the river. Moving out beyond the Oceanian trees, Marshal peered down the river through his thermal scope and watched other members of his company appear. It took no more than eight minutes until they had all crossed the river, and an additional five spent disembarking themselves and their gear and bidding farewell to the Royal Navy officers who then sailed back across the river.

By using skiffs over the rigid inflatables offered by his own CO, Marshal had opted for a lengthier (albeit by mere minutes) but quieter insertion. Additionally, he had asked for outside personnel to pilot the boats so that he would leave nothing behind for any potential Mareian patrols to find.

Marshal looked down at his digital wristwatch, he had an hour before sunup and with the sky already brightening he signaled for his company to begin to break up. Three platoons for three different areas of operation in Mareius, it was Marshal's first command in foreign territory. Lightly armed with rifles, machine guns, and only a scant few anti-tank and anti-aircraft missiles, they were tasked with seeking out the rebel bases and then 'conducting reconnaissance.' It had been made quiet clear to Marshal what exactly such conduct entailed.

One platoon headed north along the river, hiding in bunches of trees and marshy areas along the riverbank as they neared Riverplain. Another headed inland while Marshal led a platoon southward towards the mountainous regions in southern Mareius, the headwater region of the Lloyd. If he had to raise an insurgent force, while recruitment would be done in the cities and the fields, he would train them in the mountains. Fortunately for Marshal, his superiors agreed. While the real mountains lay in the west of Mareius, Marshal was betting that even the eastern regions of the central mountain range in Sarnia were hosting rebel bases.

Rural Marerius

Gulrad smiled, barely. The heat was close to stifling, the sun beating down on the plains of Marerius like a hammer. He would have given anything for some shade, but, as he knew, the followers of Nazfir, the rebels, were "using" the nearby caves for their operations. It didn't matter. Now that Gulrad was out here, he was a part of the revolution that was coming, no matter what happened. It didn't really matter anymore that he had decided to avoid them, that he had decided not to help them. His fate had been chosen for him. He had left his mother and father to come here, to see for himself. He was a part of the revolution. He just didn't want to be.

It was not that Gulrad disagreed with the ideals of the revolution. These ideals were the very same ideals that Gulrad himself had espoused, had argued with city-dwellers about, had spoken of to foreigners, had thrown forward as his own. These were the very same ideals that Gulrad loved to distraction, that he supported with his very core. He simply disagreed with the method that the revolution was going about with. Violent revolution never succeeded, it was a fact. And now, the chance for peaceful revolution was over. Gulrad sighed, sadly. Everything he had ever hoped would come to pass was not gone.

He looked up, acting somewhat surprised as he saw his brother, Shadan, a willing supporter of the violence of the revolution, coming towards him. Three days ago, Nazfir had vanished, taking with him several of his most devoted supporters, Shadan among them. Nobody quite knew where Nazfir had gone (quiet whispers among the revolutionaries said that he had gone to command a unit of his in the mountains), but Gulrad had worried about his brother every day. Shadan had always been smart and quick, but he was a little...impulsive. As the older in the relationship, Gulrad had always felt a little responsible for Shadan, and he knew, as well as his brother knew, that his brother's impulsiveness would get him in trouble someday. Nowadays, Gulrad thought that his brother's impulsiveness would get his brother killed.

There was a broad grin on Shadan's face, and that, for some strange reason, worried Gulrad. "Hello, brother, how have you been holding up?" Even Shadan's voice was jovial, and, these days, Shadan rarely talked politely to his brother, let alone with such happiness in his voice. Something certainly was wrong, and Gulrad dreaded what it was. Steadying himself, Gulrad managed to keep the worry out of his voice as he replied to his brother to the best of his ability. Gulrad had always been an expressive person, and trying to keep his opinion out of his voice was difficult enough for someone like him, let alone when he was talking to someone who knew him as well as his brother.

"Well, I guess." Gulrad turned to his brother, his fake smile plastered on his face. "How have you been?" His brother did not seem to notice Gulrad's consternation - if anything, he seemed to accept that Gulrad was being sincere. "Great, actually!" He sat down beside Gulrad, grinning from ear to ear. "In fact, the most amazing thing happened to me, while I was in the mountains." Gulrad's mind spun for a second, and he tried to enter the line. "You were in the mount - " Shadan softly shook his head, motioning for his brother to be quiet. "Sh. You won't believe what happened to me. You won't believe what Nazfir has done for me..."

Shadan drew out the pause. "You know Oceanian Sarnia, the oppressed colony?" Gulrad nodded quickly, sending brotherly signals for the other to hurry up. "I am to lead a force that will destroy their army and bring them freedom!" Youthful enthusiasm shone on Shadan's face. Gulrad could not respond.

A Checkpoint, Diherad

Syad, the second of the two captains that Saphara had brought with her on her journey to Marerius, was a huge, stocky man with massive forearms and legs. He was very strong (as he had demonstrated the last time that he had come here, as well as in Generia) and was not afraid to knock out a civilian or two to get what he wanted. In a way, he was the perfect man for a checkpoint - he was formidable, looked formidable, and he was clever enough to use that to get what he wanted from a civilian. Most regular Marerians were afraid of the powerful Yaforite soldiers who had mysteriously come and were looking to restore order in their country. Most regular Marerians listened to Syad when he talked to them.

Gesturing with his right hand, Syad indicated to the man in the huge truck to open his back. "We need to check it for people and equipment!" he shouted in his deep baritone, making sure that the man inside heard him. The Marerian nodded, pulling a lever near the bottom of his chair. Immediately, the back of the truck opened slowly, revealing a group of brown boxes. With his other hand, Syad indicated for his soldiers to be to check those, with metal detectors, dogs, and other devices. His job was to get people to open up. Others were those who did the actual checking.

As Syad stood there, from the middle of the road leading into the Diherad, he sighted a cloud. It was someone coming fast and those who were fast often had trouble breaking in time to not hit the barricade. There had been two cars who had already smashed the barricade since they had set it up, and both cars had been destroyed completely. The Grand Democratic Duchy, naturally, would not repair them. It was not the job of the Grand Democratic Duchy to repair Marerian cars, especially when the Marerians had been breaking the speed limit. After all, the Yaforite government was not running for election here.

It happened in an instant. One second Syad was standing there, watching as the car moved closer and closer. The next second, the barricade was dust, fire billowed from the ruins of the vehicle, and civilians and Yaforite soldiers lay everywhere, injured and hurt. "Bomb!" Syad shrieked to himself in his mind. "They've attacked you with a bomb!" But, somehow, it failed to register - just as it failed to register that so many of his troops were gone. One second they had been standing there, alive and well, the next, they were nowhere, just smoking ruins. They were gone.

Syad's eyes blazed with hatred.

[OOC: Sorry for the nature of this post - its not the best I can do, just the best I can do right now.]

"Are we agreed then?"

The quiet but commanding question roused Reginald Zerud from his distant thoughts. "Indeed, sir," he muttered, keeping his gaze straight down upon the worn and unpolished wooden countertop. He thrust his hand deep into his trouser pocket, felt around the fabric and stitches keeping the pocket intact and finally wrapped his stubby, callused fingers around the grained edges of a large coin. Fishing it out, he found the familiar face of the king flipped it over upon the table, displaying the royal coat of arms and eliciting a slight 'harumph' from the shopkeeper, who probably preferred the lighter five pound notes.

"Alright then," the shopkeeper said quickly, sliding a small book across the countertop, scooping up the five pounds and putting down a few pence as change atop the book cover.

"Thank you, sir," Zerud replied, his gaze firmly fixed upon the book, its leather cover worn and pages yellow-edged and a little ragged. A small piece of tattered cloth peeked out from the centre of the book marking the last page read by the book's former owner. Zerud placed the change in the same pocket and gathered the book up, sticking it comfortably underneath his arm. As he walked out of the store, the small bell ringing just the same as when he had entered, he donned his brown, wide-brimmed hat–a sort of native take on an imported Oceanian design.

The streets of Bryn Caer were calm and quiet for a Sunday morning. Though Zerud attributed this to the fact that many in the town were still at Morning Prayer or simply sleeping late. As such, he quickly found an unoccupied bench along the river and sat down, letting his back rest against the painted wooden boards and placing the book as flat as possible in his lap. He let his fingers delicately leaf through the pages, his eyes drifting across the lines of nearly century-old ink that delineated various areas on a roughly recognisable map of the Sarnian continent.

It was an atlas, an old one first published according to the shopkeeper in 1910 in what was then the only Oceanian settlement in Sarnia, Port Royal. Therefore, it did not surprise Zerud that the the grey area of Oceanian control was quite small and confined largely to the estuary of the River Avon. Indeed, the capital Avalon was marked as but a trading outpost upriver from Port Royal. Further west, the River Lloyd was unsettled except by "primitives" and the occasional Oceanian trader/explorer. The Yaforites lay across the river and the Mareians, here still identified by their dozens of tribal names, across central and eastern Sarnia.

The rumble of a diesel engine startled Zerud. Turning quickly he watched a small utility vehicle roll past upon the cobblestone street, several Oceanian regulars sitting casually in the open back, their rifles cradled carefully in their laps. They wore their own wide-brimmed hats, pinned up upon the side. Zerud's heart skipped a beat and his pulse quickened. But the rover drove past, the soldiers not sparing anything more than a cursory glance at the darker-skinned man sitting upon a bench. For a while after they had passed Zerud contented himself to simply throw crumbs from his left pocket into the river, ducks and fish gobbling up their breakfast.

"You should be more careful where you read that," a deep voice boomed from behind Zerud. Zerud then felt two broad hands fall upon his shoulders, he tensed only to relax upon hearing a hearty laugh. "Easy, brother. Easy." Zerud turned around to find a tall, broad-shouldered man, with dark brown hair neatly trimmed in the fashion of the Oceanians and attire of the latest Sunday fashion from Georgetown.

"The name is William Smith II," the taller but similarly-dark-skinned man said, while offering his hand. Zerud took it and shook timidly. "Come on, brother, that's not an equal shake." Smith clasped his free around Zerud's and showed Zerud what he meant. "Do you mind?" he then asked. He answered before Zerud could even form a thought, sitting himself down with a heavy sign.

"What…" Zerud tried to say before Smith waved his sentence off.

"Call me Alerad, brother."

"But I thought you were William–"

"And I am. When amongst the Oceanians. When among Mareians I am Alerad."

Zerud nodded slowly with his confusion fully transparent. "But, you look so… nice."

Alerad laughed again, gaining the attention of an elderly couple at a bench two sites down, who offered only a disfavourable sneer. "Indeed, sir, and I can well speak as the Oceanians," he replied, his tone and accent changing as if by switch. "You see," he continued in a clear Oceanian English without hint of Zerud's own bastard Mareian-Oceanian accent. "We live in Bryn Caer and pay our dues to the Crown," Alerad said, digging a one-pound coin from his pocket. "George here," Alerad pointed at the likeness on the coin, "he likes his pounds and he likes his subjects calm and complacent. He likes commonality and community. He likes us Mareians as an integrated part of Sarnian society." Alerad paused and grinned devilishly. "So I grant George just that."

Zerud furrowed his brow. "But I don't understand."

"Just what're you reading there?" Alerad asked, reverting to Mareian English.

For a moment Zerud stared blank at his atlas. "An atlas."

Alerad shook his head and placed one of his large hands upon Zerud's shoulder. "Of course it's an atlas, brother, hell, I saw that from where I was. That's why I'm here. But an atlas of what?"

"Sarnia."

"When?"

"The man said 1910."

"1910," Alerad replied with some obvious interest. "And what does Sarnia look like in 1910?"

Zerud sat quiet for a moment. "Very different. Bryn Caer isn't even on the map."

Alerad offered a sympathetic "hmm" and motioned for Zerud to continue with his description.

"Well, according to the map the Yerez tribe lived here with a settlement down river from Bryn Caer where… I think where Fort St. George is. But I'm not sure."

"Indeed. Fort St. George is where the Oceanian regulars sleep. It's where my ancestors slept before 1910. It's from where they ruled much of this valley. Do you know when the Oceanians built Fort St. George?"

"No. It's been there since I was born."

Alerad laughed quietly and politely. "1922 is when they built the first palisade. The Yerez protested about Bryn Caer, you see, and killed a number of Oceanians. They burned much of this town to the ground. And then the Oceanians returned with rifles and cannon and razed Guleraz to the ground and built Fort St. George atop the sacred burial plot."

"Oh."

Alerad nodded, then lifted his eyes and his gaze to the sky and muttered something Zerud failed to understand. "But don't worry, Reginald, that'll be solved soon." Alerad stood before Zerud realised he had not yet introduced himself to Alerad. "Now, the time has come," Alerad added in his clean Oceanian English, "for me to open my shop. I am a tailor after all and a respectable one at that. But should you like to talk some other evening, here is my card." Alerad handed Zerud a small business card, smiled, and left as quickly as he had arrived.

After he had gone, Zerud looked to his right and his left, trying to figure out from just where Alerad or Smith, as the business card stated, had come from. As more people began to arrive on the river walk, and as kiosks and carts arrived to sell their wares Zerud gathered his atlas up into his arm and began to walk back to his small apartment on the outskirts of Bryn Caer.

He spent much of the day reading the notes in his atlas and connecting the places he knew now to where they were then–and found many of them did not exist. At least not in their current forms. It was about 18:30, when Zerud was tidying up his small kitchen after supper when a flash on the distant horizon caught his attention. He went to his window and found above the small city's skyline a warm orange glow from the hilltop where Fort St. George sat.

From the hallway there were a series of quick footsteps and loud, sharp cries. Zerud threw his eyes across his apartment, searching and scanning. He frantically raced to the table and his newly-purchased atlas. Picking it up he thrust it in the back of his bookshelf. The tea kettle began to whistle and Zerud let himself slowly pour the boiling water over the loose black tea. He took the small teapot over to the table where upon sitting down he found the small business card that had fallen from its place in the atlas. He fingered its crisp edges with his thick-skinned fingertips. The steam from the teapot swirled up into his apartment and danced between him and his window, where smoke danced its own dance upon the distant horizon.

Diherad, "Free" Marerius

The last time these two men had been in this room, Nakhran Narimov reflected, it had been he whose eyes were burning and whose anger was flowing down the walls of the room. This time, however, the fat, rich, Marerian, Sferin Bako, was the man whose anger and exasperation palpably filled the room. Bako was a large man, who seemed to do everything in a commodious manner, and as such, his anger, too, was extensive. Nakhran, despite the ferocity and iron backbone that his Buchianan and Yaforite heritage had given him, felt almost like cowering in front of that anger. He did not. Nakhran Narimov knew, as well as anyone else in the room (which included Field Commander Paharad and her hulking lieutenant, Eldran, who was larger still than Bako), that he was in the position of power, in the driver's seat, and that he was the one dictating terms to the fop-like Marerian, not the other way around.

"Nonetheless, we apologize thoroughly, Mr. Bako, if we are jeopardizing you commercial assets." The essence of what the rotund Marerian had been complaining about had been simple; the checkpoints and militarization of Diherad and the surrounding areas (which were now fully under the control of the representatives of the Grand Democratic Duchy) had put the trade that the Marerian rich relied upon as their lifeblood completely out of service. Bako was not mourning the thousands already dead from attacks, civil war, and oppression. Instead, Sferin Bako, one of the most well-known men in his country, a servant of the government that ruled them, was mourning the loss of his cattle, his herds, his farmlands, and, yes, his profits. What had brought the Marerian to anger was not the state of the people, but the state of his bank account.

"Jeopardizing my commercial assets? Jeopardizing my commercial assets? You are doing far more than that! Far far more than that!" Nakhran quickly had the impression that had the soldiers armed with their submachine-guns not been there, the corpulent Marerian would have advanced on him with naked hands reaching towards his throat. As it was, all the Marerian was doing was wringing those hands uselessly, as he moved in a circle, muttering quickly under his breath. "Do you idiots have any idea what you are doing? That's millions being lost out there, all in seconds. Millions! This'll bankrupt me! You know that!" Nakhran moved backwards one step, exchange a glance with his daughter, Kaira, whose face looked thoroughly disgusted at this display of miserly thinking. "How am I supposed to get over this? You ask me, Mr. Yaforite Ambassador!" Bako stopped fidgeting and faced the Yaforite. "What is losing millions supposed to accomplish? Pray tell, Mr. Narimov!" He could scarcely keep his anger out of his voice.

"Your safety, Mr. Bako." The iron had returned to Nakhran Narimov's voice. "The Grand Democratic Duchy is very concerned with the situation here, on the ground. Mr. Bako. When we left, we intended for a peaceful transfer of power to a legitimately-elected democratic government!" There was a striking, harsh emphasis on the words "peaceful", "legitimately-elected" and "democratic". "That did not happen." His voice had become softer, colder, but with a biting twist to the word "not". "It did not happen, Mr. Bako, because of people like you - conniving landowners who assumed that "democratic government" meant their rule. A democratic government, I would like to inform you, is one where the people rule. The people, Mr. Bako! Am I correct in assuming that you now understand what "democracy" is, Mr. Bako?"

Nakhran knew, then, that the balance of power in the room was entirely in his hands. He continued, a smug undertone to his voice. "That is why, Mr. Bako, you are being removed from this situation. Entirely. As of now." The sharp gasp that issued from Sferin Bako's lips was a complete contrast from Nakhran's now-level monotone. "The Yaforite government is taking control of the situation. Immediately. The farce that is the "government" of Marerius no longer exists, Mr. Bako, and you are no longer in any position of power at all. I am taking control of the situation here, and I have direct orders from Ajer supporting this. I am in charge now, Mr. Bako, whether you like it or not. So remove yourself from that pedestal yours. You have no right to it anymore."

Nakhran turned around, deliberately facing his back towards the now-disgraced Marerian. "Saphara," the Field Commander snapped to attention, as fitted one of her rank and stature. "I have messages from Nurvain Khast and his under-officers at Ntac. You've been promoted to the rank of Major General." The mask that had been Saphara's face collapsed, as she struggled with the enormity of the responsibility that had been placed upon her. Nakhran smiled, somewhat, reaching into his pocket to pull out the signets of rank that accompanied her increase in position. "This is only a temporary designation, mind you. You need to prove yourself, or, as Nurvain so eloquently put it in his drafted letter to me, "she needs to show us that she's more than some shit on the floor"." Nakhran had read that more on impulse than anything. He could have just as easily used an expression like "flash in the pan".

"You will be in charge of the New Imperial Yaforite Marerian Expeditionary force, Saphara. Ten thousand soldiers will come first. We are going to re-take this country by force, then force democracy down their throats." The scale of the war was escalating, but not as much as one would expect. Ajer had only given the go-ahead to those first ten thousand soldiers.

The newspaper headlines the next day were loud and rambunctious. "Yaforites return!" some said. "Modern imperialism!" shouted others. It would be clear that some Oceanians would read them in their colony.

[OOC: Sorry, terrible post. I'm not actually escalating the scale of the war - merely bringing in Yaforite soldiers who will take quite a while to appear.]

Trevor Durand led the target with his rifle. Through the well-crafted lens he could pick out the details in the ragged folds of the man's attire. He allowed himself a grin at the word 'attire.' More like rags, he thought to himself. On point for Marshal, Durand had heard the braying of the man's mule, slowly pulling a wooden cart behind. Without pulling his eyes off the man, Durand removed his finger from the trigger and signaled to Marshal that he no longer deemed the man a threat.

A hundred or so metres down the ridge Marshal spotted the signal and breathed a quiet sigh. The man rounded a small cluster of trees and entered into the view of the shallow creek valley just west of the Lloyd. Through his field glasses he too inspected the man and agreed–just a farmer making his way to the market down they had all just bypassed. Probably eking out a living under the nose of some landlord.

As the man and his cart passed Marshal and his unit stayed absolutely still, all but invisible among the trees and bushes littering the ridge. He waited a few extra minutes before moving further south towards the mountains that grew larger in the distance day by day.

Government House, Avalon-on-Avon, Oceanian Sarnia

Keating replaced the cup on the saucer held gently in his left hand while his eyes continued to gaze out the large windows beneath which sprawled the massive yet neatly kept grounds of the estate. "Unfortunately, Your Excellency, we have not yet ascertained exactly who is responsible for the bombing." He spoke quietly, calmly. In the distance the flag of the United Kingdom furled and fluttered in a gentle breeze rolling down the Avon Valley.

"CCTV footage captured the actual point of detonation at the main gates. A black saloon was recorded barreling through the first perimeter checkpoint, after which guards at the second gate opened fire in an attempt to stop the vehicle. While successful, it slid to a stop a mere dozen metres after the second gate, the driver or another passenger detonated explosives that brought down the main administration building and a section of the barracks."

Ashford remained seated behind his desk, a gift from the king upon his initial posting to the colony. He too, however, sipped tea and replaced the cup on its own saucer. Yesterday, when the news broke, he had been at a small dinner with leading members of the colonial society when pulled aside by an aide in a rather conspicuous fashion. He needed not look at the financial news stations to know that the local exchange was down for the day.

"Do we know how many are dead, General?"

"Currently the number stands at 74. An additional 123 are reported wounded, of which perhaps 17 may not survive beyond the week. 15 remain missing. While tragic, Your Excellency, from an operational standpoint the bombing will not severely impact operations except for the fact that troops previously garrisoned at Fort St. George will now be stationed in the field." Keating mentioned the fact without any particular emphasis but knew that in the field the men would be upset by the loss of the amenities to which many had grown attached. Probably too attached, he added to himself.

"While not operationally significant, General, it has warranted the dispatch of a minister from Georgetown." Ashford practically spat the words, his eyes casting a sharp glare at the general who remained still, his own eyes casting a stare upon the gardens. "The Minister of State for Colonial Development, one Alexander Douglas, will be arriving tomorrow at St. Ives on a military transport. I should like you there to personally explain the most recent events."

Nodding, Keating brought his teacup back to his lips. "Very well. In the interim, I would like to take the opportunity to inquire about declaring a state of emergency. At least in the western shires and districts." He kept his voice even and once finished his question, took another sip and turned around to face Ashford.

"And create a panic?"

"No, Governor, I believe that a limited declaration will provide the necessary powers to quell this insurrection in its infancy."

"What if instead we passed an ordinance declaring doors and locks illegal. Would that aid you any further?" Ashford replied.

"I am merely requesting that we consider the possibility that what was initially suspected to be a nascent insurrection is more advanced than either of us originally thought. Essentially, Your Excellency, this latest incident puts us on our back foot. We need to regain the initiative and we need to do so quickly."

"We also need to keep stability and order throughout the rest of the colony, General. Furthermore, have you considered what a state of emergency in one of the most prosperous and presumed stable colonies would signal to the rest of the Empire if not the world? No, General. There will be no state of emergency."

"Very well, Your Excellency." Keating walked over to the governor's desk and placed his cup on the edge. "If that is all, there are some matters requiring my attention before I travel to St. Ives."

"Just quiet the western counties, General."

"Very well, Governor," Keating replied, "good day."

Bryn Caer, Oceanian Sarnia

Zerud watched the bus disappear into a distance clouded by the dust and dirt kicked up by the vehicle's tired on the unpaved road. He had gotten off at the closest stop to his job, still a kilometre or so down the road. But in favourable weather, like today's, he truly did not mind the walk. Every so often a lorry would rumble down the road towards Bryn Caer, at whose limits the bus would drop Zerud off daily. Ordinarily he would travel with several other Mareians, however, most had decided to call out sick from work for fear or reprisals. Zerud, however, needed the cash.

After the bombing the night before, word had spread amongst the Mareian population that it had carried out by a small cell of Mareian terrorists living on the Oceanian side of the border. For some time it had been a commonly known secret that terror cells were operating in Mareius–but the government in Diherad either did not care to pursue them or simply was complicit. Perhaps incompetent. Zerud knew not. He tried to stay outside of politics. It bored him. Regardless, those who were not bored now feared that the Oceanian population would exact unofficial revenge upon the Mareians for daring to bomb a royal garrison. To be sure, the local security presence had been increased in Bryn Caer. And to be sure, it was said that it was there to protect all citizens and inhabitants of Bryn Caer. But Zerud and the Mareians knew otherwise.

And so Zerud traveled alone. He walked down the path, kicking the occasional stone and running his hand along the smooth white fence marking the boundary of a large field to his right. The field was covered in tea–at least, what would become tea for the consumption of Oceanians and other lovers of exclusive, high-end teas. It was, after all, the estate of the former Oceanian Prime Minister, Lord Salisbury. As he neared the entrance and the guard house, he could read the large "Salisbury Estate" sign that actually drew tourists from Bryn Caer. Not that many would visit the frontier, but if they did, they often visited the plantation.

"You are one of the few, Reggie," the plump guard offered with a broad smile on his ruddy face. "Most of the staff is 'sick.' But, good for you."

Zerud smiled hesitantly in return. "Yeah, it's good. Just means more work for me today."

"I suppose you are right," the guard added with a confused look upon his face, although such a thought had not dawned upon him. And it had not. "Anyways," he quickly recovered, "have you your identification?"

Zerud handed it over quickly and was given the customary pat down by the guard. To Zerud it was routine, but to others more inclined towards politics it made great sense given the former Prime Minister's zeal for security. The door buzzed open and Zerud walked inside to clock in and earn another day's worth of bread.

Brecon, Oceanian Sarnia

East of Bryn Caer, at a small gap in a north-south chain of hills, the town of Brecon provided a convenient place for east-west travel across southern Oceanian Sarnia. Indeed, the main trunk railway and motorway from Atherton and Avalon to Bryn Caer passed through Brecon. At the outskirts of the town along the motorway from Bryn Caer a hastily erected blockade interrupted the flow of traffic as infantrymen stopped and scoured each vehicle.

Most vehicles passed inspection quickly. A few, however, were pulled aside for more detailed checks that often yielded nothing other than minor legal infractions that, given the circumstances, the Royal Army was inclined to let pass with only stern warnings. One saloon, however, drew the attention of a lance-corporal if only because the driver looked like a Mareian. All but the wealthiest Mareians could not afford an automobile.

He motioned for the driver to pull to the side and walked calmly over to the driver side window and tapped it politely. "Would you mind stepping out of your vehicle, sir?"

The driver nodded and slowly moved his hands to a position atop the wheel, to show not ill-intent as the soldier carefully opened the door. Fumbling for the seat belt, the driver then released the seat belt before climbing out. Two other soldiers joined the lance-corporal and with them came a dog lent by the Brecon Police.

Shortly after the boot was opened the dog began to bark loudly. Throwing a quick glance over to the driver, seated on the makeshift curb, the lance-corporal ordered the dog pulled away and began to ruffle through the various bags of clothes and goods thrown haphazardly into the compartment. At the bottom, the lance-corporal found a small nearly square cut in the fabric.

"What is this?" he shouted towards the driver.

"I don't know," came a hurried and transparently concerned reply.

Taking out a knife, the lance-corporal pried open what he discovered to be a cover to a secret compartment. Inside, he found three assault rifles and boxes of ammunition along with a small amount of plastic explosives. Without a word but rather a glance, the lance-corporal ordered the two soldiers to restrain the driver. The two soldiers pinned the man on the ground while the lance-corporal hurriedly searched the man, finding in an interior jacket pocket a small, unidentifiable electronic device.

"And what is this?" the lance-corporal asked, already full-well knowing the answer.

"I don't know!"

Pulling out a radio from his belt, he radioed in the find and within fifteen minutes the car and its cargo were isolated, the driver being driven in a military vehicle to a makeshift holding station in Brecon.

RAF St. Ives
St. Ives, Oceanian Sarnia

"Mr. Douglas, I presume," Keating extended his hand, providing a firm but coldly stiff shake to the government minister. Behind the reflective lenses of his sunglasses, Keating's eyes were solid antipathy not for the man before him, fittingly shorter and frailer-looking, but for the fact he had been sent at all from a capital thousands of kilometres away. And entirely removed from Sarnia.

"Good afternoon, General," Douglas offered with a politely deferential nod of the head. The pleasant formality finished, he looked both right and left across the tarmac noting the various armoured vehicles parked alongside crates of poorly-concealed materiel. But then, Douglas reminded himself, St. Ives was first and foremost a military installation, not a city.

"Your flight was pleasant, Mr. Douglas?" Keating asked, sweeping his arm forward to lead the minister to a waiting utility vehicle, a uniformed captain waiting at attention outside the rear door, open and waiting.

"Very much so. Though long, as you are well aware," Douglas quickly added.

"Sarnia is a great distance from the Home Islands, sir."

"Do you miss them, General?"

"Miss whom, sir?"

Douglas laughed politely as he climbed into the back of the vehicle, barely noticing the soldier who then shut the door behind the general. "The Home Islands, General. Do you miss the Home Islands? Being home even?"

The general ran an aging finger through his short grey hair as if scratching his head. He remembered his home, a small manor estate outside Grenville where breadfruit grew in the orchard that ran southwest to northeast along the banks of the creek that defined his property from the orchard to the bridge and pool to the orientation of the manor to overlook the creek flowing down the valley towards the river and then the Pacific. The light and lush greens of New Britain faded quickly, however, to the browns and greys of craters pockmarking the plains of central Novikov where similar fields and forests had existed for centuries. The craters moved south, however, extending like eerie tentacles or jagged scratches dug by long, brittle nails into the urban centre of Trnava. The craters lay there, filled with rock, rubble, refuse and corpses. He could remember the corpses. The bloated bodies punctured by shrapnel and bullets, the stench of feces and urine and vomitus all mixing with the diesel of his tanks driving west from village to village. He remembered returning to the United Kingdom, the king pinning medals upon his chest, and receiving a grant of land in Grenville where he remembered wanting to build himself a home.

"Not often, Mr. Douglas." Keating replied, his voice hollow, his eyes distant. After a quiet moment, Keating noticed the minister investigating his face and thus filled his voice. "Not often. Sarnia, over the past thirteen months, has become a new home. Heretofore, quiet and peaceful with only minor problems largely confined to petty crimes in the cities."

"Heretofore," Douglas echoed. "That," he added, his eyes now staring straight into Keating's, "is precisely why I am here. Heretofore, General, we had no reasons to worry about Sarnian development. It was a model of Oceanian probity in her imperial endeavours. Heretofore, General," Douglas repeated, his voice dropping. "Now, we are reading daily of reports of a riot here, rabble there and just a few hours ago the bombing of a barracks. What are we to think in Georgetown, in the UK, and not to mention in the world, if the crowning achievement falls to tatters."

"Mr. Douglas, I believe we are looking at the beginning of a revolution against Oceanian rule." He watched the muscles in Douglas' face carefully, only the briefest and subtlest of movements betraying the concern evoked by Keating's rather blunt statement of opinion. "What had been protests aimed at symbols of the United Kingdom have moved towards direct actions against the agents of Oceanian authority in the western shires. I also have received word that roadblocks in Brecon and Harrow have identified and detained individuals attempting to transport arms and ammunition to eastern shires as well as one individual in Brecon with what initial results indicate to be a massive car bomb."

"But you stopped it?"

Keating smiled, reading right through Douglas' concern. "Indeed we did, sir. The alleged individual attempting to run the weapons is in solitary confinement at a makeshift military-run facility in Brecon where he is undergoing interrogation."

"Torture?"

"No, sir, I have been explicit in my orders to refrain from torture."

"Very good, General, I daresay that if the Democratic Socialists were to find out, well, I would have a tough time presenting your arguments in the Commons."

"I understand, sir," Keating replied with a smirk.

Kenton, Braddockshire, Oceanian Sarnia

"This is the latest batch?" Alerad hissed, flicking his half-finished cigarette to the concrete floor before rubbing it out with his steel-toed boot.

"Yeah, Ale," the other man responded, the use of the diminutive incurring a glare from Alerad. "Sorry, sir," the second man quickly backpedaled. "We had a problem getting them across the river, my man says that a Yaforite patrol nearly caught them crossing the river. They dumped half the shipment to lighten the load of the skiff."

Alerad raised his fist and watched the shorter man quickly scurry across to another pallet behind which he cowered. "That is the second batch with subpar receivers, Gulin," bellowed Alerad, slowly making his way to the second pallet, where Gulin was feverishly digging through packing materials in an open crate.

"But wait, wait," Gulin pleaded, a mound of styrofoam shells piling up around his feet clad only with holed boots covered by tattered trousers. "Here, here," he shouted, almost squealing, holding up a bullpup-styled rifle that, but for Alerad's instant recognition, would have been otherwise unimpressive to any regular Mareian. "I got my hands on a dozen of these."

In an instant, Alerad's scowl shifted to a broad grin, his muscles relaxed and then he smiled openly at Gulrin. "My friend, comrade, brother," he emphasised the last word, "why didn't you tell me you had some of those? That makes it all worth it."

Gulrin nervously smiled, and hesitantly walked towards Alerad, now offering a Mareian embrace. "Yeah, I have a, uh, a contact in New London, they're used–but in relatively good condition."

"Ammunition?"

"Almost six-hundred rounds, not nearly as many as for those Kalashnikovs," Gulin gestured towards the 'subpar' rifles, "but my contact says he can ship some more in two weeks' time."

"It's enough for the moment, Gulin." Alerad's eyes drifted from the man who had been interred by the Oceanians for laundering towards the matte black rifles in the crate. "Can he get more rifles?"

"He says maybe, it depends on his contacts."

Alerad released Gulin from his grip and walked to the crate, delicately picking up the good and shouldering it, looking through the sights, through a dusty window to another warehouse across the street. It was a relatively well-balanced weapon, fired a decent round at a decent range with a decent ability to kill and maim its victims. The L75 was an exceptional weapon with which to kill Oceanians. Better yet, it was the Oceanian service rifle.

Bryn Caer, Oceanian Sarnia

"Morning, Reggie."

Zerud offered a tepid smile towards the guard, and endured the routine pat down, opened his tin lunch pail (a new procedure instituted after the bombing of Fort St. George) then placed his pail and his keys upon a small collapsible table and finally walked through a metal detector that issued a clean record of the Mareian. "Am I good?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah, go on in," the guard replied, handing Zerud his personal effects.

The door to the main facility opened with its customary electronic buzz. Inside, natural light flooded the lobby from overhead skylights while photographs of the former Prime Minister and owner of the estate lined the walls. Live plants, mostly trees and ferns sat in giant pots–conspicuously absent the tea plants that were harvested outside the building. Zerud's boots clicked noisily upon the tiled floor, though all in the building had grown accustomed to the Mareian field workers and paid Zerud no mind.

Zerud therefore moved through the bustle of white Oceanians heading from office to cubicle to lab to other administrative positions, only a scant few offering polite smiles. Another few glared at the darker-skinned man, the black smoke rising over Fort St. George likely lingering in their minds, however, most simply ignored him and the other Mareians flooding into the facility behind Zerud.

Making his way to a dressing room, Zerud opened his locker and placed his lunch pail on the upper shelf inside. Unbuttoning his shirt, he found the clean, white, sterile-looking outfits of the tea pickers waiting on his hangar and changed quickly in front of the others. Making his way through the crowd of workers, Zerud lined up along the pained yellow line on the floor in the waiting room.

The waiting room was as it sounded. It was where Zerud stood motionless for about fifteen minutes every morning at the start of his shift as the Oceanian shift supervisor inspected the clothes of the workers. Zerud belonged to a group of long-serving employees, and it was rare when the supervisor called a man out of line because of some visible contaminant or other non-standard piece of clothing.

And so as Zerud stood standing in line, he could not help but look to his right as the supervisor singled out a young individual, wearing what Zerud could discern as a piece of traditional Mareian jewelry hanging from his earlobe. The supervisor, familiar to Zerud, reached out with a cane of sorts and struck the young man, probably new because Zerud could not recognise him. Falling to his knees, the supervisor struck the man again, this time a careful blow to the ear, delivered to bring about the awful scream that then filled the waiting room. The Mareian cried aloud while the supervisor turned his back upon the young man, whose white shirt was growing several red circles upon the shoulder.

Then it happened. Without warning the young man leapt to his feet and with a scream not of pain but of primal revenge, tackled the supervisor to the ground. He ripped the cane from the man's hand and brought it down repeatedly upon the supervisor's head to the sound of sickening cracks. As the Mareian workers stood, mouths open and whispers of concern and curiosity, the doors flung open and men with batons and firearms raced in flinging the young Mareian to the ground. He hoisted himself up off the ground and with the cane in hand, charged one of the men with guns who fired off three rounds into the young Mareian's chest. The Mareian fell to the ground with eyes ablaze and blood flowing from his chest.

Kalo, Braddockshire, Oceanian Sarnia

Louis Peterson let his rifle hang across his chest, freeing his left hand to hold the sunglasses snugly fit upon his face so his right could wipe the sweat from his brow. A few steps to his left, an older man wearing the insignia of a sergeant chuckled as he watched the young officer struggle.

"Not quite that easy, sir, is it," the veteran laughed.

Peterson simply threw the man a stare meant to be intimidating. The sergeant simply laughed harder. "I fail to see the humour, Jack." Slowly and deliberately Peterson replaced the sunglasses and cradled his rifle in his arms once more.

The sergeant shook his head, shaking off the laughter and any vestigial smiles or smirks. "I attribute it, sir, to old age. I can no longer see things as well as I once did. Or rather, have seen them too often."

"New London?"

"Indeed." The sergeant, unlike most of the company moving carefully through the river valley, had seen action in that troublesome Oceanian colony. "Except here," he added, "the climate is more agreeable."

"I doubt that."

After the publication of the killing of a Mareian at the Salisbury tea plantation, small riots had erupted across western Sarnia. Most had been put down rather peacefully, or with minor support from police units. Only in Bryn Caer had army units been deployed. And in the wake of the redeployment of forces the checkpoints around Brecon registered an uptick in the seizure of illicit weapons.

To Keating in Avalon, it only would be a matter of time before the Mareians switched to the pass south of Brecon that opened into Avon Vale, wherein the colonial capital could be found. Accordingly, Peterson's company of light infantry had been assigned to establish a checkpoint in a narrow pass just east of the town of Kalo, a native Mareian settlement. Kalo sat just northwest of the watershed divide and Peterson's position would provide a view over the town as well as the entrance to Avon Vale.

Sandbags and hastily dug trenches surrounded Peterson, who had already established his headquarters. An even younger officer, a lieutenant, commander of his advance platoon, strode in through the small gap that breached the near circular ring of defences. "How goes it, Henry," Peterson called out. At the sergeant's insistance, the formal salutes had been dispensed with for fear of Mareian snipers in the wooded hilltops to the northeast and southwest.

"Forward observation post is largely complete, sir," the red-haired lieutenant replied. "I have them adding some more brush and other natural camouflage, but they are otherwise situated and in radio contact. Nearer us, I have two sections in the hills ready to cover the main roadway should any Mareians attempt to sneak past."

"They shall not be that stupid, sir," the sergeant quietly added.

"And I have already dispatched roaming patrols to the hilltops as you suggested, Sergeant. And thus far, they have nothing. Now Lieutenant," Peterson returned his attention to his subordinate officer, "you do have patrols scouring the foothills."

The lieutenant nodded hesitantly. "I would not say scouring, sir, I am pretty thin on manpower, but they are actively searching. But thus far, nothing, sir."

Avalon-on-Avon, Avonshire, Oceanian Sarnia

Despite the gentle hum of a central air-conditioning system, wicker fan blades sliced the stale air of the governor's officer with quiet, rhythmic swooshes. As General Keating sat before Douglas and Ashford, he tried to match his interalised swears to those swooshes.

"A political solution, General? How do we reach a political solution with those whose stated aims are total independence from the Crown? Would it not be simply more effective to request more soldiers and stamp out this…" Douglas' eyes drifted towards the same ceiling fan, his hands and fingertips moving, searching…"this insurrection?"

Ashford opened his mouth to speak, but Keating caught the action and preempted the governor. "That was proposed initially, Minister, however, after talks with His Excellency the Governor," both Ashford and Douglas caught the not-so-subtle use of the formal style of address, "it was decided that such action would be rash and precipitate a panic and destabilise the Empire. As such, I have dispersed my forces to attempt to maintain control of Bryn Caer and Breconshire, the apparent heart of this insurrection, while using the remainder to attempt to quarantine that shire and prevent the insurrection from spreading to the remainder of the colony."

Before allowing either to respond, Keating continued after a short breath. "However, this is essentially a holding action and we cannot hold indefinitely. There remain more Marieans than Oceanians, sirs, and unless we provide them with some reason to support us instead of their ethnic kin, it is only a matter of time until they turn from neutrals to hostiles."

"And what sort of political solution would you propose, General?" Ashford queried coldly.

"Sir, I would not deign to understand the realm of politics—I am a mere soldier. But, from my experiences in Novikov, I can say that the inclusion of the Novikovians in governing their own homeland went a great way in mollifying the Kacnerova insurrection. Indeed, it was largely confined to a small cluster of islands that we kept isolated until the remainder of Novikov was wholly integrated into Oceania."

Douglas took a sip from his glass of whiskey before smiling. "Shall we wave the great white flag of surrender about too, General, whilst we sit here and talk a great talk of 'political solutions'—because I see no better complement."

"I did not—"

"Frankly, I do not give a damn, General. Your orders are to quell this insurrection. Prosecute these rabble rousers mercilessly. For heaven's sake, they have already blown up a barracks. Shall we be next?" Neither Douglas nor Keating noticed the quiet swallowing of nervousness exhibited by Ashford at such thoughts. "Thus far," Douglas continued, "the Government has been rather supportive of your efforts. Indeed, if these claims of preventing car bombings can be verified we might even support you further. However, when one suggests 'political solutions' be aware that you are setting a precedent for the remainder of the Empire. Shall we have a 'political solution' in New London? I am quite certain the rebels there would love nothing else than to kick us out of St. Claire. And I imagine the same could be said to varying degrees in several other colonies of ours. 'Political solutions' are nothing but euphemisms for defeat and imperial decline, General."

Douglas finished his whiskey and then stood, retrieving his suit coat from the standing hanger. "Perhaps you would do best, General, if you attempt to restrain yourself when it comes to using political euphemisms. There are, of course, other means of derailing your career—but none so bloodless. Then again, you are already well aware of that fact, General." Douglas turned to Ashford without pause. "Governor, this meeting has been a pleasure. I shall be remaining in the capital for another day before flying back to Georgetown. I do hope we can arrange dinner tonight or an early lunch before my flight tomorrow. Good day, gentlemen." And then Douglas shut the door.

Keating stood up quietly. "If you shall excuse me, Your Excellency, there are some matters that need attending."

"Of course, General."

Bryn Caer, Breconshire, Oceanian Sarnia

In a sense it looked peaceful. Even artistic in another sense. After the shooting, the plantation had closed and Zerud had returned home. His shirt had been stained by splatters of blood. But sitting alone atop the pile of laundry it seemed so very peaceful. There had been riots, of course. And Zerud had watched them from afar, from shop windows and outdoor tables. The baton wielding police were overwhelmed and then army troops arrived with a furious vengeance. Or, Zerud imagined, a desire for revenge for Fort St. George.

A knock on the door startled Zerud, although it had been expected. After watching the day's chaos and violence he had called Alerad from the number upon the business card. They had agreed to meet and so the patriot seemed good to his word. Zerud opened the door to find the broad shouldered man standing there, an obviously fake grin upon his face. "How are you, Reginald?"

Zerud tilted his head, unsure of how to answer. "I'm alright. I suppose. How're you? Can I make you some tea?"

"That'd be great, Reg. Mind if I sit down?"

"Go right ahead." Zerud walked towards the kitchen counter where he kept his stores of tea. "Salisbury blend alright?"

"The butcher's blend? I'm surprised you'd keep that in your flat."

"It's just I get some free, working at the plantation and all. If not, I have some lower quality tea from New Albion."

"Though they too are oppressed by the Oceanians, I think that's more agreeable."

Zerud poured some fresh, cold water into a kettle and lit the gas, igniting it in a pale, blue flame. "So you consider Lord Salisbury a butcher," he asked, returning to the table.

"Why shouldn't I? It's by his orders that the army started pushing us further west from the Avon Vale and the hills near Brecon. He all but sealed the border with Pavanne, the land stolen by the Sarzonians, and separated us from our brothers to the south. It's only by the grace of the gods and our own steadfast determination that the Yaforites fled—allowing us contact with our brothers to the west. No, Salisbury ordered the killing of hundreds if not thousands of Mareians. All for glorious Oceanian imperialism, Reg. All for those pale white men whose skin burns so easily." At that, Alerad's face grew a faint, but genuine smile. It quickly receded before he continued. "But why do you work for him?"

"I needed the money. I have to pay rent and all, you know."

"Yeah, but they don't pay that well out there."

"True, true," Zerud muttered, shaking his head.

"You could find a better job."

"Like working for you?" Zerud asked, his eyes brightening a bit.

Alerad laughed heartily. "Have you ever cut a piece of fabric in your life?"

"No…"

"Or hemmed your trousers?"

"No…"

"I'd need someone experienced. But if you find another tailor who'll take you on, and if you work there long enough, I might just find a job for you."

"I understand."

The kettle started to whistle, and so Zerud stood and poured the boiling hot water into the teapot, over the loose black tea. "It's just tough," he added, "these days. Nobody wants to hire me and yet they all still charge me the same on my bills."

"Don't you love Oceanian freedom, Reg? They're teaching us to be civilised after all. It's their burden and how they struggle mightily under it."

"A burden? That's hardly a burden. Try caring for a sick mother. I had to send her up to Atherton because she's so sick—and the hospital bills are staggering."

"I'd certainly believe it. And yet look at these folks we serve in Bryn Caer. We wear scrappy clothes held together by bare threads—"

"At least you can dress them up," Zerud interrupted.

"True enough," Alerad added with a laugh. "But still, the number of Oceanians that I have to serve on a weekly basis…all of them wanting three-piece suits and evening dresses repaired or tailor-made. How the hell do they afford it all?"

"I don't know."

"I'll tell you, Reg." Alerad leaned in closer, his face breaking the rising swirls of steam from the cups of tea Zerud was pouring into the china cups. "They work us to death and they pay us shite. Look at that kid they shot up at the butcher's place. Twenty years old perhaps? And shot because he wanted to be treated equally."

"Yeah, I know, I was there."

"You didn't mention that."

"Yeah, yeah," Zerud excitedly added. "No, I mean, I have proof." He fetched the bloodied shirt from his laundry and showed the stains to Alerad. "I never knew him personally, but we wore our shirts home. I mean, one second all was quiet then the next the guard was yelling at the kid, then beating him and the next second he flipped out. And then they shot him. Just like that."

"Injustice is what we call that. A damn shame."

"Yeah. That's what it is." Zerud nodded.

New London, Thames River

Night had long since fallen upon the port of New London, located far up the Thames estuary in southern Sarnia. The Thames River drained much of the southern half of the continent and its banks were crowded with cities like New London. Places where lights flickered while otherwise silent steel shadows pierced a dark sky where one could actually see the stars. Automobiles were largely absent from the streets, those one could spot were more often of the imported and heavily armed luxury type, or rusting utility vehicles with machine guns as home-made modifications.

Up river from the port, a cluster of lit skyscrapers rose from an island connected to the mainland by a single, similarly well-lit cable stayed bridge. Once a mere extension of the commercial district on the dark, far side of that same bridge, it housed the main offices of Royal Oceanian Petroleum and various firms providing services to the employees who lived in the high-rise apartments also inhabiting the same island. And from what Dzar Zako could see through his high-magnification night-vision binoculars, the island was ringed by small specks that he assumed to be well-armed mercenaries.

Zako felt a heavy, but warm hand fall gently upon his shoulder—sending a chill down his spine. Despite the usually temperate if not sub-tropical weather, the large estuary and ocean not very distant often brought a cool, stiff breeze to the waterfront. Zako, a middle-aged man with a rough, black beard and dark, deep set eyes allowed a smile to appear from behind his rough, scarred face.

"Let them pass by, friend," a second man said, his voice deep and calming. Zako simply nodded and returned to his improved vision. A barge and her tug were making their way up the estuary. Zako figured for the inland port at Reedston, where a railway had somehow managed to survive despite the complete collapse of the rest of Thames River. Trailing the barge was a small patrol craft, formerly of the Thames River navy—now with hull number painted over and no flags flying.

From a pocket within Zako's woolen coat, the Marerian pooled out a military-grade radio. "Priser Two, this is Soger Six come in,"

"Priser Two here."

"Let them pass."

Zako brought the binoculars once more to his eyes, and swung his head to look back down the river. He had memorised the layout of the waterfront during the daylight hours and had no trouble recognising the smokestack pattern of the steel mill, where a small vessel was attempting to slip from the docks.

"Priser Three, Soger Six, be advised one Borget-Capaet en route."

"Understood, Priser Three out."

Finally, Zako turned to his companion. Technically his superior. "Why did I allow the other one to pass?"

"It is one of ours," the man replied striking a match with which to light a cigarette. The dim glow revealed the man's smile, the ends of his lips curled upwards in a nasty way—sending another shiver down Zako's spine.

His Majesty's Naval Station St. Ives
St. Ives, Royal Crown Colony of Sarnia

Vice-Admiral Sir David Price watched the commander place another red tack on the map. True, the printed map and the manufactured tacks were less efficient than instantly-updated, flat-panel, high-definition monitors—but he could get a better sense of what was happening. Each tack represented a ship. It represented people's lives. And instead of marginalising the loss of both, by letting the computers update the map, the act of pinning up the representative icon represented itself a failure by himself and the officers serving underneath him.

"That is the second bulk carrier this week, Admiral," the commander added after returning to the small conference table. The Thames estuary was littered with little red tacks while only a few could be found further out near the barrier islands and again off the southwestern coast compared to none in the northeast. In the areas where he had the ships and the manpower to effect proper patrols.

"Noted, Commander. But what do we do about it?" Ever since Georgetown and Woodstock had agreed to demilitarise the continent per the SABAR Treaty, Price and his predecessors had suffered a drastic reduction in the number of ships the United Kingdom could station in theatre. At best he had a single carrier available. And for the moment the HMS Mandible was in a dry dock in Capetown after her skipper ran her aground in the King John Sound. He had one Lion-class dreadnought and ten Type 22 frigates, three of which were undergoing routine maintenance, three on a training exercise with the Home Fleet, one working-up from her recent commissioning leaving him with three well-rounded ships to patrol a continent. His sloops and corvettes could handle some of the work—but all were ill-suited to full patrols by themselves. Maritime patrol aircraft were doing their best, but were also short in supply and simultaneously frequently called upon for search and rescue missions. Most often for luxury yacht owners who knew not how to handle the rough and tempestuous Sarnian seas.

Price's question caught the commander and the other staff officers without an answer. "We know," the admiral finally continued, "that these pirates are earning themselves a few pounds in the estuary, the former industrial and shipping heartland of Thames River. With that nation's collapse, there is no longer a navy to protect the merchant shipping—"

"I fail to understand how the merchant shipping has remained, sir," a brown-haired lieutenant interrupted without thinking. His pale cheeks quickly reddened.

"That river is the easiest means of accessing the various mines, refineries, and factories in the interior of the continent. Head north and the Geletians are there with their xenophobia. West are the mountains. North and east are the Marerian insurgents in Marerius and even here. The Thames River is the only real means of exporting what most of the population there now depends upon." Sensing the impending question, Price quickly added onto his statement. "And most of the firms working in the heartland are Oceanian, so we are also defending our nation's own economic interests."

"Could we not simply insert ground forces and eliminate these pirates?"

Price shook his head. "It is far from that simple. For the time being, the Foreign Office still regards the Thames River as an operating, sovereign state. Even if there is nobody with whom we can discuss maritime security operations. Regardless, save some very clandestine ACES operations a full-scale Royal Marine operation is not in the cards." Price glanced over at his liaison from the Royal Marines billeted to Sarnia. "My apologies, General," he offered receiving a curt, but polite nod in return.

"I take it, sir, that air strikes are also out of the question," the commander inquired again. Price simply nodded.

"If I may, Admiral," a Royal Navy captain offered, Price's operations officer. "We have six O-class diesel-electrics in Sarnia, and while we certainly need some to ensure our own borders it may be possible to deploy one or two into the deeper channels of the estuary. With no navy to speak of they could conceivably operate undetected and engage any pirate vessels encountered. Additionally, they do have the capacity to deploy ACES teams should we uncover the pirates' operating facilities."

"And if we divert HMS Deliverance from her current patrol duties, her stealth characteristics would render her rather unseen to the pirates and her UAVs could provide surveillance of the waters and, perhaps more importantly, developments ashore."

Price simply nodded. The suggestion was from the overwhelming invasion he would prefer to bring order to a land of chaos. Nor was it even an overwhelming show of force to strike fear into the hearts of the damned pirates. It was a compromise. But it could, just possibly, be made to work.

"Very good, Tarua," Price finally spoke, addressing the captain. "See to the preparations."

"Very well, Admiral," the captain replied. The other assembled officers murmured their own acknowledgment of the orders before returning to their own specific duties and leaving Price alone.

17 km outside St. Claire
Royal Crown Colony of New London

The jungles of New London were far removed from the jungles of Sarnia. But to Captain Daniel Porter they were both the same. Porter was hunched over a small map splayed out inside his command vehicle, a modified version of the Jaguar IFV. B Company, 2nd Battalion, Royal Uxbridge Regiment was a mechanised infantry unit—and his Jaguars were arranged around the perimeter of this shit hole in the middle of nowhere.

In truth, despite Porter's resentment of his posting, his company secured an Atawok town just within the jungle—not more than a kilometre down the road the jungle gave way to plains that occupied the lower slopes of the islands mountain range. The town had initially sat in the plains, but with the arrival of Europeans in the 19th century the village slowly moved into the thick jungle in an attempt to hide from the missionaries and soldiers.

"The scouts reported the movement from here, sir," a lieutenant with a green, brown, and black face said with a soft-spoken voice. His finger pointed to a small river that carried the melt water from the mountain range across the island before emptying into the ocean near St. Claire. "Now, we have seen evidence of recent construction around this hill," the lieutenant pointed to another position on the map that would offer decent coverage of the area down river.

Porter looked behind him and found a small manilla folder that he had received while being briefed for this patrol back in St. Claire. "Lieutenant, an RAF reconnaissance flight took these photographs three days ago." He laid out the images sequentially with the actual photograph revealing nothing but the typically thick jungle canopy. The thermal images, however, depicted what both men counted as nearly two dozen persons and four, maybe five vehicles.

"They are attempting to regroup, sir."

For a long time, the United Kingdom had struggled to 'stabilise' the security situation in its New London colony. A volcanic archipelago with a fiercely nationalistic indigenous population, the islands initially interested very few outside the Admiralty. Strong timber and some small sheltered waters provided the impetus to start trading with the small island kingdom. However, a massive volcanic eruption in 1892 gouged a tear through the archipelago and left traces of precious metals and gems upon the beaches frequented by Europeans.

In the rush to gain access to the minerals, Oceanians were killed and the islands fell under the formal control of Georgetown in a slow but steady succession from the 1920s onwards. St. Claire was founded on a partially submerged river valley that sunk as a result of the 1892 eruption, providing a nice natural harbour that developed slowly into an important Oceanian military outpost. But it was not until the development of heavy warships in the late 20th century when the deep soundings of the sunken caldera and the fractured islands led to the development of facilities supporting super-dreadnoughts and even super-capitals. The population of St. Claire supported the HMNB Cualito. While the base was sited in the town of Port Hedley, the town sat on a small piece of flat ground between the deep caldera and the rising rim of the extinct volcano—no room existed for anything but necessary naval facilities.

The colonial government, underwritten by the Admiralty, built a light rail network to link the two communities. But, as the wealth of the colony crew ever so incrementally—as much of the economy then and today remained dominated by primary economic industries—the small indigenous population of Atawoks grew anxious. Rebuffed in all their attempts for an increased share of the wealth they turned to arms. And ever since, the insurrection that had previously been focused on the colonial capital of New London had turned its eyes to the southwest and the thin artery connecting St. Claire and Port Hedley. Every week, ground commanders like Porter and his superiors had come to expect another 'sting' by the New London insurgents.

Windham, Bredonshire, United Kingdom

Nightfall in the sleepy port city of Windham was very different from that of New London, Thames River. Lights burned brightly while drunken men and women stumbled out of pubs and night clubs that lined the waterfront where the Pacific lazily lapped up against the concrete seawall. In the sheltered harbour, beyond the breakwater, a small freighter sat next to its dock while cranes transferred containers ashore. Half of the load was complete with lorries moving some of the loads into the national transport infrastructure while rolling stock waited for their diesel locomotives to contribute.

Hannah Johnson simply watched all of it while sipping on a dark roast of coffee softened by liberal use of milk and sugar. An inspector in the Bredonshire Constabulary, the police forces had received a tip that somebody was attempting to smuggle in a load of chezari, a powerful hallucinogenic drug that fetched quite a few pounds on the street. While her partner sat next to her looking through a high-powered scope, she watched through a simple pair of binoculars, munching on some baked chips when bored.

"I think I have him," her partner muttered, "take a look."

Johnson leaned over and peered through, finding a tall man dressed in a dark overcoat with whitish-grey hair and dark sunglasses. Why he was wearing sunglasses at night was beyond Johnson. "There he is indeed." She pulled herself away and took out her radio. "Target confirmed, everybody move."

From sea, land, and even air powerful search lights flooded the docks, blinding the various persons working the docks. Some, equipped with assault rifles and sub-machineguns attempted to blind the police by shooting out the lights—all to no avail. Pre-positioned marksmen then sniped those showing any sign of resistance, doing their best to ensure they lived to testify. Or at least provide information.

By the time Johnson arrived, the armed response units had secured the area and most of the personnel were in handcuffs and/or lined up against waiting vans. "What did we get?" she asked the officer in charge of the scene.

"Preliminary, several dozen kilos of the stuff."

Johnson shook her head, "keep searching, there is supposed to be a great deal more than several dozen kilos." The informant had told police that the man in the dark overcoat was the local handler and would effectively be checking the substances in and verifying the quality. Her guess, some of the cargo had already escaped into the UK via those lorries and the departing trains. The trains could be searched easily enough—but the vehicles were another matter entirely. Some of the chezari was likely already on the street.

Kalo, Braddockshire, Oceanian Sarnia

"How the—" Peterson felt the ground shake and then heard the deafening roar that nearly deafened him outright. Instead, he blinked, cleared the dirt from his eyes and heard a sharp ringing and the muttered shouts of his men instead. The sergeant had screamed "incoming" and then—and the ground shook again.

Sergeant Lawrence Howard found the stunned officer and then shook his head. He grabbed his rifle from the table where had been doing remarkably well in a game of solitaire and headed towards the communications tent. Inside the radioman was scribbling messages as quickly as possible, he looked up from the set and in his usually blue eyes Howard found only the white of fear. "Contant HQ in Brecon, inform them we are under attack and request fire support." Taking the man's pad and pencil he hurriedly wrote the coordinates for the far side of the hills. "Here," he said.

Upon exiting the tent, another few mortar rounds fell—this time farther east of the Oceanian position. From the perimeter, he began to hear the familiar sounds of Oceanian machine guns combined with rifle fire—and something that sounded more like AK47s. He darted over to the sandbag-fortified position and clapped his hand upon the machine gunner's shoulder. He saw movement in the woods above their position and quickly brought his rifle to his shoulder. Through the scope he found three persons in athletic gear running with, curiously enough, Oceanian service rifles. He fired off three quick rounds, dropping one but stopping the other two in their tracks. Two more rounds through their chest—more likely stuck inside their chest—dropped them to the ground.

Then Howard's view exploded. Field artillery pieces east of their roadblock had begun to spit out their high-explosive rounds. The digital fire control of the mobile artillery landed ten rounds within one second. And four pieces meant forty rounds erupting all around the Marerian insurgents. Howard could not help but smile as the incoming fire slackened.

17 km outside St. Claire
Royal Crown Colony of New London

"Shit, shit, shit," Porter swore to himself, looking in horror through his periscope as one of his Jaguars belched smoke. Its crew and passengers were forced to disembark into a withering fire from the hill they were attempting to assault and Porter dared not think of the number of casualties. An RPG or something similar streaked out from the forest and impacted against the glacis of another Jaguar. Fortunately it looked intact, just beat up.

He pulled himself away from his view and ordered the advance to halt and then retreat—he would simply blow the hill up. As the Jaguars withdrew Atawok insurgents dashed out under their own cover running to the fallen Oceanians—stripping them of anything useful. They melted back into the jungle, but not to the hilltop. They knew what was next. Two Kaha'i strike aircraft that had been loitering on call raced in, smothering the area with fuel air explosives and a Royal Artillery battery finished the job turning the hill into a massive crater.

An hour later Porter received the semi-grim news as his men returned to the scene of the earlier fighting. Eight men classified as missing were found. Three dead, and five in the field with critical but not fatal injuries. Their gear, including their rifles, however, were missing—apparently taken by the insurgents who otherwise had shown no interest in the soldiers.

Reedston, Thames River

"That's not enough," Bor Gulin hissed through his misaligned front teeth. "You promised at least a dozen with this shipment, I count eight—and this one," Gulin picked up a scratched L75 rifle, "probably doesn't even work good anymore."

"You want them or not? If not, we'll take them elsewhere—I'm sure there are some folks in Recedentia or New Albion would love to get their hands on these."

Gulin clenched his fist and pursed his lips, muttering obscenities that the dark-skinned Atawok could not understand. Though the smile on the man's face hinted to Gulin that he knew well the message of Gulin's indiscernible mutterings.

"Here you go," Gulin finally replied, slapping a black briefcase upon the table, skillfully unsnapping the brass locks in the process. "It's all there."

The Atawok smiled once more. "I'm quite sure it is," he replied, fingering through the stacks of twenty pound notes. "And even a little sample, you are far too kind." His fingers picked up a carefully sealed plastic bag with pale greenish-brown crumbs inside.

"Top grade chezari, a gift from my employers."

Heyford, Bedfordshire, Oceanian Sarnia

Nestled in the upper Deveron Valley, the small town of Heyford hosted not just the Royal Air Force's only significant aerodrome in western Sarnia, but the main railway and motorway links crossing the River Hey, the largest tributary of the River Deveron. General Keating walked along the town's small High Street, his hands wrapped around a paper cup purchased from a small, local shop. The tea itself was also local, purchased from one of the large plantations owned by the former prime minister, Lord Salisbury. Further down the narrow, two-lane road, the town stretched across the Hey Bridge. It linked the town's two halves. While the railway and motorway did the same, they were a few kilometres east of the town and so were, from the town's perspective, far less important to pedestrian traffic.

"Not a great deal of entertainment, sir," a broad-shouldered man offered, his shoulders not just wide but adorned with the insignia of a colonel. "Three small pubs and one small theatre." He handed the general a map of the town, with the mentioned sites within the town's gridded structure circled and noted. "But, the council seems inclined to support your proposal and promises that an increase in the town's population will lead to development of proper forms of entertainment for our soldiers."

"Very good," Keating responded. He had tasked the officer with talking to the town's governing council about hosting not just the small RAF facility, but about a new Oceanian Army garrison. With the bombing of Fort St. George and recent mortar attacks on Army checkpoints securing the routes leading out of Breconshire and Braddockshire, Keating wanted to move the main facilities for the few army units under his command to a more secure location. Thus far, Bedfordshire constituted just such a secure location. Additionally, Heyford was near one of the colony's main cities, Atherton, and via the Hey, located along the important Deveron.

The two men turned their head at the familiar sound of helicopter rotors slicing through what was in Heyford, a thick, grey sky. An RAF Black Falcon helicopter, painted in bright yellow, raced along the river, quickly moving out of sight behind a hill east of the town. "Rescue bird," the colonel offered again. "RAF Heyford hosts the western Sarnia SAR squadron along with some Vipers and logistics aircraft, namely transports and tankers."

Keating nodded. The marine air mass blowing up the valley was abnormally cool; and so taking note of the steam rising from his cup, the general took a long sip to warm himself. It was not often that he toured the distant western frontier of the colony. Avon Vale was developing quickly, the governor and his administration actually succeeding in directing the development into discrete towns and villages not a simple mass of colonial sprawl. He hated Ashford—and therefore enjoyed this excursion to the frontier for its sheer distance from Avalon—but he was at times an adept administrator. Keating smiled to himself at that thought. Perhaps that was why he had survived the transition from the Democratic Socialist government that had appointed him.

As the two officers slowly walked down the street, a young couple passed them, conspicuous in their attempt to be inconspicuous as they stared at the officers in their uniforms. Keating politely bowed his head and smiled, then raised his cup to them. The woman blushed and the man politely waved before both quickened their pace. "They shall get rather quickly accustomed to us," the colonel muttered under his breath and warming collar.

"Relax, Dom," Keating softly responded. "The settlers in these parts are not so used to having soldiers around. It shall undoubtedly take time—do you imagine your friends back home would like us walking about with rifles slung across our chests?"

HMS Deliverance
35 km Off the Coast of The Thames River

John Lilley leaned his tall and skinny frame against the padded edge of the computer terminal. The executive officer aboard the stealth frigate tasked with patrolling the shipping lanes of the Thames River, he was responsible for keeping tabs on what St. Ives believed to be a patrol craft under the command of pirates operating out of New London. "Have they a scent yet, Dick," he asked of his principle warfare officer.

"No, sir. Maintaining course one-nine-two, ten knots. And still chatting away like a bloody school girl."

Lilley smiled for that fortune. Heretofore, the Royal Navy had refrained from operating this close to the Thames River—for fear of upsetting Woodstock with violations of the SABAR Treaty. But, with pirates, drug dealers, arms smugglers, slave traffickers all beginning to flourish in this failed state, there was more leeway for the Royal Navy to conduct operations close to Sarzonian waters. And while staying away had allowed the pirates to plant roots in the estuary, it had simultaneously planted a false sense of security—their boat commanders talking in an easily broken code on an unsecured frequency.

A simple command from the CO could unleash an anti-ship missile, or a few rounds from the concealed deck gun. The patrol craft would then be at the bottom of the channel in minutes. But St. Ives wanted more. They had positively identified this particular patrol craft as a pirate vessel after detecting it in proximity to a raided merchant vessel. The UAV aloft at the time, however, had reached its fuel limit and so they were content simply to intercept the electronic transmissions and record voices and acoustic signatures. Early this morning, the Deliverance intercepted transmissions and confirmed them as originating from the same ship. All day long, rotating reconnaissance drones had trailed the patrol craft up and down the shipping lane and the estuary. Fifteen minutes ago, they signaled that they were headed back to port. St. Ives was not so interested in the patrol craft but rather the location of their port facilities.

"Sir, course change," and with that notification Lilley stiffened his back and picked up the handset to raise the captain.

Southwark, The Thames River

The docks of Southwark, like much of the Thames River, had fallen apart since the collapse of the government. Gerry Adams, once a physical trainer for the city's wealthy upper crust, could now do little else but kick a chipped and fractured brick into the oily water lit by the flickers of an electric light. Across the river he could see the various islands of light from the small fortified buildings or wards that showed the rest of the country where the drug lords and various fragments of that upper crust remained ensconced behind electric fences and guards with guns.

Adams had, at one time, been one of those guards. Physically fit and familiar enough with martial arts to convince the uneducated wealthy that he was an expert, he guarded one compound in nearby Fulham until it was overrun by a far larger group of mercenaries. Their employers sought the paintings and sculptures owned by Adams' employers, who had taken refuge in the arts district. Adams was among the lucky survivors—and his skill in the raging gunfight led him to the Black Sands, a group of Marerian pirates based in Southwark. He stood guard at one of their port facilities that ostensibly still belonged to the Thames River government.

From a distance, the engine of a small missile boat hummed as it neared the docks of Southwark. Strapped awkwardly to its foredeck was a lightweight, rapid-fire twenty millimetre gun while men with shotguns and rifles of various make and manufacture manned the rails. Adams watched carefully, ensuring that no small pleasure craft came astern of the vessel or tried to follow it beyond the jetties. His fingers drummed along the edge of his sub-machinegun's pistol grip. Satisfied that the ship was secure, he radioed to his superiors located inside one of the large warehouse offices fronting the docks.

Turning around, he watched the patrol craft make its way past the jetty entrance. The ensign of the Black Sands flapped neatly from the stern as the ship cuts its speed and manoeuvred to a stop against the docks. It was a small ship, he noted, especially when placed next to the larger freighters the organisation had brought alongside to take aboard their recently acquired cargo. Even the smaller freighters dwarfed the patrol craft, busy as they were offloading crates and containers imported by the pirates from abroad.

After seeing the lines were secured and satisfied that all was well, Adams radioed in once more to his bosses. He turned around, back towards the estuary only to find a masked face.

"Sorry, mate," the face apologised with a masculine voice and a familiar accent. But that was that for Adams as the assailant placed his hands around Adam's head and twisted. Across the way on the distant jetty, a companion of Adams similarly met his end—his, however, far colder as the heavy round from the marksman's rifle offered neither an introduction nor a sense of regret.

From a small ait in the estuary, the marksman surveyed the remainder of the jetties—no other significant presence. Most of the guards remained on the far side of the docks along the chain-link perimeter fence that partitioned off the pirate docks from the remainder of Southwark. Satisfied, with a short burst of static he informed the rest of the small ACES (All Combat Environment Specialists) team, drawn from all branches of the armed forces, that the route was secure.

From submerged positions alongside the rock jetties, the squad-sized team moved ashore, quickly dispensing with their rebreathers and gripping their L76 carbines they made their way to the docks, stepping in shadows and moving as silently as possible. The few stray guards or drunken pirates they encountered met mercifully swift ends. Through now unsecured doors, they entered the largest warehouse where containers from the various freighters were opened, the cargo sorted and placed on lorries or trains according to their intended destinations.

Low-light video of the operation streamed back to the command centre in St. Ives, where analysts noted the presence of RPGs, mortar launchers and rounds, along with crates of Kalashnikovs and ammunition. Body armour, radios, and other assorted goodies for the pirates rounded out the imported goods. Alongside the weaponry, high-value consumer goods such as televisions, mobile phones, jewelry, et cetera were destined for the black market to provide a steady stream of revenue. The special forces took note of the activity and logged it in their minds for debriefing. But as they prepared to exit, the squad leader halted the team as an aluminium door was pulled open revealing an idling lorry and small crates waiting on a sack truck.

The crates were wheeled inside accompanied by men with briefcases and sub-machineguns—a different type than those held by the pirates. A quick inspection of what the squad leader suspected to be paper notes, though the cases were opened to be out of his unit's line of sight, and the crates were hefted off by waiting pirates. They placed a rectangular crate on one of the trucks while one of the newcomers pried open the crate with a crowbar. He risked bringing up his carbine to use the scope, and noted that inside amongst the packing material was what appeared to be an anti-tank guided missile system.

Lowering his weapon he and his team lingered longer than expected, to the nervous apprehension of the analysts and brass in St. Ives who could see only crates being loaded onto the waiting vehicle. The leader counted nearly twenty crates before a differently shaped crate was placed on the ground. Although opened by the same man, this time his position obscured the view of the contents—though it appeared another cylindrical weapon, likely another ATGM set. Six of these were loaded onto the lorry before the vehicle and the newcomers departed.

As the team exited the same way they entered, they collected the body of the sniped man at the jetty. After wrapping his body in a tarp and weighing his body down with stones from the jetty he was allowed to settle at the bottom of the estuary while the lifeless shell of Adams was disturbed by a single round from a silenced pistol. It was the same type of gun characteristically used by a rival group of pirates located along the other bank, a bit upriver. The calling card planted, the team descended back into the frigid waters of the estuary except for the leader. He waited a moment then pulled out a small trigger from a watertight container and with the press of a button detonated the explosives they had brought with them into the warehouse.

Bryn Caer, Breconshire, Oceanian Sarnia

The same marine air mass chilling General Keating in Heyford afflicted the town of Bryn Caer as well. Indeed, as Zerud glanced out the window of his flat, he could see little else but the grey skies and the distant fields and plantations north of the town. He too sipped from a hot cup of tea, although Zerud's was fashioned from blown glass and unlike Keating who took his with cream and sugar, Zerud's was taken with karia juice. To Marerians and those Oceanians long-used to living on the island continent, the karia was a lemon-like, citrus fruit native to Sarnia.

From the flat above his, he could hear the rhythmic creaking of his neighbour's bed—despite the early afternoon hour. The man had apparently been at it all day and, despite all attempts to drown it out through music or television, Zerud had simply grown frustrated. Finally, tired of listening to his neighbour, he finished his tea and grabbed his overcoat from the hook next to the door.

Eventually, Zerud made his way to the centre of Bryn Caer along with dozens of others. The population was mixed, with the darker faces of the Marerians standing out against the pale, whiter skins of the Oceanian settlers. Additionally, generally speaking, the Marerians wore brightly coloured, if not finely tailored, clothes against the duller, more neutral colours all the rage in the United Kingdom. Walking away from High Street, Zerud made his way down Market to enjoy the sights and sounds of the stalls of various people selling their wares. On corners, children and adults competed against each other to have their instruments heard by all. Steel drums and acoustic guitars. Amplified electrics and brash trumpets and saxophones. From up above in the various flats with open windows sometimes Zerud could even pick out the note of popular music from radio or CDs.

At another corner, he found a small café with wrought iron tables and chairs shaded from the grey skies by red and white parasols. Smiling to himself, he pushed open the glass door and entered the long, rectangular room squeezed by a counter where espresso machines and air pots stood ready for the half dozen customers milling about. Glancing at the menu board and deciding upon what he wanted, he took a five pound note from his wallet and approached the counter.

"May I please have a hot cocoa," he asked the petite blonde, probably no more than eighteen years of age, standing behind the counter. Instead of answering, however, she turned to a person standing behind Zerud.

"What do you want, Ed?"

"Small double latte, Ames, with vanilla" the person responded.

Zerud turned around to look, and found a shirtless young man, probably about the same age as the girl. While his skin was dark, it was obviously more owing to his working out under the sun than genetic predisposition.

"Excuse me," Zerud quietly asked the girl whose back was now turned to prepare the drink. "But I was here before this gentlemen and ordered before him."

"Yeah, one second, wait your turn," the girl replied.

"Why should I wait my turn, I was here first."

"Listen, just wait and I shall get back to you."

Zerud shook his head and clenched his jaw. "No, I want you to serve me now," he demanded with an incrementally raised voice.

The girl finally turned around and poured the two shots and milk into the other man's drink. "See, I am almost done."

"But you should be almost done my drink," Zerud snapped.

The girl placed the latte on the counter as the young man, now silent, stepped around Zerud to pay for and pick up his drink. As the girl took the change from her friend, who now had the drink in hand, Zerud quickly pushed his right forearm up and underneath the young man's forearm. The drink quickly ended up all over the counter with some landing on the young man's chest and some on the girl's face.

"You should be done my drink, I said," he repeated, his voice quiet but unsettlingly even in tone.

"What the fuck, man," the shirtless boy yelled, now feeling the burning sensation on his chest. "What the fuck?"

"Shut up," Zerud cried out. "Go take your tanned, skinny, settler ass and get to the end of the line."

The boy then shoved Zerud, pushing the Marerian into the stainless steel countertop. Zerud turned around, and let his rage-filled eyes wither the boy into a shriveled, shivering mass. "I was here first."

Having decided to simply get rid of the Marerian, the girl had quickly used the remaining steamed milk to make Zerud's hot cocoa. "Here you go," she offered in a voice far quieter than it had been but minutes before. "On the house," she added as Zerud turned to face her.

He took the cup without speaking a word and walked out of the café. Sipping the sweetened, semi-thick, chocolate drink Zerud smiled. The people standing around the café who had witnessed the whole ordeal stood puzzled, muttering about the behaviour of the indignant, indigenous people of Sarnia.

[OOC: I owe you lots of apologies. Sorry for the wait (that's becoming an interesting refrain.]

Rural Marerius, A Meeting-Place

"I can offer some good news, if that's a consolation." The man standing opposite from Nazfir was much darker than the Marerian - whether he came from an entirely different part of the world or simply a part of Marerius that was renowned for having darker men than the rest, Nazfir never knew. His skin was a shade of ebony than almost any Marerian from the area. Nazfir didn't really care, truth be told. All he wanted was what the man could offer him and then, he would hope, the man would be gone. That would be all. Simply that. "It's something I think you'll like, Nazfir." The Marerian grunted and the others nearby glanced forward.

"I've arranged with my contacts for a much larger load next time. More of those cheap submachine guns, some more sniper rifles, a few grenade launchers." The smuggler grinned. He was clearly understating the number of weapons on purpose - as if saying that he was able to get quite a few more, if the situation arose. "I want exact numbers. How many do you have here and how many can you get me?" Nazfir had never been the type of man to be taken in by schemes and by smugglers and the man in front of him was both. Quantification had the double advantage of also giving a limit on not only what one had but what needed. Nazfir was many things (he had dropped out of high school in the eleventh, he had never been to college) but the one thing he wasn't was stupid. Nazfir was a leader of men and a leader could never be taken in.

"What we have here are one hundred of the ess-em-gees." He enunciated each letter of the acronym to the extreme, something Nazfir idly noted at he continued to stare. "Fewer of the launchers and snipers, 'course." At Nazfir's stare, the smuggler swallowed slightly and finished his numerical statements. "Fifty of each, actually. If you wanted that." He managed to continue the facade of his somewhat-casual exterior, but Nazfir was totally sure that he had managed to get through to the man. "Get through" meaning making the man fear him. Fear wasn't the best of motivators, in Nazfir's opinion, but it was better than nothing. And weapons were better than the alternative.

"Hey, wait a second!" One of the men, their hands rummaging through the wooden boxes of weapons, some firing them to make sure they worked, others tested to see the amounts of weapons and ammunition, spoke quickly. "I thought you said these were from Yaf-land. Why is this labeled "Socialist" and "manufactured in the USSR"?" A few of the other men looked up. Nazfir's face showed none of his irritation at being interrupted - instead he quirked his eyebrow towards the smuggler, as if allowing the smuggler to answer the question. In all honesty, he personally didn't care where they were from (a gun was a gun, in his eyes, no matter where it came from. But he had managed to lead an idealistic force that insisted on the destruction of their "oppressors", so he had to listen to their wishes, somewhat).

The smuggler swallowed again. He was clearly a very nervous man. "Well, you see, these weapons were intended to go to the Socialist in the Czardaian Civil War a couple of years back. That's why they're brand new. My contact manages to find his way into weapons storage facilities and from there he takes them." Some of the other soldiers looked at him sceptically. Nazfir immediately gaged that it was time to take control of the situation. "Well, of course! It's not surprising that the oppressors both support radical terrorist groups in good countries and then pretend their support is from someone else. And, hey, they clearly are pretty bad at giving support!" Immediately the tension levels in the area dropped at the men, almost uniformly, broke into laughter.

"Anyway, I can offer half a thousand ess-em-gees on the next shipment, several hundred of the snipers and maybe a hundred launchers - harder to carry, you know. You can afford?" Nazfir simply looked at the smuggler and he nodded. "What can you get for me in the field of incendiary materials?" This was a subject that was much nearer to Nazfir's heart than guns and it was clear that this was really the reason he wanted to talk to the smuggler. "Um, come again?" Nazfir shook his head, breathing in for a second, then staring the smuggler in the eyes. "Bombs, you fool! Explosives! Ever heard of them?" The smuggler crouched down (as if avoiding blows) and spoke, haltingly.

"I can get a few. How many is your requirement?" Nazfir shook his head. "I'm far from stupid. I'm not going to accept something like that from you without testing it first." One of the first lessons when dealing with smugglers was that they were always trying to screw you over. They sold illegally acquired materials, brought them in illegally, and sold them illegally. They charged exorbitant prices for weapons that were used. Smugglers were not trustworthy. And Nazfir's first lesson had been to take everything that they said with a grain of salt. But, in the end, it didn't really matter. If they delivered the weapons, it would be fine.

A Village, Rural Marerius

Overcommander Syad Kalthoran waved his left arm (that would be the one that wasn't carrying the "Achaea" in it) towards the other side of the few thatch-and-mud-brick houses that made up the tiny hamlet. If anything, in Syad's eyes, it was purely resemblant of Marerius as a whole - dirty, broken, ugly, badly-made, and mostly likely carrying a weapons cache somewhere inside. He been "promoted", or at least that was what Saphara had told him. Instead of guarding the gates to the city of Diherad, now he was fairly far away, ranging to these tiny, dirt-filled dwellings to see if he, like so many others tried to, could find the enemies. They were Marerian insurgents, of course, but in his head, Syad thought of them as enemies. This was a war and they were his enemies.

"Most of them are women and children, sir. There is one man who insists that there is nothing here. Should we clear them out, sir?" The young man who moved with him was new to the army - a graduate of one of the fancy new military schools (Syad himself had come up at a time where the schools were much harsher than they were now). The young man had apparently passed with flying colors and, thus, the boy (as Syad thought of him) was now his second. It wasn't something Syad was really fond of. The boy had not seen real action (like many of the soldiers, including Syad, had, in Generia). The boy was untrained, having learned about war in a book. Syad had been to war. He knew, now, that war was nothing like a book.

One thing that these new military schools did teach was discipline and that, at least, was something that Syad was very fond of. The boy obeyed his orders without thinking. In Syad's time, it had taken years before that had happened. "No, bring them to me. I think I'll...talk to them first." The boy saluted and strode off. "Yes, sir! Just follow me." Tracking the boy (who seemed almost to be marching - that was the way he walked, and it was another one of those things that irritated Syad very much. After all, war wasn't a parade ground. Nothing near it.) Turning past a few abandoned dwellings, the boy showed him to a patch of dirt where a few families (the first adjective that came to mind was "dirty") lay on the dusty group. The boy motioned towards a bony older man.

His face full of his single purpose, Syad reached down and grabbed the older man, thrusting him forward. "Where are the weapons!?" He roared, throwing his entire body into his words. All the pain, all the guilt, all the fire poured into his words. "I...I...I..." the older man struggled to get out, but Syad wasn't interested in excuses. "Tell me where the goddamn weapons are!" Roaring, the powerful Yaforite soldier felt the weight of the older man and, in one fluid motion, threw him across the area. "Where?" his voice was full of his pain, but still interrogative. It was cold. It demanded an answer.

As he strode towards the older man, he, for some obscene reason, found the boy directly in front of him, blocking his vision. "Overcommander Kalthoran! Torture is forbidden, sir! I understand you are my commanding officer, sir, and I am obligated to do as you say, but I am also obligated, by my contract, to inform you when you are crossing out of the guidebook, sir!" Syad stared at the boy, wondering if he were serious. Had this been Generia, the boy would have been cast out for such antics. Seriously. A "guide book". The boy must have been entirely insane.

"Boy, I'm going to tell you once and only once. This is war. You've never been to war before, so I don't blame you for not knowing, but this'll be the only time you learn. In war there are no rules. There is no guidebook. Be thankful you have someone like to me to teach you this. In Generia we learned the hard way." Thrusting the boy to the side, Syad grabbed the older man and, using his "Achaea", smashed the older man in the face. "Tell me where the weapons are!" And again. "Tell me!" Unknown to Syad, the boy was behind him. And, at the sight of Syad's fury, the boy lowered his eyes.

Diherad

The new leader of Marerius, Nakhran Narimov, sat in the great office chair, pedaled strategically away from his desk. The assumption of control of Diherad by Yaforite authorities involved a lot of paperwork (as, indeed, did everything involving Yaforites), and there was very little that Nakhran disliked more than paperwork. To his right, still standing, but leaning on the desk in a manner that was not appropriate of a soldier in the least was the new commander of Yaforite forces in Sarnia, Major General Saphara Paharad. Drowsily sleeping on Saphara's shoulder was Nakhran's daughter, Kaira, who had turned sixteen here in Marerius. When he had arrived, Saphara and Kaira had hated each other. It was clear that the strain of all that time together (being the only females really around) had brought them closer.

"Report, Field Commander Alriin." Field Commander Tanis Alriin was the man who was second-in-command of Yaforite forces in Marerius and, while Saphara spent most of her time with Nakhran and his daughter (filing things, greeting petitions, talking to Yaforites in Ajer and the like), Tanis was really the face of Yaforite operations in Marerius. He was the one who was guiding the overcommanders, commanding troops to go where, encouraging his soldiers, and the like. Tanis was another veteran of Generia, but he had been very young during the war, so he was still of a relatively young age. He had a lot of potential and Saphara thought that she was beginning to see it. If anything, Tanis' rapid rise made her feel old, which wasn't something she enjoyed.

"Diherad is calming down, General. We haven't had any attacks in the past week and I think you're more aware than I am of increasing civilian involvement in government. In the past week, street patrols had caught seven thefts, up from five the previous two weeks each. Looting has ceased for the most part and soldiers on wall patrols are very much looking in, nearly as much as they look out. There have been twenty-eight people who were caught attempting to smuggle - that's three more than last week - but only one had arms, and that's a record low. I think that it's safe to say that we've increased security for Diherad vastly, General." Tanis clearly had all the facts at his fingertips, and that helped Nakhran and Saphara, who needed to, obviously, craft policy.

"What would be your assessment regarding the areas outside Diherad, Field Commander? No, no, I don't need the specifics. Has security increased?" The two had already crafted an idea regarding improving security outside Diherad, but this was routine procedure. "No, General. If anything, I think it is safe to say that violence has increased. There seems to have been an increase in the number of weapons - especially submachine guns - that the insurgents possess, but we do not have the number of soldiers to be sure." Saphara nodded. "And more soldiers on patrol would help increase that, I presume?" At the Field Commander's level "Yes, General", Saphara turned to Nakhran, who nodded slightly, before continuing.

"If you were to have to take a certain number of soldiers from wall or street patrol in Diherad, how many would you take and still maintain the same level of security?" The Field Commander's eyes widened and he immediately shook his head. "General, with all due respect, I would risk it. We have only now managed to secure Diherad - we simply do not have the number of troops to maintain a high level of security. Diherad is just one major attack away from collapsing, General, and, while we have got it there, it is my recommendation that we do not lower our guards in a vain effort to help too many people with too little." Tanis had been blunt, but fair. Saphara smiled, slightly, before continuing. "Even so?"

"One-fifth from each patrol, General." He had already done the calculations. So had they. "Then one-fifth it shall be. Alert Field Commander Valgaan that his troops will be placed under the command of Field Commander Saeiris." The latter was Saphara's close friend Eldran, who was in charge of the areas outside of Diherad. "Yes, General." Tanis quickly saluted and departed.

I have quite a bit more I want to establish, and somewhat soon, but I think it might work better if I break it into smaller chunks. So, I should have some more up in a far shorter order than usual.

Southern Marerius

"We're still going to need to get'em 'cross the river."

Yuza Karfir sighed, and pulled the sweat-stained baseball cap further down his brow until the brim rested against his faux-designer sunglasses. A darker-skinned Marerian, his home was east of where he sat, his back pressed up against the mud-covered side of his pickup truck. He had a Sarzonian passport—but like the Oceanian Marerian bitching about the existence of a river, he too had forsaken his Western identity. Karfir looked down at his watch, a fake Rolex, and sighed again.

"What's the problem?" the Oceanian complained.

Karfir pointed to the sky without raising his head.

Warwick, New Thames River

He finally had to place the cup of coffee back on the desk, his hands were simply shaking far too much. William Lambeth had been awake for thirty-four hours straight. And for perhaps thirty of those hours his eyes had been glued to the CRT computer monitor glowing before him. With his hands now free, he pushed his fingers hard against his eyelids in a vain attempt to rub out the exhaustion.

Typing a few strings of gibberish into a command line, Lambeth planted his right foot into the ground and pushed his swiveling chair one-hundred-eighty degrees. "You're still good," he croaked. His hands were still trembling. This time, though, he could squarely attribute it to the barrel of the AK-47 pressed against his forehead.

And then he gulped. But that was not because of the AK-47 pressed against his forehead. But rather the knife held against his sixteen-year-old daughter's throat.

Southern Marerius

"What the hell are you waiting for?" the Oceanian shouted at Karfir. "Damnit man, I'm fucking hungry!"

Karfir shook his head and pointed once more to the skies. They were a bright, crisp blue. Not a single cloud to mar the ocean above them.

"We've been waiting here two hours!"

Behind his opaque sunglasses Karfir shut his eyes. He took a deep breath and counted to ten. Finally he stood up, and from the back of the belt hanging around his waist withdrew a handgun that he pointed squarely at the Oceanian's mouth. "They've fucking satellites you fucking moron. For Chrissake, how the hell've you managed not to have been shut down yet?" Karfir cocked his weapon. "Satellites, you fucking retard." He wanted to wave the handgun at the sky—but also did not want to lose control of the situation. He took a breath and then quietly put the gun away, wrapping his arm around the Oceanian's shoulders.

"They have satellites." Suddenly, the fraternal voice of a friendly comrade had returned. The Oceanian man offered Karfir a half-smile. "They can see who is crossing their borders and with what whenever they are overflying the territory." Karfir walked the man back to the bed of the pickup truck and raised the tarp enough to remind the Oceanian of their cargo. "Do you really want Georgie Boy to see that?"

"No," the other man muttered.

"That's what I thought." Karfir checked his watch again. And found the hour and minute hands to his liking. "Now we can move." His voice was harsh and commanding once more. "Get in the fucking truck."

Karfir started the pickup and headed northeast. As he descended from the plateau, he led a giant trail of dust and sand kicked up by nearly a dozen pickup trucks moving with him across the southern Marerian countryside.

A Forest, Unorganised Sarnia

"So what'd you think?" Alerad landed a hearty slap on Zerud's back. And the older man smiled, for what before had drawn tension and a nervous, unsteady smile drew not a crooked smile and a laugh. Zerud had put in for a week's vacation from the Salisbury plantation and booked a flight from Avalon to Nicksia, one of the larger Sarzonian settlements in Pavanne. From there, it was rather easy to obtain a train ticket and ride all the way into New Thames River. And from there…well, Zerud now knew he could go anywhere, do anything, and get anything—or anyone as he found out on his first night—in New Thames River. And that he had not only roughed up that Oceanian college girl, but had gone on to share her with Alerad. Against her screaming…

"I'm having a great time," Zerud replied succinctly.

The broad-shoulderd Marerian seemed different now to Zerud. Perhaps it was simply his attire. Gone were the finely tailored clothes of Bryn Caer; they had been replaced by jungle fatigues that Zerud assumed to be secondhand goods. Another man walked over to Alerad and the two shook hands before Alerad introduced him.

"Reg, I would like you to meet a friend of mine. His name's William Firzar." Alerad turned to address the third person in their small group. "Will, this is a friend from Bryn Caer, Reg Zerud."

The two strangers shook hands and saw in each other the same slightly tanned face, and shortish, frailish figures. Figures that had never before been forced to do hard work. They exchanged pleasantries and Zerud quickly learned that Firzar had once lived Bedford and worked at the aluminium smelting plant outside Atherton.

Alerad watched the two talk, and then with a smile gave approval for Zerud to show Firzar around the camp. Even though both had been there the same amount of time. Both had met Alerad at roughly the same time, only a week apart. And now Alerad knew.

Avalon-on-Avon, Oceanian Sarnia

"That makes five more attacks in Bryn Caer, two more in Kalo, and three in Brecon."

Keating had been learning to keep emotions from appearing upon his face. And so he simply stared at his staff intelligence officer.

"General, it is getting worse."

"I would not quite say worse," Keating replied with a hint of optimism. "Note how we have seen far fewer bombings or attacks against civilians. We are seeing attacks directed increasingly against military targets, checkpoints and patrols."

"Perhaps we ought to say spreading, General," the younger officer responded.

His comment pricked Keating; the edges of his lips turned down ever so slightly. "Perhaps we ought to say spreading…" he echoed.

"Prior to this week, we could say that all attacks seek confined to Braddocksire, and with the exception of Kalo, largely those areas along the Lloyd. But," the intelligence officer continued, "we can now added Breconshire. And from what our…" the young officer paused, obviously searching for a word. "And from what our conversations with captured insurgents reveal, Bedfordshire is slowly being infiltrated by militants. And from Bedford it is only a short ride down the SM2 to Atherton," the officer finished, referring to the Sarnian M2 Motorway, which linked Atherton, one of the larger cities—an industrial powerhouse—to the port city of Inverdeveron on the northern shore.

Keating had already committed to the construction of a new garrison in Heyford, west of Bedfordshire's county town. And with most of the regiments under his command committed to patrolling towns like Bryn Caer, Brecon, and Kalo he had few left to man checkpoints on the motorways and railways linking the cities together. Making matters worse, Georgetown was still reluctant to send him any reinforcements because of the prohibitions of SABAR.

A rapid tapping at the door distracted Keating from his intelligence briefing. "Enter," he ordered, watching the door swing open and his aide-de-camp enter with a salute to two senior officers. "What is it, Peter?"

"General, ah…"

"Out with it already," Keating nearly barked.

Instead of answering with words, the young man walked over to the general's private television set and switched to the Sarnian broadcast of the CBC, Celarian Broadcasting Corporation, the news channel of the United Kingdom. The screen carried a soaring tower of thick, black smoke and men, women, and children walking towards and then past the camera with faces covered in blood and dust. The upper-left corner indicated that the footage was live, or at worst delayed a few seconds. Slowly, as the aide hit the plus button, the volume fed into the room.

"…absolutely devastating the town centre. Again, Chris, we have no definite count of casualties but we are seeing dozens of walking wounded here and the emergency service crews will not let us beyond this point."

Keating motioned for the aide to mute the channel. "Where is this?"

"Braddock, sir."

Braddock was the county town of Braddockshire. Southeast of Kalo at the confluence of two major rivers, the town was a transport hub. Not so much for traffic between Oceanian cities, most of that went north along the SM3 linking Avalon to Brecon and Bryn Caer. More so because Braddock was one of only three places in the whole colony where a road or railway linked Oceanian Sarnia to Pavanne. And as Keating watched the silent television set, he was treated to an image of that very bridge in Braddockshire. Now shattered with several large pieces partially submerged in the river. Sarzonian flags fluttered in the distance.

"Splendid," Keating muttered. "Absolutely splendid."

This thread is going to start linking/interweaving with another thread (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=14021532#post14021532) I have ongoing. Specifically, this thread is following events as they transpire in Oceanian Sarnia and the Sarnian continent. The other, while about another topic, will nonetheless follow these same events at points but how they relate to current events in Oceania proper. I hope that all makes some sense.

Braddock, Braddockshire, Oceanian Sarnia

Beneath an unblemished and azure sky, Oceanian soldier milled about their armoured vehicles with rifles and machine guns slung across their chests. Despite the relaxed appearance, from behind darkened sunglasses the men and women remained professional and so kept a close and attentive watch on those civilians lingering about the intersection that had once fed a bridge to Pavanne. They watched as a utility vehicle whipped around the stucco facade of a corner cafe. They snapped to attention as Keating emerged from the interior.

In the hours after the attack Prime Minister Ingrahm had requested additional forces to deploy along the border with Pavanne. According to separate sources the general maintained in Georgetown, a high-level discussion between Georgetown and Woodstock had revealed a disquiet on Sarzonia's part. As Keating slid his own sunglasses down from his neatly clipped hair to his nose, he understood why. Those few police and border guards faintly visible on the opposite bank were all that stood between the chaos and violence in Marerius to their northwest, insurrection to their north, and a failed state to their south and west. Perhaps the only solace could be found to the east, their maritime border. Except that smugglers, pirates, and general miscreants were now establishing semi-regular trade routes. The only sense of peace on the whole continent could be found across the river in the insularity of Pavanne.

"Lucky bastard," Keating swore, casting a smirk to his accompanying aide. He had talked via telephone with his counterpart in Pavanne to reassure him that the United Kingdom would do its utmost to secure the border. The Sarzonian commander had made a tangential reference to the calm in Pavanne. No deaths or car bombings had been reported. But as Keating shook his head, he wondered why the damn Sarzonians could not be arsed to beef up their own side of the border. He had privately—and without Georgetown's sanction—raised the possibility that the bomber had come from the Sarzonian side to try and goad a joint border patrol. But his counterpart had called Keating's bluff. Sarzonian sources inside Oceanian Sarnia had confirmed that CCTV footage pinpointed the blast as coming from a car on the Oceanian side and with an Oceanian license plate.

As he walked over to the gaggle of Oceanian servicepersons, he identified a lieutenant and turned to address him. "Lieutenant," Keating looked down to read the man's name as he approached, "Peterson, how are your men holding up?"

"Very good, sir," Louis Peterson replied. "We arrived from Kalo last night along with most of our battalion and we have established checkpoints throughout the city." The commander of the Kalo checkpoint smiled politely, hoping that the general would eventually be able to recall his name.

"How was the situation in Kalo when you left?"

Peterson swallowed. "Ah, good, sir," he stammered. He glanced over to his sergeant, who narrowed his eyes. "But," Peterson continued, recapturing Keating's attention, "not perfect. We experienced several situations where I suspect that, despite our best efforts, insurgents managed to slip through our outposts and roadblocks. And now, having pulled back as far as Braddock, sir…" Peterson trailed off, his eyes darting from right to left, conspicuously avoiding Keating's eyes.

"Do you have something to say, Lieutenant?"

"Off the record, sir?"

"What do you think this is, son, the fucking press?" Keating snapped.

Peterson's back straightened just a tad more and he swallowed nervously. "Well, sir, I think we conceded ground and are giving the insurgents not just Breconshire, but Bedfordshire and Braddockshire and most of the colony southwest of Atherton."

"I see," Keating replied, his voice noticeably softer, contemplative even. After a moment, he rested his hand upon Peterson's shoulder, "keep up the good work, son."

As the general walked back to his vehicle, Sergeant Howard replaced him at Peterson's side. "Nice work, Lieutenant."

"Making an idiot of myself?"

Howard shook his head. "Yes."

"Than—"

"And no," Howard added, smiling because he had managed to make Peterson admit to his stupidity, albeit only from inexperience. "You told the man in charge what he did not want to hear. You are going to make him rethink his strategy. Or at least think about rethinking it. It may not be enough to earn you a place in his memory, Lieutenant, but it does more than being a yes-man."

Peterson nodded, a smile creeping up on his face. He looked out, back towards the centre of the market town. He saw the remnants of the stonework bridge along the riverbank, with twisted and charred remains of those automobiles that failed to fall into the river. Some teenagers were gathered, pointing at Peterson's men and women, a few attempting to snapshot the armoured vehicle. Shopkeepers huddled amongst themselves, helping each other sweep the glass and debris from the street—up until a few hours ago it had been closed for investigation purposes. Truthfully, Peterson saw little evidence of a Marerian threat.

"The street is secure, Sergeant," Peterson observed. "Now what?"

"If we are to fight a full-blown insurgency, Lieutenant, go help them sweep." Howard replied, tilting his head in the direction of the shopkeepers.

The lieutenant tilted his own head, quizzically however, and opened his mouth to form a question that Howard had expected.

"I shall explain later, sir, just get a few of the privates to help you. Martinez and I shall keep watch of the street. The Marerians shall not be back for a little while."

"Okay," Peterson surrendered, shrugging his shoulders. He walked off, shouting the names of four privates chatting up some obviously underage civilians. Civilians conveniently of the opposite sex and wearing precious little clothing. Howard watched his superior move off. He sighed inwardly. He had hoped that his assignment to Sarnia had taken him away from New London. But he now saw it was the same place, just another location.

Kenton, County Claire

Zerud shook his head, rather vigorously too. "No, I said the red one."

"So not the blue one?"

Exasperated, Zerud let his face fall into his grease- and oil-stained hands. "Okay, think…I don't know, Zahiry," Zerud sighed. "Think red for revolution."

The teenager's face lit up. "A revolution?!"

"If it'll work, just keep the damn wires straight, kid." Zerud watched silently as the acne-scarred boy, he refused to recognise him as an adult despite his age of 17—Marerians culturally considered anyone over 15 an adult—connected a set of wires to a simple board of circuitry inside a black box. As Zahiry finally managed to do it right on his 22nd trial, Zerud stood up to stretch his legs.

"Like that?" the 17-year-old asked, looking up at Zerud.

"Yeah," Zerud sighed. "Now, do it again." He nodded to a man who had stayed truly silent, and hidden, in a dark corner of the abandoned factory. The silent man, burly and broad-shouldered, walked over and ripped apart everything Zahiry had spent two hours attempting to put together. As the man walked back into his corner, Zerud stuck out his hand to stop the man. The silent guard smiled and withdrew from his breast pocket a cigarette.

Zerud placed it between his lips and let the guard light it before walking out into the cloudless skies. He found Alerad sitting on the concrete sidewalk outside the former textile factory, the former economic heart of Kenton. "How's it going in there?" Alerad asked.

"Twenty-two times," Zerud sighed, exhaling a cloud of carcinogens and nicotine. The tobacco grown in Sarnia happened to be a bit stronger than the brands sold by most Oceanian companies.

"But at least he's getting it." Alerad replied with a broad smile. "You know, he came to us."

"So he keeps telling me."

"All the way from Huntington. The furthest north we've ever managed to gain a volunteer."

"I thought Braddock was from Atherton," Zerud asked.

"I said volunteer," Alerad replied with an air of finality.

The quiet guard from inside the factory emerged into the sunlight and shouted to gain the attention of Zerud. "Three times now, in a row, sir."

Zerud nodded. "Have him do it six times. Then get the kid some coffee or something."

"Yes, sir," the guard replied before returning to the dirt-covered factory floor.

"You nervous?" Alerad asked.

"Yeah, wouldn't you be?"

"I suppose I would." After several seconds of silence two sport utility vehicles raced into the makeshift camp, a cloud of dust trailing them. Alerad stood. Walking away for a moment, he turned around and returned to face Zerud, offering the changed-man an outstretched arm. "Come with me, I want to show you something."

Heyford, Bedfordshire, Oceanian Sarnia

Zerud reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a neatly woven, linen handkerchief. Bunching it in one corner, he used it to absorb the sweat forming upon his brow. He smiled; summer was slowly arriving in Sarnia. After stuffing the cloth back into his pocket, he hastened his steps to follow Alerad a bit closer than he had been.

"Indeed, it is in a great location, Mr. Smith," a ruddy-faced man exclaimed, white teeth beaming under the zenith sun. "Avalon recently approved money for a railway to link Heyford to Bedford and on up to Atherton itself. The central station shall be but a few blocks north of here. You shall have an easy connection to the rest of the colony for your business. Now you said you were a…"

William Smith II smiled broadly. "A tailor expanding into the textile industry, Robert, but I would not expect you to remember that." Like most of the Sarnian hinterland, Oceanians preferred to cluster together in their towns and cities—which meant that Alerad only needed to slip into character in urban settings. "But, as you said, not only will it make it easier to travel myself, but also to ship my products. I expect this railway will be a big boon to local business. When did they announce that they would be building it?"

"Not long after the bombing of the barracks at Fort St. George."

"A shame that was," Smith replied. "As a Marerian, I can sympathise with the anger. But, Robert, as you and I, and my friend here," Smith motioned towards Zerud, "know full well, they direct their anger so immaturely. It would be far better spent at the polls."

"Oh of course, of course, it goes without saying," Robert Englewood replied, bobbing his head knowingly. "Are you following these new elections?"

"Somewhat," Smith replied. As they walked along the side of a hedge, the Marerian stooped down to inspect the flowers and berries. "A nice local touch," he added casually before returning to the subject at hand. "No, not particularly. Sarnians have no vote for Parliament."

"True," Englewood replied, his tone subdued ever so slightly. "But the issues affect us. And some big names are coming this way."

"I know Salisbury is supposed to have his annual visit at his plantation near Bryn Caer, but who else is coming?"

"Ah, you see," Englewood replied, suddenly upbeat. "Because the King dissolved Parliament yesterday, the DSP announced that Salisbury will be turning part of his trip into a campaign tour. That Deveraux lady is coming, and so is that Bashir fellow. And the Tories are sending Lord Cahill."

"Only one Tory?"

"The rest are too busy campaigning for their home seats. With all that is going on down here, they are a bit down in the polls back home."

"Ah, home. You are not from here, are you, Robert?"

"No, no, I originally come from Ruytershaven, a city not that far from Georgetown. Suffice it to say the climate here is far more agreeable to my delicate constitution." Englewood laughed at his joke, referencing his portly stature and flabby arms.

"I moved here to Heyford because the rents are cheaper than in Atherton; and, to be frank, there is more room for growth here in Heyford."

"That, Robert, is why I am looking to expand my business here rather than up north."

"And, recently, let me tell you, I feel a whole lot safer with them building that army base just outside of town. There was that bombing up in Atherton. Nobody killed, you know, but bloody well frightening if you shall forgive me for saying so."

"An immature expression of Marerian anger, Robert. No, I agree with you. From what I have read it is far safer here. Now, you said the rent for this warehouse is what?"

"Fifteen hundred pounds."

"You know, I was looking at some properties just last week with another fellow, and he had a lot that was more around seven."

Englewood blinked. "Seven? Are you serious?"

"Indeed, it was on the other side of the river, mind you, but indeed, for seven, a comparably-sized facility."

"That explains why, Mr. Smith," Englewood replied with a toothy grin. "They are further from the main transport links, and with some increased petty crime they have had to drop the rates to make Hay County more appealing. We do not have that problem on this side of Heyford. And we have better transport facilities, like that railway I mentioned."

"Future railway, Robert. And I imagine for the difference in rate I can afford a decent private security service for my property and persons. Eight hundred pounds is a significant chunk of my expenses."

"Well, going much lower would be a significant chunk out of my own bottom line. But, I imagine I could drop it down to twelve fifty. But that is the lowest I can go, even for such an upstanding gentleman like yourself."

Smith nodded. "Well, I do think—"

"Excuse me," Zerad finally spoke up at the pre-designated point. "But, as a partner, William, I would feel far more comfortable if we look around and return to that one property you mentioned. Twelve fifty is, as you noted, quite a good deal of change."

Smith stood back and shrugged his shoulders. "You heard my partner, Mr. Englewood, we are going to look at that other property before I make any decision. But I do have your card and I shall be in touch."

"I am sorry that we cannot conclude a deal here and now, but I understand. Please, feel free to call me anytime to further discuss the deal."

The two Marerians walked away from an obviously stunned Englewood. As they rounded the block and entered their stolen saloon, Zerad furrowed his brows and looked over at Smith/Alerad.

"Will it work?"

"Absolutely, by tomorrow we will be renting this place for about one thousand pounds. And, after all, we only need it for a month."

"If you say so."

Bryn Caer, Breconshire, Oceanian Sarnia

Arnold Newman briefly rested his forehead at the top of the steering wheel of his small grey saloon, a Macabean import. After a minute or so, he lifted his head and thrust his hand towards the cup holder where he had placed his morning latte. "Perhaps if I had skipped Starbucks I would not be," he looked down at the digital clock, "fourteen minutes late. Christ," he muttered to himself and the crooning of the latest pop hit in the UK.

Newman was a quality control inspector at the Salisbury Plantation. It was not a particularly spectacular job, though he tasted tea blends nearly all day long—hence his preference for anything but tea in the morning. The job, however, did provide him with just enough income to take out a loan to purchase the car. Most of the Marerian population commuted via bus, paid for largely by the company and, reportedly, Lord Salisbury himself. Mid-level employees sometimes had private cars and the executives. Well, that was as would be expected.

Finally, the car ahead of him and the bus before that began to inch forward as a lorry lumbered past on his left. A dark-skinned man wearing a bright orange construction helmet waved a flag in a circular motion. "Damn fools," Newman muttered to himself before offering a smile and a wave to the construction person. He glanced down and found them resealing a pothole. The same pothole that had caused him to spill yesterday's latte. "Eh, at least they are doing something right for a change."

About half an hour after he was supposed to report, Newman finally walked through the doors. Fortunately, many of those following him and preceding him on that same road were following him and preceding him into the plantation that day. Managers simply sighed and shrugged. Finding his seat as he left it, he wriggled out of his jacket with one hand still on his drink, now nearly finished and nearly cold, and wrapped it on the back of the swivel seat. He pushed the power button and booted up his desktop, which was soon up and running with the browser and company e-mail client. "Wow," he spoke aloud.

"Just catching the news, Arnie?" a broad faced woman with strawberry blond hair replied without prompt.

Newman simply cast an upward glance at his friend and colleague, not having been truly surprised that Anne Hawson would be waiting near by—it was almost routine after so many years. "He is coming here?"

"Yeah, apparently all this election stuff has yet to spook the man," she answered calmly. Every year Lord Salisbury arrived near the start of summer to inspect his plantations in Sarnia. Sometimes he make several trips down to Bryn Caer in one year, but lately it had been just the one. However, news was breaking and the company was confirming that not only would Salisbury be addressing his employees, but so would the King. Or 'the man' as Hawson referred to the monarch.

"I guess I better dress semi-sharp tomorrow."

"You have nothing to worry about, Arnie," Hawson said. "You always look sharp," she added with a smile and a wink before walking back to her own desk down the hall.

Avalon-on-Avon, Borough of Avalon, Oceanian Sarnia

"Bloody well foolish; I do not give a damn about the politics of it, Peter." Keating shook his head and rubbed his hand over his mouth, partly to wipe away the vitriol dripping from his lips after his tirade. "The former Prime Minister has every right to be here, and God knows I welcome the man, at least he would have sent me more troops. But bringing the King and two shadow secretaries…" he trailed off, fuming some more in his head.

"With such short notice, General, I have alerted the COs of the units in Braddock, Brecon, and Huntington that they will be redeploying immediately to Bryn Caer. Additionally, I have arranged an honour guard as you requested to greet the King at the airport." The aide-de-camp paused and looked squarely at the general, whose eyes were staring off someplace else. "Have you decided whether you will meet them at the airport, sir?"

"I must. I am theatre commander. In command of what, however, is another matter that, just perhaps, I can raise with the King."

"Or Lord Cahill on Thursday when he sits down with the Governor."

Keating shook his head once more. "No, the damn fools in Georgetown are married to SABAR. Cahill might understand the problems—I imagine he does—but the politics demand other solutions."

"Unless Lord Salisbury wins, sir. They do want to re-negotiate the treaty."

"They do now, Peter. I have lived through enough elections to know when I am being lied to."

Heyford, Bedfordshire, Oceanian Sarnia

Zerud watched from a distance from the corner of his eye as several stereotypically large and muscular men transferred large crates from a non-descript white van to trolleys then inside the warehouse that Alerad had rented out. It was perhaps the most dangerous part of the operation—and so Zerud, by Alerad's explicit instructions, was nowhere to be seen. The chattering crew simply moved boxes from the van to the warehouse, and Zerud took mental note of those who were a bit more careless than Alerad allowed. Zerud had to smile, though. None of the movers knew just how lenient he was being for Alerad would have been far harsher in his punishments.

Braddock, Braddockshire, Oceanian Sarnia

Ever since the bombing, life in Braddock had slowly returned to normal. The citizens went about their daily lives, except for the closure of the road near the old bridge and a spot a few blocks away where engineers and surveyors were plotting out its replacement. Some young woman had sported an ingenious idea and bought a river skiff and was now charging a fee to legally transfer goods and people across the river from near where the old bridge had stood.

Perhaps the largest difference from the days before and the days after the bombing were the Oceanian soldiers that patrolled the streets, often on foot but occasionally in their armoured vehicles. Lieutenant Peterson had continued to lead his men and women after Keating's visit. And Peterson had found himself taken with the small town, where he often spent his off-duty hours lounging at a riverside cafe.

Peterson, like most days, was there watching the small-scale ferry service transport over some Sarzonians and their goods when he saw the familiar sight of his sergeant walking towards him. "Come, have a seat Lawrence, care for something to drink?" The officer began to wave over the young, petite teenager whose parents owned the business. The sergeant waved her off.

"Cannot afford the time, sir. New orders from Avalon. His Majesty is making a grand old appearance back in Bryn Caer and we are to move out immediately for security detail, lining the roads and establishing roadblocks and securing the King's route."

Stiffening his back, his off-duty hours apparently ended, Peterson nonetheless motioned for Howard to take a seat. "Just how are we supposed to make it all the way back to Bryn Caer? Jaguars move too slow and are a target in and of themselves and I feel rather uncomfortable requisitioning vehicles from the civilians here."

"Beats the hell out of me, sir. All I know is Keating wants us in Bryn Caer by tomorrow morning to secure the route."

"We cannot be alone in this; who else is moving?"

"Companies up in Brecon and Huntington."

"Moving Anthony? Must be damn serious," Peterson mused somewhat absently. "With the bombing the other day, I mean, I would think we would guys in Brecon."

Howard smiled. It was, as Peterson had come to understand, a smile that admitted that the noncom did not agree with the orders—but would not question them aloud. That would be the lieutenant's role.

"Sergeant Howard, see if you can get HQ to order us some helicopters out of RAF Heyford. Tell them that without them, we simply will not be able to get to Bryn Caer in time to protect the King. And when you do, make certain you mention the bit about protecting the King—I doubt they can refuse that kind of a request."

"Understood, sir."

As Howard walked back towards the unit's command post, Peterson walked inside of the cafe to inform the owners that he would not be coming back the next day. But then found out that a flat in the town was, actually, rather affordable for even a lieutenant.

King Andrew Aerodrome
Avalon-on-Avon, Borough of Avalon, Oceanian Sarnia

As the large-body Airbus landed, the pilots fully powered the engines—though none of it was heard inside the well-lit and spacious first-class compartment abaft the cockpit. Instead, Lord Salisbury glowered at the moderate facilities rapidly approaching.

Sitting across from the leader of the Democratic Socialists sat George, his eyes similarly fascinated—though far more in suppressed awe—on one of his territorial holdings that heretofore he had experienced only through briefings provided by the Royal Intelligence Service. "All of this land and only some thirty million of my subjects live here," he asked aloud, not to anybody in particular.

"Indeed, Your Majesty," came a voice from the other side of the compartment. Sir Iain Bashir had been knighted by George for his diplomatic services; Bashir served, however, as shadow colonial secretary. He was incredibly familiar with Sarnia after the turmoil of the last few years. "But of those 31 million, only a small majority are of Oceanian descent. Nearly 45% are native Marerian."

"And they are the ones carrying out all these bombings?" George asked.

"A small percentage, yes, Your Majesty. Although, most of the troubles we are experiencing are concentrated out in the southwest corner of the colony."

"Which is where we shall be traveling," Lord Salisbury finally interjected, turning his head away from the facility's infrastructure. "Tonight we shall be in Braddock, where the Marerians hit a bridge that connects this colony with Sarzonia. And I intend to emphasise that the Sarzonians have, thus far, failed to keep to their part of the bargain," Salisbury ridiculed the term through his pronunciation of the word, "in this treaty negotiated by Ingrahm and Astley."

"Is it really that bad of an agreement," George enquired, turning to look at Emily Deveraux, the shadow foreign secretary, who sat beside the king.

"With all due respect to the Marquess, it is the best of what we could have hoped to salvage at the time."

Salisbury scoffed, rather loudly. "I dare not say it aloud on the stump, but Stephen was correct when he called it appeasement. Ingrahm caved on the threat of increased Sarzonian military deployments to the continent."

"But it is not as if we had much more we could deploy here," Deveraux countered, keeping her attention squarely on the king. "We were then ready for an all-out war in Haven, supporting our allies in that theatre, while simultaneously facing serious challenges to the government in Recedentia and New Albion from forces propped up by Istanbul. Ingrahm, in his defence, simply had too few soldiers to adequately meet any Sarzonian increase in forces here."

"The problem," Bashir added, quickly cutting in before Salisbury could respond, "is that Ingrahm agreed to a deal that keeps too few people here in Sarnia to deal with the problem that any settler colony in a pre-populated land faces: a legitimacy challenge from the native peoples. But," he continued, "I agree with Emily when I say, Your Majesty, he had few options. SABAR was then and is now a failure, unequivocally. However, the true failing of Ingrahm's administration was in supporting this ludicrous idea from here in Sarnia that allowed a House of Assembly without significant representation of the Marerian people. The colony enjoys, effectively, a government where what was, until recently, a minority holds power over what was, until recently, the majority."

"You cannot expect to actually sell that on the trail," Salisbury finally replied, carefully taking his glasses off. He took from his jacket pocket a small piece of cloth and wiped the dust and dirt from the lenses. "Yes, Iain, broadly speaking you are right. But that whole lovely essay cannot compete with the media time the word 'appeasement' will give us. Elections are no longer about the nobility and integrity of ideas, they are about mob rule. Only the few of us in government, like you, Your Majesty," Salisbury turned and nodded towards the king as the Marquess replaced his glasses, "and myself, who directly face no electorate, can attempt to govern according to principles, philosophy, and truly long-term planning. The people are too fickle, Iain. The mob is too fickle."

A brief knock interrupted the discussion, and from behind the door to the cockpit, the sharply dressed pilot emerged. "Your Majesty, we have arrived and will be ready to deplane your party in ten minutes."

George smiled broadly. "Thank you, Alan," he said, addressing the pilot by his first name he had so intently repeated so he could specifically repeat in this one instant before dumping it.

Bryn Caer, Breconshire, Oceanian Sarnia

Peterson slammed the gate shut and pulled down the lock before peering around the side of the lorry to give the driver a thumb's up. With the sign, the truck rumbled off down the road, inside nearly two dozen infantrymen armed with rifles. The lieutenant had seen the trucks carrying his platoon off before walking over to the utility vehicle that would carry him, Sergeant Howard, and Peterson's radioman to the hastily constructed command post at the Salisbury plantation outside Bryn Caer.

"Whole thing is ridiculous," the lieutenant muttered as he slammed the utility vehicle's door shut, clapping the driver on the shoulder and telling him to follow the lorries. "All this protection just for some major speech. I still think we would have been better deployed down in Braddock. Hell, they are all going to Braddock after this speech."

Howard murmured something that Peterson could not understand, but interpreted to be quiet support. "The General pulls us out of Braddock, where we know the insurgents have a foothold to line the parade route." He motioned to the slowly gathering throngs of people, Oceanian and Marerian alike, waiting to catch a glimpse of the King's motorcade. Peterson even spied a few Free Marerius flags among the route.

"We are escorting the motocade on its ride down to Braddock," Howard replied. "I spoke to Harold, and he says that the Jaguars shall be ready to refueled and ready to move by the time this event is complete."

"How reassuring," Peterson quipped. "Moving the Crown through the pass east of Kalo, where the Marerians pounded us with mortars, before arriving in a town where the Marerians blew up one of the colony's most important pieces of infrastructure. How bloody reassuring."

Governor's House
Avalon-on-Avon, Borough of Avalon, Oceanian Sarnia

General Keating turned his wrist over yet again, to check the time. The party was late. He had greeted the party upon arriving at the airport before hurrying back to the Governor's House to prepare for this brief meeting. Seventeen minutes behind schedule, the doors to the Governor's Private Study swung open and Keating dutifully stood to attention, raising his arm in salute to his Commander-in-Chief.

George returned the salute and motioned for Keating to sit, while Salisbury, the Governor General, Deveraux, Bashir, and several aides and attendants did the same. "Please, General, my most sincere apologies. I admit, I am most unfamiliar to all this politicking and blame this man," he joking pointed to Lord Salisbury, "for my tardiness."

"I assure you, Your Majesty, it is not a problem."

"Now, we have a few minutes before we head over to a luncheon and then onwards to Bryn Caer and Braddock. What was it that you wanted to discuss with us, General?"

"Well, Your Majesty, to be frank I have reservations about the current state of our effort to reduce the threat posed by the native insurgents here in Sarnia. Have you been briefed on the details?"

George smiled, "I have, please continue, General."

"Very well, Sire. As it stands, much of the insurgent activity has been held in check around the areas near Bryn Caer, Brecon and Kalo. Recent incidents in Braddock and Atherton have forced me to deploy the few units under my command along an even narrower front, effectively the border of Braddockshire and Breconshire. My concern, Your Majesty, and if I may address you as well, Lord Salisbury, Ms. Deveraux, and Mr. Bashir, is that at current force levels, such a broad front, if you will, with so few forces makes a rather porous border between what is effectively Oceanian-Sarnia here in Avalon and Marerian-Sarnia in the southwest. The men and women under my command have performed admirably, but the Government has been less than forthcoming with the additional resources I need to adequately deal with this threat."

"What is it that you need, explicitly," Salisbury asked, after receiving the permission of George to speak.

"In Oceanian Sarnia proper, four to six light infantry brigades along with two to four RAF squadrons of reconnaissance platforms and two squadrons of counter-insurgency aircraft. Across the continent, a committed special forces team dedicated to running operations in Free Marerius, Pavanne, and Thames River to interdict the arms smuggling operations we have identified as providing the primary materiel used by the insurgents. At sea, a large Royal Navy presence, mainly frigates and small patrol craft, to stop piracy and international smuggling that brings the more sophisticated weaponry into the colony from abroad."

"Are you saying we need to invade Sarzonia?" Deveraux asked. She leaned in from her seat, placing her elbows upon her crossed knees. "Would that not constitute an act of war against a nation who is likely prepared and probably more than ready to go to war against us?"

"Yes." Keating was forced to pause by the unsolicited murmurs from several of the aides. Keating knew, however, that they were simply echoing the thoughts of their bosses who quickly turned to them in an attempt to silence the untested future generation of Oceanian leaders. "However," Keating continued, "I recommend such action only because the Sarzonians themselves have proven themselves incapable of controlling their side of the border. In Free Marerius, we would likely receive the tacit support of the Yaforites, who are dealing with a far milder insurrection built along similar lines to that which we experience here. And, as we are all well aware, there currently is no functioning government in Thames River since the collapse of that state several years ago."

So you want me to declare war on everyone on the continent when we barely have enough troops to secure our own colony?" George asked, his eyes wide. Keating counted the monarch among the aides gathered around the back walls.

"Your Majesty," Keating replied calmly, "Prime Minister Ingrahm and his ministry has allowed a previously perilous situation to devolve into a disaster. We need a government in Georgetown that can address the security issues in Sarnia both promptly and decisively." He watched as aides scribbled frantically—probably running through their heads how the words just spoken would play in tonight's speech. "Your Majesty, Lord Salisbury, I intend to tell the Prime Minister the same thing. Regardless of who wins, Sarnia needs the direct and immediate attention of Georgetown."

Bryn Caer, Breconshire, Oceanian Sarnia

The flight from Avalon to Atherton had been a long one, eventful only at the arrival at Atherton where a group of protesters had blocked the motorcade awaiting King George from reaching the airport. Salisbury had been forced to wait in the aircraft along with the rest of his staff and those traveling alongside him as the local police dealt with the matter. After that, however, the group had flown by helicopter to Bryn Caer, unserviced by a large airport—though one was under construction, paid for by Salisbury's company—and so dependent upon a small riverside heliport.

There, they had transferred to several armoured SUVs for the short drive to the Salisbury plantation outside Bryn Caer. The leader of the opposition peered through his glasses at the notes given him by his chief of staff, Howard Robertson, who had joined him at the heliport. Robertson had flown to Bryn Caer straight from Avalon, via the same helicopter hopping path, to give the advance team the revised protocol and speech.

"Do we want to use this Keating quote," Salisbury asked Robertson, not bothering to look up at the man, instead focused on memorising the new lines.

Robertson sat awkwardly against the side door, squished by the presence of Deveraux to his immediate left and to his far left King George. "If we do not use it now, in all likelihood, Your Lordship, the press shall have it by the time we hit Braddock tonight. Any shock value the General's comments will have in the press will wear off by then and the speech in Braddock will be just another speech. We use it now, at your plantation, and we hit the media with something sensational before carrying them all live with us down to Braddock where we hit them with the big policy stuff. I have arranged it so we should have not just the CBC and Oceanian press, but some foreign press alongside."

"One hell of an audience," Deveraux said. She had taken the seat opposite Salisbury while Bashir, the Governor, and Keating sat in the trailing SUV. Bashir's presence was perhaps the only part of the trip that was actually about fact-finding, as Robertson had initially sold the press. Bashir would take the latest information back to Georgetown to help the DSP formulate a new policy on dealing with Sarnia. The King was here mainly to embarrass Ingrahm.

"Are you talking about the press or these people," Robertson added with a smile, pointing to the crowds gathered alongside the route, marshaled by Oceanian soldiers and police details from nearby communities.

George smiled. "Even if they are here largely to see me." He thoroughly enjoyed seeing the flags of the UK waving and people snapping photographs of the motorcade—even if the tinted windows would prevent anybody from capturing his likeness before they exited at the plantation.

"Indeed they are, Your Majesty." Salisbury glanced out the window. He had bought the estate years ago and turned it into the thriving commercial enterprise it now was: a luxury loose-leaf tea brand with international appeal. Though he could never admit it aloud, at least in the SUV, Salisbury recognised the truth—most of the people were gathered to see the man who employed hundreds from the region. "I cannot thank you enough, Your Majesty for join—"

"Are you alright, sir?"

It was a whisper, and a quiet whisper at that. With a heavy grogginess, Alistair Tetley blinked his eyes only to find his left eye horrendously itchy. Instinctively he moved his hands towards his face to remove his glasses—but they were gone. Unfazed, he rubbed his eye with the back of his hand only to find his eye now more irritated. He pulled his hand away and found it covered in a sticky crimson flecked with specks of black and brown.

"Are you alright, sir?" came the whisper.

Tetley turned his eyes up into the aural vacuum, in the direction from where he thought he heard the noise emanate. The sun was shining through a grey, misty haze enlivened by twists and twirls of a rising column of black and dark grey. Into view came a man, at least from the general shape and proportions he could think it a man. Without his glasses—where were his glasses—he could not see clearly.

"Are you alright, sir?"

Tetley squinted. Indeed, it did appear to be a man.

"He cannot hear," the apparition hushed. Then a new shape swung off from the chest of the man—probably it was a man. The shape leaned in closer and finally, at a few mere inches he recognised the weirdly shaped skull—it was a helmet. The weird shape now dangling from the man's shoulder was a rifle. The man was a soldier.

And then the soldier picked up, bracing Tetley against his far stronger body. A body that, Tetley then realised, probably did not hurt quite as much—why does my body hurt. And then Tetley winced and moaned.

He found his footing, shakily, and walked away with the assistance of the soldier and another that quickly came to his other side. Each bore the weight of Tetley as they led him from what felt like a flat and even surface. It was hot. And not far ahead, to their right, it was very bright and very hot.

Then he could feel a tickle on his shins. His feet were on less firm ground. Ground more uneven. He stumbled. His ankle hurt now. Not as much as the rest of his body—and God how it hurt—but it hurt nonetheless. As he walked further towards an increasingly blue sky, he felt the wind grow stronger and stronger. A dark black shape slowly materialised with each passing step.

"The chopper, sir, will be taking you and the King to RAF Heyford once we cut him out."

Tetley blinked. He shook his head. The King. What about the King?

Another pair of hands grabbed Tetley and pulled him into something whose surface was cold but smooth. More hands landed upon his body, poking and prodding at every place where it hurt. In the distance, where the light flickered and dark shapes danced into the sky before disappearing into the ether, he could see groups of shapes approaching the cold, smooth box where the wind had died down suddenly.

"This is Ms. Deveraux." whispered a voice from somewhere near Tetley.

Tetley saw a body enter the helicopter. A one-armed body, but a body nonetheless.

"We can do nothing for her, call her DOA," another voice offered.

"What about the King?"

"Pinned, but stable. We shall have him out in minutes. Then you get in the air. The remainder will be helivacked separately."

"How many more?"

"How the fuck should I know? I have to get back."

Tetley turned to an amorphous face peering down at him. "What is going on?" he asked quietly.

"You can speak quieter than that, sir, I can hear you just fine. But there was a bombing. You have been injured. So has the King. We are flying you back to an Army hospital for emergency surgery. I need you to lay still."

The King. He had been with the King. A bombing? He could not recall a bombing. "My glasses?"

"We can get you a new pair later, sir. But please, lay still."

"It is rather difficult to hear you, can you speak up, please?"

"Only if you promise to keep still, sir. Keep your head straight." The man paused and reached down, placing warm latex on Tetley's skin. It hurt. "This is only going to hurt a little bit, sir."

"What is?"

"Some medicine, sir. It will help you deal with the pain."

"Am I hurt?"

"You have a compound fracture of your arm, sir. And we imagine several broken ribs. But we cannot know for certain until we get you to Heyford. So I need you to lay still."

"Is that why it hurts?"

"Yes, sir."

Tetley nodded, and let his head fall back against the cold, smooth surface. It hurt. But not as much as the rest of his body. The King. He had been with the King.

"How is the King?"

"They are bringing him over now, sir."

"Is he alive?"

"Yes, sir. Please, sir, stay still."

Tetley let his head fall back against the cold, smooth surface. It hurt. But not as much as the rest of his body. The King. He had been with the King. And Emily.

"How is Emily?"

"Emily, sir?"

"Emily Deveraux."

The man stopped and turned his head away. Another person briefly entered Tetley's fuzzy vision and appeared to whisper something to this man with whom Tetley was talking. Although honestly, he could not figure out how they were whispering any quieter than he had just been speaking.

"Uh, she is fine, sir. No need to worry."

"Can I speak to her?"

"Not until you get out of surgery, sir, no. Now please, sir, stay still or I will have to put you under." The man turned away again. "Your Majesty," he said, addressing someone else.

Another face appeared above Tetley. "Where are my glasses?"

"Is he going to be alright?" came a familiar voice. Familiar, but Tetley could not quite place it.

"Is Tobias here?"

"Tobias?" the familiar voice replied. "Who is Tobias?"

"Tobias Heath. My chief of staff."

"Howard is your chief of staff," the voice answered in a confused whisper. "And he is unconscious, Alistair. They are afraid to move him for fear of—" The familiar shape of the first man reappeared and whispered something into the unfamiliar shape's ear. "But he will be okay, Alistair. How are you?"

The conversation paused as Tetley felt a sudden jolt run through his body. "We are airborne, sir, en route to RAF Heyford."

"How is Tobias?"

"Tobias is…not here, sir. He will meet you back in Georgetown." The shape of the familiar voice turned to the first shape. "Is he going to be okay?"

"I give him one in two chance, Your Majesty. The arm looks bad, and we think he has a few broken ribs from his wheezing and wincing when he breathes. But, given the shape of that SUV, he likely has internal bleeding of some sort. You are an incredibly lucky man, Your Majesty. I shall be lucky only as long as this man lives, Doctor."

Tetley stared at the two shapes. "Doctor? You are a doctor?"

"Yes, sir, with the Army. Anthony Williams, sir."

Tetley felt the deck incline at an odd angle. He was no longer laying flat. It hurt, but not as much as before. He felt drowsy. He felt…

"Sir, stay with me," the doctor whispered.

"Where are we?"

"Nearing the base, sir. You slipped out of it for a while. I need you to stay awake, sir."

"Where is Emily?"

"She is along with us, sir. But she is asleep. You can see her when you get out of surgery."

"And Tobias?"

"Him too."

"And Howard?"

"Him too."

"And—" The inclined surface shifted again. This time, however, the doctor fell atop him.

"What the—"

The surface shifted again, in an entirely different direction. It hurt. Things started sliding into him. "How is the King?"

"I am here, Alistair, stay calm."

"What the fuck?"

Several loud whispers. He could hear people talking. Screaming almost. The deck shifted again. The surface shuddered, things slid everywhere, bags of something or other fell from the ceiling. It hurt when they hit his chest.

"God help us."

"How the fuck?"

"Mother of God."

Tetley looked out the side windows. The blue sky was green. It was growing greener. How odd. He smiled.

Several Hours Previously

Bryn Caer, Breconshire, Oceanian Sarnia

"The striker is in the lead position."

"Christ, they had better move quickly then or they'll lose it all."

It was a brief phone call, a mobile-to-mobile interaction, to relay the going-ons of a local football match at the stadium in Bryn Caer. Noticeably absent, however, was a large crowd because most of those who would normally be in attendance were lining the road to the Salisbury plantation. Indeed, that was the location from which the mobile call originated.

Down the road some ways, outside the town, an acne-faced teenager snapped his mobile phone shut and pulled the Oceanian flag from his armpit, where he had tucked it to take the call. None of it, of course, was actually about the football match between Avalon and Bryn Caer.

The teenager watched the Oceanian Army walk up and down the roadway, their rifles ever ready to fire into the crowed of Marerians and Oceanian-Marerians. He turned his wrist over to read the digital readout on the face. Simulations placed it at fifteen minutes.

Sure enough, like digital clockwork, the first police vehicles rolled past with lights flashing and blinding. Kerud Zahiry pulled out his mobile phone once more and began to type in words for an SMS message. He saw the first black SUV down the road. What he had not seen was the attempt by the security service to throw off any attempts on the King's motorcade and instead two SUVs of aides had bypassed the King and Lord Salisbury, making their vehicle third in line. The striker was third.

But as the SUV raced past, Zahiry fumbled as some middle-aged mother bumped into him. Scrambling to hold onto the device, he quickly hit send by the time the second car moved past him.

Corruption was a wonderful and marvelous thing in obscure colonies. Not only did it allow for the local police to expunge records; but it allowed for specific companies to receive government contracts. And so it was that an 'accidental' pothole in the road had come to be filled by a firm that had employed Zahiry on a temporary basis. Underneath the blacktop, an electronic signal activated a detonator that had been attached to the armour-pentrating warhead of a tank munition imported through Thames River from some distant conflict in the broader world.

The munition penetrated not just the surface of the road, but the underarmour of the SUV before hitting the fuel tank. As the vehicle rose off the ground in a tremendous fireball, large pieces of debris slammed into the trailing third SUV and rained onto the fourth SUV. Restrained by his seatbelt, King George did not move as a door slammed into the centre of the King's SUV. The collapsing metal shore off the arm of Emily Deveraux, the force of the impact blowing off the doors and throwing the unbuckled Lord Salisbury and Howard Robertson onto the street as their SUV barreled onwards. The fourth SUV was hit by small and lighter pieces of debris. But, nonetheless, they punctured tires and forced the vehicle to flip side over side over side tossing about its human contents. Eventually a door broke off and the governor was thrown from the tumbling vehicle.

Not far from the site of the explosion, Lieutenant Peterson had been watching the crowd nearest his location. His back had been turned when the explosion occurred though he could soon after feel the shockwave and the heat radiating from the fireball. Turning around, he instinctively dashed for the fireball knowing full well the high value persons in some of those now burning and wrecked SUVs. He watched as the men and women under his command quickly secured the site, forming perimeters around the King and the others. Peterson found himself standing overtop the former prime minister, clearly in shock. And deaf.

In Bryn Caer, an RAF Black Falcon had been waiting on standby in case of an emergency and was in the air within mere minutes, arriving in a field beside the road not long after. Peterson and Sergeant Howard picked up the Marquess of Salisbury and carried him to the helicopter while others from his unit did the same with the former foreign secretary and then the King, who appeared in decent shape somehow. After getting them all aboard, Peterson waved the pilot off as he raced to RAF Heyford.

Not Very Long After

Outside Heyford, Bedfordshire

"Who ever said technology harmed mankind?" Zerud asked with a broad smile across his face, snapping shut his mobile phone. He looked carefully to the sky, watching the trail of the man-portable surface-to-air missiles rise towards the only Black Falcon helicopter flying over the main flight path into RAF Heyford.

"Shut up and let's get moving," Alerad hissed.

"Do we have to wipe any of this down?"

"You wore your gloves the whole time, no?"

Zerud nodded.

"Then we're as clean as we can hope to be. Let's go," Alerad emphasised with a firmness Zerud had never before detected in his mentor. They dashed over to the nearby field where they had hidden their all-terrain vehicles, stocked with extra fuel and food. They started the engines and raced off into the forested foothills where they would disappear into a very friendly countryside.

Only half-an-hour later would the RAF identify the site where the Black Falcon pilot reported seeing the surface-to-air missiles launch from before crashing into the very same countryside.

Off the Coast of Thames River

Kurt Pollack was long accustomed to the sea. In his childhood he had subsisted upon the lore of the sea that emanated from a mouth attached to the long, white beard of his merchant marine father. His later youth brought fishing and sailing in his family's skiff. A little bit later, after learning how to sail away from the shore, his youth brought his future wife out upon that same boat. By the time he reached his twenties, Pollack was learning the trade of sailing ocean-going cargo vessels.

And so at the age of 47, he rubbed his rough and weathered palms together to warm his skin. He then splayed the same hands out, wrapping his fingers around the cool, damp rolls of metal that kept him from falling to the deck below. His eyes remained fix somewhere off to port, a place ahead of his container ship.

Behind Pollack, a hatch flew open with a bit more force than necessary and slammed into painted steel with a loud, but dull, thud. Pollack visibly tensed, drawing his shoulders up more stiffly while his hands clenched the rail. He whipped his head around to find his first officer standing behind him.

"Sorry, captain,"

"Shit, Gregor," Pollack exhaled to the Novikovian, "you scared the devil out of me."

The Novikovian nodded and handed his captain a mug of steaming coffee, black with two packets of sugar. "Yeah, sorry 'bout that," he added.

"Mind it not," Pollack breathed, turning back towards the distance. "I am worried though," he mused aloud.

"We are only a few hours behind the convoy, sir," the first officer replied. "And we've made good time since. We should even be able to meet up with 'em by the time we reach Capetown."

"But we have to make Capetown first, Gregor." Pollack turned around to face his first officer, letting his lower back lean against the railing. "Anywhere else in our route, sailing a day or so behind the convoy would be acceptable. But this is not anywhere else. Thames River is out there, Gregor. Sarnia. A godawful land without law and order. Perhaps it is a bit trite to roll out the fear of pirates, but they are out there."

"But you've dealt with them before, no?"

Pollack nodded. He had a tendency to forget that Gregor had never sailed the Sarnian Route before. "Oh yes, more often than not we have beaten them back. And eventually we all smartened up about it. Sailed with escorts. Ran as convoys. When we formed up outside Hansa, that was the plan. To sail as a convoy from Nova all the way to the Home Islands. Get us past Sarnia."

"And then the generator failed," the first officer sighed.

"And then the generator failed, indeed." Pollack took a long sip of the coffee, quickly cooling in the chilly southern latitudes—winter was fast approaching. "That is quite good, did you make this?"

"Nah, that's the new kid. From Pacitalia if I recall. You know he'll convert you to this coffee—"

"Never," Pollack quipped. "But every now and then I need something stronger…" the captain's voice trailed off as he turned to catch a dim flash out on the horizon. "Did you see that, Gregor?"

"See what?"

On cue, a much brighter flash, and then a series of flashes in quick succession until the distant sky faded from a dark midnight blue to a deep blood red.

"Sound the alarms, Gregor, and see if you cannot get a hold of the navy," Pollack shouted at his first officer, the two having instinctively started making way to the bridge. "Take us far to the east, sail around whatever is ahead of us until we know that which is ahead of us."

"Aye, sir."

HMS Corvus
Several Hours Later

"Ship reports ready for action, captain."

Commander William Sayles confirmed the status of his small command while looking out across the sea, staring at the various burned out hulks of tankers, bulk carriers, and container ships. Some had already gone under, and many of those he saw now would soon join them. There was no sight of the convoy's two escorting corvettes.

Overnight, the Royal Navy had lost contact with the convoy and only later established contact with a few ships that reported a massive attack. But by whom was not known.

Finally, Sayles found something comforting. A listing ore carrier with a group of people huddled near the stern. "Lieutenant Humphries, get us closer to that ship," he ordered while taking a careful note of the surroundings. Should those responsible for the attack return, Sayles wanted to be ready to manoeuvre.

Yet nobody returned. And nobody claimed responsibility. Sayles managed to rescue some seventy-plus sailors from several ships before reaching full capacity. After finding the wrecked convoy, Sayles had reported the location to Sarnian Fleet headquarters in St. Ives. A larger frigate, the Evictor, was en route from patrol duties further north and would rescue the remainder of the crews. Until she arrived, however, Sayles and his ship would remain on station.

Government House
Avalon-on-Avon, Oceanian Sarnia

"This is preposterous, Your Excellency. This action upends the will of the people for party politics." Graham Farrington was the Premier of Oceanian Sarnia, the local Conservative Party having won the largest number of seats in the House of Assembly.

Governor Sir Basil Ashford shook his head, and then let his finger tap the plaster cast entombing his leg. "I am afraid, Graham, that your party lost in Georgetown and that if elections were held here today, so would you."

"One cannot simply oust the premier simply because of politics in Georgetown. The people of Oceanian Sarnia voted for the Conservative Party and the will of the people ought to be respected."

"Except that your government is entrusted with the safety and security of the people, Mr. Premier. And your government has failed miserably. Consequently, the new Prime Minister has asked His Majesty to remove you from office in favour of a Democratic-Socialist led, colonial government."

"You want my party to work with the DSP simply because Ms. Thomason desires it? Despite the fact that we beat them three-to-two."

"Not because she desires it, Graham. She demands it."

The two men sat in silence, with only the hum of the central air-conditioning system to fill the void.

"I control 64 of 115 seats in the House of Assembly. We shall not bow to Thomason's demands. The people elected the Conservative Party in Sarnia. And the Conservative Party shall govern in Sarnia." Farrington promptly stood and offered the royal governor a polite, deferential bow, before exiting Ashford's study.

Ashford leaned back into his seat and let his eyes close for several long minutes. Finally, having received his answer, Ashford pushed himself up from his chair and onto his crutches. He hobbled over to his desk and repositioned himself in his leather working chair. He found it far less comfortable, but more convenient for carrying out his duties.

He picked up the receiver of his telephone and paged his secretary. "Get me the Prime Minister, if you please." Several moments later, his phone clicked, connecting him to Georgetown.

"Good afternoon, Your Excellency," came the voice of the new prime minister. Unlike her more recent predecessors, Ashley Thomason's voice was strong and loud. He needed not strain to hear her words.

"And to you, Madam Prime Minister. I wanted to inform you that I just finished up my meeting with the premier, Mr. Farrington. He has graciously declined your offer to form a pan-colonial government in Sarnia."

"Does he now?"

"Yes, madam. He insisted on serving out the results of the most recent election. And he assured me that his party would vote in sufficient numbers to defeat any bills put forth by the opposition."

"I see," Thomason replied. "Did you inform him of my sincere desire to see this unity government in Avalon?"

"Yes I did. And, again, he graciously declined the offer."

"Very well, Basil," Thomason replied with a sigh. "Sign the order and you shall have the necessary legislation by the end of the week."

"Yes, Madam Prime Minister."

"My regards to the wife, and do take care, Governor."

"Thank you, madam, good day."

Another click and the conversation was over. He replaced the receiver and then reached into his desk drawer, pulling out a sealed envelope. It had arrived earlier that day via an RAF flight instead of the usual Royal Post delivery. The instructions had been quite clear; he was not read the order until instructed to do so. And having been so instructed he sliced open the envelope and emptied its contents onto his desk.

Ashford read the few paragraphs and then quickly signed the document. He paged his secretary and had the document taken to be Farrington's office on the other side of the city.

Within the hour, the news was made public that Governor Ashford had dismissed Farrington as Prime Minister and dissolved the House of Assembly ahead of legislation from Georgetown that was to end home rule in Oceanian Sarnia. A state of emergency was being declared.

Chilson-on-Niven, Thames River

"What are we gonna do with 'em?"

Alerad placed his hands upon his waist and blew smoke out through his lips, around the cigar dangling between them. His eyes moved from those of the subordinate standing beneath him to the matte-black rifles piled neatly in the corner of his abandoned warehouse.

The warehouse was located along the river front, not far from where the Niven flowed into the sea. Chilson-on-Niven had, in its relatively recent past, been a major seaport along the industrial country's southern coast. Steel mills and warehouses dotted the waterfront, large bulk carriers once queued for berths while lorries and freight trains moved goods back and forth between the mining towns in the north. Chilson had been the industrial heart of the south, far from the finance and service of the north. The home of the country's blue collars.

Many years ago, Alerad had come to Chilson from the north, looking for work in the factories that belched into the Sarnian skies. Then Thames River enjoyed a booming economy, the mines in the north sent ores to be smelted in Chilson. As a young man, he stood over the molten metal where the warm glows of those red and orange flows lit the blackness and darkness of the factory. He watched the fathers and grandfathers. Theirs sons and their grandsons. Eight to six. Five, six, eventually seven days a week.

Alerad shook himself from his memories. An insect of some sort scurried next to his steel-toed boot, which quickly descended upon its exoskeleton with a crunch. He looked again at his subordinate. "She wants to get tough. We can give her tough." He looked again at the pile of Oceanian rifles and explosives. Then he turned his gaze towards the bound and gagged Oceanian soldiers hanging in chains.

Avalon-on-Avon, Oceanian Sarnia

Graham Farrington felt strangely out of place. Dressed sharply in his black, pinstriped suit with a red tie on a cotton white dress shirt, he stood upon the same pavement where the homeless in Avalon congregated. Across the street stood the limestone facade of Assembly House, where the colonies House of Assembly met. Except for today. The gates remained open, however, armed troops stood before the wooden doors.

"Not quite right, Harold," he mused to another member of the assembly.

"No, not quite right at all," Farrington's friend replied rather absently.

Both men belonged to the Conservative Party of Sarnia. Although in public neither were particularly willing to associate themselves with a party that had imploded on the national level. They could only hope that their local party would serve well enough in government for the remainder of their term in power that they could effectively sever that link.

Yet they remained across the street. Barred from entering their chamber. Barred from entering their offices. In many respects they stood with much in common with those congregating at the far end of the block.

"I say this is insufferable, Harold," Farrington said, this time with a much more deliberate tone. He quietly straightened his spine and with a few quick tugs, his shirt and jacket. "It shall not stand."

Harold rolled his eyes. Farrington had been griping for the past few days about the revocation of home rule. The complaints were nothing new. Harold turned his eyes to a few other Tories standing around with nothing much to do. And that was when they all pointed across the street to Assembly House. Harold turned around to face Farrington, only to find him three-quarters the way across the street. Some of the younger members of the parliamentary party were hurrying to catch up. Harold shrugged his shoulders and followed the crowd.

Jungles of Southwest Oceanian Sarnia

Zerud's face stung. It hurt. The tears in his eyes gave him a view of the dense foliage increasingly tinting towards red.

Another thorny bush slapped across his cheek.

Don't stop. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. He thought to himself. The sky cracked thrice overhead somewhere.

He leapt across a fallen log—or rather tried. A branch caught his shin and dropped him into the cold brook he had not seen. He turned around and peered across the rotting, moss-covered log. In the distance, shapes moved and flashes appeared. The sky cracked overhead once more.

Another man leapt across the log, clearing Zerud. He splashed across the brook before stopping and turning around. "C'mon, they've almost got us!"

Zerud loosened the strap across his chest and freed an automatic rifle from his back. He shouldered the weapon and aimed at the source of the distant flashes. He unsafed the weapon and fired off a few quick bursts before safing the rifle and slinging it back across his back.

"That might slow them a moment," Zerud added. He plunged his face into the cold water and pulled it back out. He tilted his head at the water now coloured red. "Is it that bad?" he asked the other man, whose eyes flitted from right to left to back again.

"What?"

"I'm cut?"

"Yeah."

"How bad?"

"I don't know, bad man, can we get outta here already?"

Zerud looked to his right and left, and found the jungle giving way to craggy and upward sloping hills through which the brook had carved a path. He began to recognise the place. "We still have the pass upstream, right?"

"Yeah."

"Than that is where we go. But fire off a bunch of rounds first."

As his compatriot followed his instructions, he noticed Zerud fumble around his waist for something, darting between the sides of the narrowing valley. Finally, Zerud tapped him on the shoulder, "let's go," he said and the two were off again.

The two made their way towards a small footpath that led up from the steep banks of the brook to a narrow trail that led into the mountains. The mountains across the border. Zerud knew that the Oceanians following him would stop at the Marerian-Oceanian border. They always did. And across the border, they would find a far more accepting if not welcoming environment.

Zerud turned around several more times and let loose several more rounds from his rifle. He never aimed, but fired in the general downstream direction. Hanging across the front of his chest was a padded case, inside of which he kept a decent pair of binoculars. Opening it and placing the lenses to his eyes, he could see Oceanian troops moving carefully up the stream, along the banks. A few tried to make it up the rocky sides—but they were struggling and forcing the rest to move more quickly up the centre.

The former plantation worker grabbed his comrade around the arm. "Watch this," he said, pulling the man forcibly back down the path. Zerud pulled from his pocket a small detonator, and then flipped open the cover and pressed the big red button.

His comrade ducked as several explosions shook the small valley. Zerud had placed the mines on small crags along the rocky faces. He had anticipated that the officer in charge would forego the safety in avoiding the narrowing valley for the speed in catching up to Zerud before reaching the Marerian border.

Zerud peered through his binoculars once more, and found at least one man torn in half. Likely sufficient to delay his pursuers. At least long enough to make it into Free Marerius. His comrade stood like a stone. "C'mon," Zerud rasped, "let's go already."

Camp George, Unionshire, Oceanian Sarnia

General Keating stood motionless, surrounded by IFVs, tanks, and self-propelled artillery pieces. Further down the line he could see the trucks that brought into the camp the ammunition and fuel for the attack helicopters and drones also based at his new command.

Since the attack that had killed Salisbury and King George, Keating had received a promotion. Not least because of the leakage to the press of his memos and other warnings of a growing and dangerous insurgency. Finally, with Thomason in charge back in Georgetown, Keating finally had the political support he had sought all along. The colony was now in a state of emergency and when the reviews of various local governments was concluded, martial law would likely be declared throughout southwestern Oceanian Sarnia.

Camp George was located south of the town of Union, which served as the market for much of the Avon Vale, the large flat and fertile valley at the heart of Oceanian Sarnia. As such, it was also the heart of the Oceanian settlements in the colony. Or rather, the northern reaches of the Vale. Much of the southern reaches were still thinly populated by metropole Oceanians. But places like Union were rapidly growing. And near enough to the Marerian heartland that Keating estimated the Vale to be the next logical area of operations for the insurgency.

The camp was located nearer the centre of Unionshire, not far from the border with Pavanne. But far enough away that Keating could be alerted to any Sarzonian incursions into the Oceanian colony. Re-supply came principally from the north, from Union and Avalon. However, Keating was also the spur for the development of a railway from Robertstown and Port Hathaway across Tiptonshire and Monmouthshire. The railway would connect him to the two ports and thus to the supply lines from St. Ives and the Home Islands. His supplies would arrive far quicker and he could secure the route more easily as those two shires were more heavily colonised and settled than Unionshire.

Keating eventually returned inside the main compound building to his office, where he found aides waiting. "What do we have now, gentlemen," he asked before taking his seat.

"Two major developments, sir. First we still have yet to establish contact with the insertion team at Chilson. And we have received reports from contacts in Thames River that the Marerians have captured foreign soldiers." The major giving the briefing looked up to hand Keating a small paper with maps and charts pertaining to the data.

"And two, Operation Kindle has succeeded. The convoy was struck, with at least seven casualties, two KIA, and a pursuit was launched. The pursuers followed the attackers almost all the way into Free Marerius—"

"Almost?" Keating interrupted. "The plan was to have them at the border."

"Yes, sir, however, they walked into a minefield and suffered numerous casualties. The section commander, however, did authorise the launch of the provided reconnaissance drone and captured on camera the attackers crossing the border into Free Marerius."

Keating smiled. "Great news. Send the data off to Georgetown and request approval to initiate Operation Reciprocal Envy."

Government House, Avalon-on-Avon, Oceanian Sarnia

"The man is out of his bloody mind," Governor Ashford complained. He had been resting quietly in his study until his chief of staff interrupted with news of a large protest gathering in front of Assembly House. With his aide's assistance, the governor managed to make his way into his office where the television was already tuned to a live feed of a crowd surrounding four soldiers and a smaller group of people led by who the station identified as Graham Farrington.

"Apparently, Your Excellency," the chief of staff continued, trying to bring his boss up to speed, "Farrington arrived demanding to be let into the building to carry out the people's business. He was informed that home rule had been revoked and he was ordered to vacate the premises. Farrington refused and the story has been spreading ever since. The CBC is reporting that they received word through social messaging sites like Facebook and Twitter—"

"What?"

"Websites, sir, like…" the chief of staff trailed off for a moment. "Like news sites or something. It really matters little what they are other than that people are rallying to Farrington as the crowd is growing."

"Oh—"

Camp George, Unionshire, Oceanian Sarnia

"—Christ," Keating breathed. "Get the commander there to order strict issues not to fire. Jesus' fucking sake, tell those kids not to fire."

"Yes, sir," his aides replied, quickly dismissing themselves to find their way to phones and radios.

In truth, Keating cared little for Farrington. In truth, he had come to very much dislike all politicians. But, the opportunity was presenting itself. And then on television, Keating watched somebody seize it.

From amongst the crowd of people, Keating spotted a muzzle flash. The general judged the gun was simply pointed upwards for nobody fell. Instead, the crowd around the gunman surged away from the man. Half of them, naturally, towards the building. They pushed the politicians closer to the soldiers, and the soldiers slowly fell back until their backs literally were pressed against the cold, hard limestone.

The gunman fired a few more shots. And again, nobody fell—but the live feed recorded what came next quite clearly as one of the soldiers fired back into the crowd. The few other soldiers followed suit. Within a matter of seconds, a small pile of bodies had been created at the doors of Assembly House.

Keating watched as half the crowd ran away from the building, swallowing up the gunman who would likely disappear for good. The other half began to take out their newly inspired rage against the four soldiers. Fortunately for the soldiers, the doors of the building opened and what looked like security guards or other soldiers dragged their comrades inside. The commentators commentated about the tragedy of the incident and the recklessness of the soldiers. Keating put the television on mute. And then could only watch as the crowd finally managed to bust their way into the building.

He stood up and walked out of his office to find his aides, still on the phone but with their eyes glued to the images of the mob taking control of Assembly House. "Major," he shouted above the din of the voices on phones, "get the governor on a helicopter and get him out of Government House."

Sure enough, the CBC footage switched to that of an aerial view of Government House, where a crowd was gathering just outside the gates.

Chilson-on-Niven, Thames River

Descending from the thick grey skies, falling snowflakes twisted and twirled, clumping together to form large white specs that had just begun to dot the streets and sidewalks of Chilson. An early winter cold snap and a low-pressure system off the southern coast were combining for an early winter snowstorm. The few people walking about the streets kept warm with heavy coats and scarves. Amongst them, the tall frame of Alerad lumbered down High Street, a street once plastered with advertisement and lit tubes of neon gas but now shuttered and locked up.

He wore a charcoal-grey wool overcoat, onto which the large flakes fell like polka dots. They quickly melted, however, and those that had not, quickly did as he entered a large, seemingly abandoned warehouse. The door frame boasted an electric warmer and the interior made use of a gratuitous number of space heaters. Alerad slammed the door shut loudly. Gaining the attention he sought, a young Marerian with scars across his face ran up to Alerad. "Here," Alerad barked, removing the overcoat from his shoulders and thrusting it into the teenager's arms.

Alerad spotted a gathering of individuals around a collapsible, plastic table. One of the men, rather burly with a large beard, sauntered up to Alerad with a smile plastered upon his face. The smile melted away very quickly.

"What are you smiling about?" Alerad hissed.

"We have the package ready to mail to Georgetown. And we're all just a bit excited about it, sir."

Alerad simply glared at the man. "We lost another freighter just east of the islands. The Royal Navy has managed to sink three of our freighters in the last two weeks. I don't think I need to tell you how much we depend upon them for our supplies."

"No, sir, you don't."

"Good. Because I'm tasking you, Danir, with seeing to the task that we don't lose another freighter."

The big, burly man gulped nervously. "Yes, sir."

"Good." Alerad paused for a moment, and with the flick of a switch transformed his snarl to a smile. "Now, tell me, when are you planning on sending the package?"

Danir blinked. "Uh, tomorrow, sir. We are shipping it from the warehouse that the crownies infiltrated—they know of the address and so we are not giving anything away."

"Splendid," Alerad replied, slapping a hand on the shorter man's left shoulder. Alerad led the other back to the table, "now, tell me about what we know about these settlements to the west of us."

Jungles of Southwest Oceanian Saria

Zerud peered through the binoculars he had placed upon the fallen trunk. "I only count two sections, Arnold," he whispered to his lieutenant on his right. He found himself spitting the Western name from his mouth, however. He had yet to find a proper Marerian name for the young man, an explosives specialist originally from Robertstown in the east.

"There ought to be another two, sir, that is what Zevara reported."

"I know, and that's what worries me. They may be trying to flank us—although the river is protecting us to the south." Zerud was now largely talking to himself, though Arnold Banks was, like usual, paying close attention. Unlike Franklin Lloyd, his junior lieutenant to his left. "Franklin, do you have an officer?" Zerud asked.

Franklin, a sniper, had been absorbed in the tracking of the Oceanian soldiers downrange. "Yes, sir, I have a captain and a lieutenant."

"That is only fifty points," Arnold hissed.

Franklin removed his one hand from the grip and gave Arnold the finger. "Fuck you. If tanks didn't count, you wouldn't have shit, So shut the fuck up."

Arnold simply grinned. They had managed to plant and detonate explosive devices that had shredded up an infantry fighting vehicle. It had caused the small convoy of vehicles to stop and disembark their infantry, which had dispersed into the woods. But they had lost track of two of the sections somewhere between now and then.

"It has been long enough," Zerud finally sighed. "I don't want to get caught out here. Take out the officers, Franklin, and let's get back across the river."

Two cracks resounded amongst the trees, and in Zerud's binoculars, two distant people fell to the ground. And after a moment of pause, the forest erupted in gunfire—most headed in the vague direction of Zerud and his small team. However, having taken cover in an abandoned stream bed, they had natural cover and quietly made their way along the course until they reached their boats.

For this mission, Zerud had ten men and two women under his command. Four, including Arnold and Franklin were with him. Another four, led by his scout Zevara, were operating semi-autonomously to find Oceanian targets. Another team of four were to his north, strung out in a loose line to guard against the Oceanians from moving down in a pincer-like movement. Zerud had chosen the infiltration point, crossing the river from Free Marerius here because the bend to his south eliminated the potential of an attack from that direction.

They quickly boarded their boats and pushed off, rowing quietly across the Afon Lloyd in under five minutes. The site on the Free Marerian side had become a favourite of the freedom fighters; and as such, Zerud could take advantage of a prepared hiding spot for the small boats. They scrambled up a partially concealed path that took them up the side of rocks that helped define the river's course.

"Any word from Zevara," Zerud asked Arnold.

"No, sir. Nothing. Nothing from Jobor, for that matter."

"Are they jamming our signals by chance?"

"No. Not that I can tell, sir."

"Then let's get out of here," Zerud breathed. He dropped to one knee to tighten up the knot on his combat boots. He then felt a rush of air along the back of his snap, and a sharp buzzing sound in his ear. Looking up from his boot, he found Arnold standing before him, with his eyes wide, and a massive hole through his throat.

"Shit!," Franklin screamed. The other two men with Zerud began to fire their rifles in the direction of the river.

"That can't be right," Zerud muttered, quickly taking cover behind some rocks. "The angle…" he muttered to himself. "Franklin," he shouted, "get your ass ove—" he stopped, however, as Franklin's head exploded.

"Shit," Zerud muttered. A few seconds later, another shot sounded off and he watched one of the rifle-firing men fall. "Fuck it," Zerud shouted to himself. He took a deep breath. Got up. And ran.

Branches and leaves cut at his exposed his arms. In the distance he heard another shot. And the rifle fire from his last man ceased. Zerud kept running. He jumped fallen logs, dodged small trees, and had some sharp, thorny something slash at his face. He could taste the blood streaming down his face and into his mouth. He could hear the echo of near-misses shattering trees just behind him.

He ran harder. His muscles burned. But the sound of shattering trees fell away. He ran even harder. He ran for half an hour. He ran until he hit a checkpoint manned by fellow freedom fighters. The person in charge quickly offered Zerud a glass of water. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"They," he struggled to say, gasping for breath. "They crossed the river…"

"Who crossed the river?"

"The Oceanians." He paused to breath. "The Oceanians are now operating in Free Marerius."

Richmond, Alcedonia, Sarnia

"Are we ready," a man enquired. His skin hung loosely from narrow cheekbones with only short protrusions of fine white hair rising from a speckled scalp. The folds on his neck, and anything below for that matter, were hidden by layers of wool in the forms of a scarf, coat, gloves, and trousers. Using a cane for support, he stood beside a younger man, similarly dressed for the cold. Despite his youth, the younger man stood only a few centimetres taller than his elder. His scalp, however, was largely covered in short, grey hairs.

"I certainly hope so, Dad." James Lynch pulled his coat closer to his body as a raw wind whipped up off the ocean not more than a few hundred metres distant. Lynch could see several ships dotting the horizon. Most were larger luxury yachts, some small trawlers and two freighters. They were queuing to unload their cargos. However, as Lynch turned towards the northeast he remembered why they sat anchored off the coast. The natural harbour was already full.

The younger Lynch then turned towards his father, "I think it is time we returned inside." The elder Lynch nodded and the two shuffled off the timber deck towards the aluminium-walled shelter. Above the shelter, a stiff breeze kept a piece of fabric flittering. Prior to that morning it had never been seen in Sarnia before. The flag was of a new design.

HMS Hussar

Some 250 kilometres to the southwest of the Lynches, a massive ship dwarfing the largest of those in Richmond's harbor sat at anchor in another harbour. Alongside, also at anchor, two frigates kept constant watch. Their powerful radars a sentry over the skies and seas. On the flight deck of the assault carrier, however, Lieutenant Colonel Benjamin Crowe could focus only on the going-ons along the shoreline.

From the flight deck Crowe could see several pillars of smoke rising upwards until being dispersed by the wind. The smoke was not of a concerning nature, likely from some of the lorries or construction vehicles in use along the landing site. Somewhere overhead, he could here a helicopter hovering. Crowe turned around and found a heavy-lift helicopter descending onto the flight deck of another amphibious ship.

Satisfied, Crowe turned about and headed towards the hatch leading into the far warmer interior where, if standing orders were being followed, a pot of tea was being brewed. Surely enough, as he closed the hatch a sailor was standing ready with a steaming mug of tea. Crowe took the mug quietly and tasted the brew. Satisfied, Crowe smiled. "Very good, carry on and bring the pot to Ops."

The sailor confirmed the order and scurried off to return to the ship's mess. Meanwhile, Crowe continued onwards to the ship's Operations, where he wanted to review progress ashore. A more recent construction, the Hussar sported a bright and well-lit technological command centre. The Oceanian Army officer could see various Royal Navy sailors at various stations keeping track of digital displays and blinking lights. That all was clam in the compartment comforted Crowe.

"Colonel, how are you?" a rather jovial, reddish-faced commodore asked as Crowe settled into Ops.

"Very well, Commodore." Crowe raised his mug, "my complements to the mess. They brew a strong cup of tea."

"What else would you have us do while you and your soldiers are shore?"

The two laughed politely before Crowe took another sip to warm his still-chilled body. "So, Commodore, where are we with the landings and operations ashore?"

The welcoming smile of the commodore was quickly replaced by a wholly business straight face. "We have had a slight delay in landing the heavy equipment. One of our landing craft managed to foul up an engine and is being repaired ashore. We are covering the slack through the use of some helicopters where possible—however, we are looking at a delay of several hours."

"But the barracks equipment?" Crowe asked, hinting at his personal priorities.

"All ashore, Colonel. We will not likely be able to land all the dozers before nightfall—however we have managed to get two ashore via helicopters. We have, however, also managed to get ashore all your generators and fuel supplies. Temperatures are expected to reach -2 or so; but your men and women shall have all the heat they need."

"Very good."

"So how soon until your men can begin patrols of the hinterland?" The commodore asked nervously. The two men had discussed several times the danger posed by Marerian insurgents launching land-based anti-ship missiles from only a few hundred metres away.

Crowe drank some more tea before replying, using the time to quickly plug the delays into his calculations. "I would imagine sometime tomorrow evening. We are still setting up a command centre and then comes the task of moving most of my soldiers ashore. And once they are ashore they shall begin the patrols. I do not, however, anticipate many problems from the insurgents. They have few fighters this far south. And those they do are likely far more concerned with the new settlements to our north and south."

The commodore nodded thoughtfully. "The one up north declared its independence this morning. Calling itself Alcedonia. We expect to hear something similar from the settlements to the south in coming days."

Crowe shrugged his shoulders. "Entirely sensible. With the sectarian violence on the rise in Thames River, we all knew it was but a matter of time until refugees headed south and west to start over."

"And I am largely accepting of that, Colonel," the commodore replied. "At least in the north we have a semi-civilised proto-state. The southern refugees concern me, however, for they fled with far less. And with much less to survive upon this winter…well, one of my frigates tracked a yacht being used to raid a Marerian-controlled settlement to the east of Chilson."

"Retribution?"

"Precisely."

"That is, however, I believe one of the reasons Georgetown sent us here and the other fleet to Williamsport," Crowe replied after a few moments of thought. He needed the time to consider the politicisation of his following statements. "We all know that the Prime Minister," he continued much more quietly, "is determined to take a hard line on Sarnia. That means you and I going for blood, Commodore. But she cannot outright say that, and so we have programmes and plans for new Oceanian settlements in southern Sarnia."

"I am well aware," the commodore replied. "Salisbury here shall become a great port city in southern Sarnia. Or so the brochures read. But you look at who owns most of the best land along the harbour front, the Royal Navy. And the same holds true for Williamsport. I just worry about us becoming involved in the fighting between us the Alcedonians," the commodore needlessly emphasising the new 'nationality' to the northeast.

Crowe took some time to finish off his first mug of tea. "I agree," he said, pouring himself a second. "But that is why we earn all those pounds." The two chuckled. "But fear not, commodore, once tomorrow comes, we shall begin to secure the shoreline and the interior."

"I just fear, Colonel, that someday soon you shall not be needed here in Salisbury but further north."

Crowe smirked. "I suspect that the same such thoughts feared here in Sarnia are hoped for in Georgetown."