NationStates Jolt Archive

ANP: King Alfonso VI Opens Country's Economy

http://www.turismomadrid.es/COMU/QVER/AERE/imagen/AEREMadridMinisterioAgricultura_02.jpg
[/size=1]Castillian Ministry of the Royal Treasury[/size]

Only about ten years ago the Kingdom of Castilla y Belmonte found itself in deep economic crisis, stemming from poor economic management since the late 1700s. For almost 300 years the kingdom had been living in poverty, with most of the money supporting the throne's armies and poorly planned wars. However, within the past decade Alfonso VI has supported a series of economic changes, suggested by the parliament, which have augmented the power of the national economy and have allowed for a steady progression to a more 'liberal' economic system. It seems as if today the king has announced the progression of the national economy into the next phase - capitalism. For the first time since the beginning of mercantilism and the rise of the kingdom as an international 'recognized' entity it has opened itself to foreign investment and has allowed the beginning of free trade between itself and non-belligerent nations.

Economist believe that this new economic policy will allow for an increase in the economic growth rate and will lead to a faster industrialization of the kingdom, which has had an agriculture based economy since its birth in 458 B.C.E. Many also hope that the rise of foreign investment will help stimulate the growth of the national industry, although most understand that it will take many, many decades to increase the percentage of 'nationalization' - or, the amount of industry which is owned by nationals. However, all agree that the surrender of the economy to the private sector will help further stimulate the kingdom's economy and allow it to enter the modern world with strength.

Nonetheless, politicians, both Castillian and foreign, wonder in amazement why Alfonso VI made the sudden decision. Within the past twenty years the king has been loosing his popularity with the people of the country, and the rate of popularity decrease augmented as poverty decreased. In other words, as people had more money to afford things like television and foreign news sources they have become less ignorant to the outside world. Many have called for major political reforms, many of which could end with the crown. Politicians believe that this has been a loosening of the slack to avoid unpopularity and to give his reign a few more years. Others believe that his son, Prince Phillip, has taken the reigns of the nation.

The decision has not been supported by everyone. The military continues to be unsettled by the widespread 'liberalization' of the country. It was only forty five years before that the Castillian military put down widespread rebellion throughout the kingdom and started about twenty years of hard line military rule under King Alfonso VI. Since then the military has existed with varying degrees of power, and many officers believe that the continuing trend of liberalization will threaten their power base and careers. Of course, one should understand that the officer corps is entirely made up of the upper class and the enlisted corps of the 'common citizenship'. The fact that many have pinpointed Phillip as the mastermind of the country's economic and political reforms has alienated the prince from the military's officer corps, and many think that this may threaten his ascension as king of Castilla when his father dies.

Regardless, economists are more or less sure that the new economic reforms will be to the benefit of the country. However, many fear that it will take some time to take effect, given that the kingdom is relatively unknown internationally and not all will want to invest into a country they know nothing about. Especially a kingdom which has had a recent violent history - with the same leadership. But, a start is a start. Many citizens have placed hope on the ascension of the popular Phillip, but others fear a growing schism between the throne and the armies of the country, which could lead to violence. It was violence in the first place which ruined the country's attempt to industrialize itself in the early 20th century.

Many hope that the kingdom will now enter the modern age ...

Palacio Real, Cuidad Real

"What are you thinking, your majesty? You will lose control of your own country, me cago la leche![/i] Ministory Diego García was yelling almost at the top of his lungs, obviously enraged at the king's decision to finish the process of privatizing the nation's economy. He was partially correct, although the decision undermined more his own power than that of the king. In the end, he would no longer have almost complete control over the nation's industry. The political entanglement was far too complex to completely spell out, but simply said the loss of the industry meant the loss of his friends in the military given that he could no longer allocate X amount of industrial output towards the armed forces - he could no longer manipulate the branches, either. Through control of the economy Diego García was once the most powerful man in the kingdom, and Alfonso VI had just undermined him.

The king arched an eyebrow, "Who are you speaking to, García?"

The minister sneered back, "You know full well who I'm speaking to. Don't think that you can demean me, now that you think your snide decision has changed something. It hasn't. You have not just undermined your political allies inside this kingdom, but you have undermined your own throne. You have given power to the people, which means you've lost it."

Alfonso VI looked back, without flinching, and responded, "We need to modernize, friend. I can no longer successfully rule this country with an iron fist, and you know this - otherwise you wouldn't have suggested the education reforms ten years ago. Let's not forget that this entire political evolution is mostly your fault, given the ground you suggested to give last decade."

The king was right. It was Diego García's advice which had caused this unfortunate evolution of events which was slowly liberalizing a once extremely closed kingdom. But, at the time it was necessary. The Army could no longer keep control of the peasants and commoners and the urbanization process between 1800 and 1950 had created a very educated middle class which was just as interested about defending itself from the high class political rulers of the kingdom as was the lower class. The Army found itself consistently shrinking, and when conscription began anew it was found that the ranks which were filled were filled by commoners meaning the army began to sympathize with those who were starting the local rebellions. For example, in the 1967 revolt in the provincial capital of Lurdén the Army had refused to engage the rioters resulting in a local victory which in turn forced the abdication of Alfonso VI's father - Juan el Débil. The young prince Alfonso, then 31, had found himself in a situation he could not correct without giving ground. Through a series of reforms he had finally regained the loyalty of the Army by 1982, but by then it was too late and for the most part the military had become an institution of the commoner and a military dictatorship was virtually running Castilla - Alfonso VI was only able to take the reigns through a very miraculous purge of the officer corps of the army in 1989, allowing him to reform the country by the next year in order to gain the support of the people.

Unfortunately, these actions created a wedge between him and the ruling nobility - his ministers. Although not as wide, there was also a forged schism between him and the military once again by the mid-90s, although the Army was not foolish enough to act against the will of the people during a time in which the people controlled the future of the state. But now, with a privatized economy the Army had been completely isolated.

General Andres de la Luna looked upon both of them as the minister and the king argued back and forth about trivial politics. The general was more worried about the stability of his military and his own political future. If he was seen as inactive his own institution would get rid of him and put a more aggressive man in charge. De la Luna was not interested in loosing his high rank and high paying position, and so he would have to persuade Alfonso VI to reverse his decisions one way or the other. He spoke, interrupting the argument between the other two, "Your majesty, you know you have my full support, but the military may not be willing to give it to you if you do not give anything back."

"What do you mean to imply?" Alfonso VI suddenly seemed quite vexed. "Are you threatening me, general?"

The general chuckled, "No, no, your highness. Let's not be rash. But do not be naïve, either, king. You know as well as I do that the military is still not happy about loosing its power. It's final political grasps is slipping as you grant the people more power, and you are aware of this just as I am. I am not threatening you, I am telling you the truth."

The king's facial expression failed to change. His face was as emotionless as a rock, "Were do you stand, Andres? Are you with me, or against me?"

"I don't wish to make allegiances. I am the commander of the Army." The general tried to avoid the question.

"Are you with me or against me, general? Remember, you swore an oath of allegiance to me, not to your own political machinations. Your job is to complete the missions I give you, not to create and carry on your own missions." The king's seriousness did not fade, and his voice did not waiver. Even at his new age of 58 he remained strong.

The general simply looked at him. His lip curled at its end, and it was obvious the general had nothing more to say. He stood, buttoned his jacket, and the king quickly followed. De la Luna smiled and said, "We have nothing more to talk about."

The king's mouth remained straight, "We have much more to talk about, Andres. Sit down!"

"I can see this is going nowhere. Perhaps we can speak when your highness is more calm. I may be back tomorrow." The general began to walk away.

The king's eyes flared, "You may be back tomorrow? You will be back when I TELL YOU to be back, you disrespectful fool! Yo soy el rey de esta puñetera país. You are but a general! I have nothing more to say to you - get out!."

The general nodded, "Very well. Continue to ignore the military."

Diego García looked on without saying a word. As the general closed the door behind him the minister spoke up once again, "It's not wise to alienate yourself from the army. They are your limbs to keep the power you still have in this kingdom."

The king looked away, disgusted, "How can some still retain such dogma? This country needs to modernize or it will not survive. How can a country stricken with poverty survive against neighbors with ever expanding treasuries and with ever enlarging militaries? Don't you understand? Are you all so blind?"

The minister replied bluntly, "We are not all so willing to let go of our power. Fuck the future. The present is now, and now is what is important. You best be careful, and I say that with the utmost respect and with no implication that I am disloyal to you, your majesty."

The king muttered something and then waved the minister away. The meeting had been short and disastrous. Things were not going well in Castilla, and little of the foreign community was aware, especially given the fact that the national news had just reported much good news.

Somewhere in Cuidad Real
Pedro was just his codename. Even he sometimes didn't remember his own identify. Every day he dressed in the same uniform, and put the same Aguila mod. 36 .45 pistol between his belt and his waist. Under his well tailored jacket he had a thin 15 lb. ceramic armored vest, protecting him against pistol fire, and his eye wear protected him from fragmentation. He was a trained killer and he did well at his job. Indeed, he was still not dead and that said much. Although officially he was not a government agent, he worked for the king and the king only. He killed the undesirable. By his hand the military had been purged only a decade before - he himself had claimed at least thirty kills. He was the number one hitman in the country, but through his genius work he remained unknown and but a shadow in the dark. Today he had a new mission.

He followed about thirty meters behind the most powerful military man in the kingdom - General Andres de la Luna. The general always walked to his flat with an escort, and security was always posted around him throughout various different streets. It was only through Pedro's professionalism that he had gotten as close to the general as he did, especially with a concealed pistol. Anybody else would now be probably dead. Fortunately, he blended with the crowd - which were his utmost intentions.

He slowly unveiled his silver pistol, which gleamed under the hot summer sun. Within seconds a shot rung out and the general before him had fallen dead to the pavement. As his security turned around Pedro was nowhere to be found.

The shot would soon be heard around the world ...


ANP: General Andres de la Luna Murdered!

The top commander of the Castillian Army was murdered yesterday whilst walking to his flat in Cuidad Real. The killer remains unknown and local police are no closer to finding him. Many think this is a political assassination, linked to the purges of the 80s - especially as the Army begins to react to the king's political and economic reforms. However, in such a volatile political situation it's not wise to jump to conclusions. Nevertheless, many fear repercussions soon to come and the king has already issued orders for authorization of a full investigation of the crime in an attempt to save his reputation with the Army.

The situation remains bleak in Castilla ...

“Mr. Sellers! Mr. Sellers, open the door!” A hammering noise followed the bellowed command, emphasising the fury of the speaker. “Sellers, open this bloody door NOW!

Mick Sellers made no reply to the speaker’s orders; he was too busy shrugging his worn trench coat, once black but now faded to a particularly dark shade of grey, onto his broad shoulders and slinging the colossal, steel-framed rucksack that contained his most important possessions onto his lean, muscular back. Without so much as a glance back at “his” flat, he threw the chipped sash window upwards and clambered out, backpack and all, onto the fire-escape, clattering down its shaking steel steps at a brisk jog that had nothing to do with fitness and everything to do with the three shaven gorillas he knew were accompanying the man he had left screaming at his bolted door.

Behind him, the door crashed open as the largest of the three besuited primates burst through its thin wood, ripping away the lock, hinges and much of the frame. A short, wire-haired man darted in behind him, leaving the other two heavies outside, and drew from his belt a carelessly-stuffed Bulldog .357 revolver which he levelled threateningly at the empty room.

“SELLERS! I know you’re here somewhere, you worthless bastard!” the man shouted, his face red with rage and unusual exertion. “You owe me six bloody weeks’ worth! Don’t think I won’t get it, you bastard!”

The landlord sprinted to the open window, shoving aside the billowing rags which passed for curtains with a burst of staccato cursing, to spot Sellers’ retreating back as he sped down the alley. He took his best aim (which wasn’t really very good considering he was still having to fight the curtains for domination of the window) and fired down the narrow alley, the miniscule revolver cracking in his outstretched hand. To his rage, the rounds managed to miss entirely, chipping the brick walls and caroming crazily out into the busy street beyond, sending passers by diving for cover and Sellers diving round the side. The landlord screamed his name one more time; but Sellers was already far beyond his reach. He calmly waited by a tram stop, clutching his battered Homburg hat to his head, and boarded with a smile and a nod to the sour-faced conductor before sitting down next to a young, slight man earnestly browsing through a pamphlet entitled, with undisguised smugness, “Libertarianism: The Way Forward”. Perhaps it was, Sellers reflected, but if it made the likes of that landlord more common it was hardly to be revered. His eye smarted and watered like mad from the fragments one of the .357 slugs had smashed from a brick not six inches from his head.

The tram rattled gaily down the tracks in the centre of the largely deserted road, never once exceeding thirty miles per hour as it made its rickety way down the hills that supported the sprawling, twenty-million-man city of Eden Mount. Eden Mount! A more inappropriate name there can’t be. Running down the hill, a perverse, new-grown blotch on the once-fresh face of the central mountain range that dominated Greater Island, Eden Mount was, like most of the cities in DPUO, nothing more than a giant spread of brick and stone houses, gaunt brick chimneys sprouting from it like hairs from a mole. A perennial cloud of light grey, hazy smog hovered over the city, festering and choking, though eased on its way by the fresh winds that blew over the mountains, driving the clouds over their lofty peaks and disgorging periodic torrents of rain onto its sparse streets. To the south, and unfortunately upwind of most of the city, Sellers could just spot the distant bulk of the city’s combined power station and gasworks, wherein he had served his time for the past twelve years. Now thirty-one, he often wondered why he had suddenly lost the interest in his work he had shown for so long. After all, he still gained a sense of pleasure and pride as he watched the massive retorts, the bubbling processors, the shrilly-whirring steam turbines in action. And yet, it seemed not enough. He had come to the realisation one day as he stood on the gantry, watching one of the retorts being worked on; he was wasting his life. His prime years were being whittled away in this place. He would never be anything more than a valued man here, a mere working part in the giant, smooth-running machine of society. The realisation had shaken Sellers to his very core: if he was nothing more than one more gear in the machine, why bother to live? Why bother with anything? What was the point in merely being another nobody, taking orders from somebody else, for somebody else’s benefit? And so he had handed in his notice, not really knowing why, and spent the next few weeks pissing away his money on booze, smokes and company, encasing himself in a blur of slopped beer, stale ash and flesh. Sellers knew it couldn’t last, and was not surprised when, upon checking his bank balance one afternoon, he discovered it had dropped to some four hundred pounds. Nor was he surprised that the landlord had come looking for his six weeks’ rent; Sellers had already promised that it would be there on Monday – a week previously.

Sellers brooded quietly, but not unpleasantly, all the way down the line and towards Central Station. He smiled pleasantly at the girl behind the counter as he paid for his (single) ticket to the distant port city of Nordington and took his seat in the splendidly-appointed second-class carriage nearest him and stowed his bulky backpack in the racks above, glancing along the curving platform to the front of the train only briefly to notice that this was indeed the sleeper. His brooding was interrupted briefly to give thanks to the merciful Sun; he had tried spending the night sitting up and not at all liked the result it had on his sleep, and for once someone had seen fit to marshal the sleeping carriages to the rear of the train, so that the incessant screech of the big turbines up front would not again cut its sawblade-like note into his brain. Within a few minutes Sellers heard the distant trill of the guard’s whistle, answered by the higher, more urgent shriek of the locomotive up front, and seconds later he felt his seat jolt slightly beneath him as the engine eased its long train out of the equally long platform. As he gazed, half-awake, from his window, Sellers could see the usual clichés of departure being played out for the nth time; parents waving, children crying, lovers sharing a last, passionate kiss in the shrouds of steam as the train gathered speed. In an instant they were gone, the platform tapering abruptly away to meet the ballast like the back of some giant grey whale, and the train was clanking out over the long viaduct which eventually bent away towards the North. Turning his eyes from the endless repetition of factories, houses, schools and shops outside, Sellers gave a mindless smile to the steward as he pushed the newspaper trolley along and bought an Island Times, checking his banging bag of possessions overhead before settling in to read of the latest bout of crises, wars and other nonsense afflicting the weary world. It was only when he read the small article at the bottom pf page four of the International News section that his interest really piqued; and by the time he had reached Nordington, a mere day away, Sellers had already resolved himself to his new course of action.

He was going to Castilla.

His name was, technically, Alex Lehman. From looking at him, one might imagine him racing to defeat the evil doctor plotting world domination, girl in one hand and trusty revolver in the other; and it would be a lie to say he had not dreamed of such a life in his younger years. These days, however, Lehman was a drifter; he had lived in his van for six years, then sold the van and moved in with a friend, and now he was departing with enough money in the bank to buy a new van and all his possessions in a suitcase almost as large as he was.

He could have been any age at all; and but for his terminal laziness, he could have been quite successful in just about anything he turned his hand to. It seemed someone was interested in seeing him kept alive; every now and then he would be offered large sums of money for small things: keep tabs on this person, follow that person, find out what someone else does in their spare time. Of course, that was infrequently enough that he still found himself going without beer or showers for a few days. Sometimes Lehman took temporary or part-time jobs; he'd been at various times a chemist's assistant, a musician, an actor, a street sweeper, a boxer, a librarian, a store clerk, a computer programmer. He had a variety of useful skills -- he could play the violin with his feet, for instance -- but was barely capable of reading and writing, in part due to an ever-intensifying dyslexia.

Now he was setting out from the shining metropolis of Budapest by aeroplane, to fulfill yet another contract. This was a slightly more difficult and dangerous one, and for that reason he would be paid more; he was to travel to the nation of Castilla, four hours' journey away, where further orders would be relayed to him. Lehman wryly noted that he had the first evidence that a government was behind his contract; he had only been given a one-way ticket. No matter, he had the money to buy another van once he got to Castilla, and if he could find a temp job, maybe rent an apartment. In the airport Lehman visited the restroom, and emerged looking distinctly Spanish and completely unrecogniseable: his skin was a shade or two darker, his nose more crooked (it looked as though it had been broken once or twice), his cheekbones higher, and he now sported a small but distinct moustache. He was now Alejandro Limón, but he maintained the exact same disposition as Alex Lehman had: the new Limón was still an unemployed and terminally lazy drifter.

It had been ages since his last flight, and he looked askance on the new "improvements" (Automatic toilets? Those noisy monorails?); he wondered why it seemed all of the passengers had suddenly learned politeness (in his day there were no "gates" or ticket counters or even assigned seats, simply a general rush out of the airport towards the airplane and hoping you didn't have to sit next to somebody fat). He had a window seat, which he promptly wasted by falling asleep and staying asleep for the entire flight. When the aeroplane landed, he was last off the plane; he looked around for a cab to the cheapest hotel in the vicinity.

In the hotel room, he idly squashed a cockroach, kicked off his shoes, and began to wonder where he would sleep tomorrow night.

The saga of the man who was now known as Alejandro Limón continues at 11, after these messages from our sponsor!