Leult [Princess] Gigi Maryam, Minister of Foreign Affairs, announces that she will be will be traveling the world on the Global Sisterhood Peace Tour.
The recent years have seen conflict spreading across the world. From the Amazon to the Caspian war has broken out, shattering times of peace and prosperity. We have discovered proof of life in the stars, and yet for all their grand technological advancements they too have not escaped the scourge of war. Yet, is there not a part of every human heart that yearns for peace, regardless of religion or ideology, class or race?
Leult Gigi Maryam calls on all the nations of the Earth to pursue that peace which we all desire. But words alone are not enough. Thus, she will travel to all the peaceloving nations of the world, to speak with their people and their leaders, and push for an end to the wars that plague the world.
She will not remain behind closed doors speaking with politicians, however. To show the people her love, the Leult will be hosting performances in every city she visits*. Her songs of peace will echo in the ears of the world.
*with the consent of host nations.
May we all love our neighbors as ourselves.
[X] This message is endorsed by Leult Gigi Maryam, Minister of Foreign Affairs of the New Ethiopian Empire
In an effort to strengthen ties between multiple states inside the ECOTA and create a comprehensive new and unique training exercises to better prepare for the nature of the post recontact world, to better foster and sustain cooperation between the participants the Lunari Republic will be hosting a series of wargames in LEO over the next three months to better expand the participants experience in void operations. This, alongside operations in the hazy mesh of the Atlantic, Pacific and Indian Shoal Zones will develop the participants' experience in the multitude of space terrain that operations may occur in. Silver Sky will feature a mixture of small scale squadron on squadron operations to large scale fleet actions to develop the participants understanding of small scale actions and the clash of fleets with the goal of developing the participants interoperability and preparing them for combined operations.
The LRN has announced major force commitments to the Silver Sky exercise to the order of the 2nd and 3rd Mobile Suit Regiments, alongside the 10th Mobile Suit Brigade and multiple Battle Divisions with their attendant cruiser and frigate escorts in an effort to ensure that their are ample forces present to participate in all activities over the next three months.
The Pallas Space Force will be participating in Silver Sky 01, with the 2nd Battleship Division and attached escorts and mobile suits scheduled to be part of the exercise. In addition, we invite the Yammacin Freeholds to participate as a guest of the Pallas Space Force.
The Yammacin Space Corp is pleased to participate in the Silver Sky Exercise and deepen ties with its fellow ECOTA nations. As part of ongoing training of space-capable assets for operations in non-terrestrial environments, the Freeholds will be committing the HMSS Ajassa, HMSS Akinwande, as well as the 13th Dragoon Flight for the third quarter of 1001.
The collar draws around her neck. It is not tight enough to inhibit breathing, nor heavy enough to strain her posture. The material is flexible, a continuous roll of soft, breathable polymer encircling her flesh without a discernible seam. It presents no discomfort, no great pains. It simply exists, inoffensive, inescapable and symbolic of Azel's confinement. The Therymsci-that-exists, a dreamlike accumulation of new constructions and meandering half-remembered renovations of the works of the original Seraphim exists in much the same way. It comes from the same place as she does, is made of the same things, by the same people, but its lamentable configuration is a prison.
Her bare feet kiss the padded floor, in a room that confines without signifying confinement, a luxurious little suite with separate sleeping, living and bath areas, and a little kitchenette with plastic knives. Three people could have lived in the space of the rooms without discomfort, the smallest of which - the bathroom, holds three arm spans at its widest point and two at its narrowest. Built-ins set along the walls and on the suite's wraparound multimedia center permit her access to any media she desires, and answer every query about the wider world. The walls are thinly cushioned to deaden noise and soften the echo, with a reactive colour scheme that obeys every whim of instruction. A space without strong or unpleasant sensation.
In this way, she is denied austerity itself. Recognition of her status. They'll call this a kindness too, an adjustment period to the new world.
The identification cards on the table are soft-edged plastic, cut and bevelled so their perimeters can't hold an edge except by tremendous effort. A flattering photograph of her gaunt face, pale and thin from long sleep with dark hair and yellow eyes. Azel Fuminori - Pilot - Sealed Materials Response and Interdiction Taskforce I (SMRIT-I).
As she considers the meaning of that title, bereft of her former military rank. She leans into the ergonomic chair with a grunt of frustration and juggles the cards, tossing them into parabolic arcs and testing the coordination of her hands and strength of her grip. Spin gravity rests at a comfortable .5G, just enough for objects to fall usefully back down towards the 'floor' of the room.
The door to her suite opens without her bidding, as her minder enters thoughtlessly. The chatty one from before, a doe-eyed, round-faced youngster with cherub-cheeks and pink hair set into a long braid. Her thoughts are only slightly more guarded now, tempered by a recent scolding.
She wrinkles her nose as she enters. "Azel, why aren't you wearing the clothes the Sealed Materials Comission gave you?"
Embarrassment. Annoyance. Fear. Attraction. Her levers are easy to find and pull.
"I'm wearing this obvious bomb collar you've strapped to me, aren't I, Lydia?" Azel turns her chair towards the door, testing her interrogator's gaze. Behind her minder are two robots serving as orderlies and she imagined- muscle to restrain her if she was noncompliant again.
Lydia's eyes hold contact for two seconds before breaking, scanning the room and not her, and she dismisses the orderlies with a gesture, shutting the door behind her all at once. "It's not a bomb. We've gone over this."
"Monomolecular guillotine, then? A well-spun polyamide thread wouldn't even set off a metal detector."
"The inner layers are made of printed biopolymer and diffuse several centuries of immunotherapy into you, days at a time. I suggest you dial back the paranoia slightly, it's going to make the next few weeks a lot easier for everyone if you do." When she speaks, Lydia thinks about how she wants to succeed. Her motives are humanitarian but she's conscious of her career and knows that successfully bringing an old monster back into Seraphim society will be a coup for her credentials. Nevertheless, the secrecy eats at her. She believes the collar is simply a medical device taking advantage of the rich vascular accessways of the carotid and jugular, placed around the neck for ease of visibility and maintenance. The sliver of a chance that it isn't however, lingers. Her mind is full of well-rehearsed anecdotes, prepared for questions, prepared for argument, with a contingency for violence well-concealed.
Azel can't even read what their backup plan is. She smiles too widely, baring white teeth. "How frustrating! You must be used to saying that to the descendants of the Earthian radicals, but not another Seraphim. Do you ever mean those words?"
"Mostly." Lydia's expression cools with the lie. She doesn't personally interact with Earthians very much, just hears about certain frustrations in negotiations from her sisters in the foreign commissions. "Even so, some discussions are worth having."
"Like this, shouting across this luxurious prison cell you've put me into?"
Her minder mouths something and thinks nothing, a pattern so cliche to herself that it barely registers as a thought and advances slowly, five paces at a time as she judges Azel's body language. Her eyes count scars, observe the ripple of taut, efficient muscle group. As she closes to one and a half spans of Azel's arms, her movements become remarkably stiff- as if her entire body were a coiled spring under tension. "We can have this conversation at any distance you want, Azel."
"And yet you're insisting on looming over me."
"You didn't offer me a chair."
Azel snickers, and flicks her ID card at the other woman. Remarkably, Lydia catches it without any hesitation.
"I notice everyone's stopped calling me 'colonel' and my only title on this badge is 'pilot'."
Lydia leans away from the desk, glancing at the ID card for only a split-second as if the letters printed on them were as bright as the sun. "We did away with formal ranks in most fields and occupations a while ago. Society works better when power and responsibility are allocated by need and deed, not just seniority or proximity to the power that already exists."
"What a high-minded ideal. I still want to be recognized for my achievements."
"You could get a PhD, make everyone call you Doctor. We still give degrees for the dark arts, something you'd take to naturally, like security studies." Lydia's smiles grows only a little as she returns the card. "Besides, provided that you comply with the release procedures, the Council already gave you job with a title."
Azel crosses her arms. She imagines herself strangling Lydia with her badge's colorful nylon lanyard and doesn't bother to hide it, but finds the woman doesn't even flinch. "Doctor and Commander are both strict downgrades. I've paid my dues, accepted the sentence you cretins put on me for doing what was necessary when it seemed like all life would be reduced to the gibbering madness and eternal slavery under the horrors of unrestrained psychic warfare."
Lydia's eyes do not blink. As she opens her mouth to speak, Azel can feel a well-rehearsed cliche terminate searching thoughts for a moment. "You served and accepted responsibiltiy for your actions. You are being called to serve again."
"Power in service of a popular will? Don't lie to me. Don't make me laugh. This entire society wields power in service of itself, you're all just too timid to want to direct it to any singular end." Frustrated, Azel feels the laugh come bitterly. She stands up, scowls, and points, jabbing her index intro the soft panel covering Lydia's sternum. "I don't remember some anonymous council of masked upstarts giving orders during the war. I remember friends, colleagues, rivals, with specific visions of what we would build with the rest of humanity after we would win. You've let me see everything I wanted to, so tell me, what is this for?"
"Is that what you want to hear? A secret purpose? A goal besides the world we live in now, but better?" Lydia brushes the accusatory finger away from herself and moves to the kitchenette.
Azel follows her, only grunting in response.
Her minder doesn't say anything else for a moment, checking her fridge and cupboards. As she turns away from full containers of imported foods, some near or starting to spoil, her mouth and eyes furrow to a scowl of displeasure. "Are you eating enough?"
"Are you trying to change the topic?"
"No. The topic at hand is me trying to get you viable to release to the outside world, while you act like a brat and skip meals because you don't like... what? Figs? Goat's milk?" Lydia shakes a small plastic crate of figs at Azel, trying to stay mad about the food but relenting. Neither of their moods are getting any better. "You might not understand it, but the Seraphim have already forgiven your crimes and anyone who could have remembered them is dead, in storage or worse. You might not like how we do things now, but we're not cowards. Shuffled away as an inconvenient piece of history while they were tying up loose ends. That's cowardice. They're the ones who took your recognition from you. The only reason we know who you are now is because of the Uriel's pilot data."
"Great, but it's not your place to forgive! And it's not even the right crime!" Azel pounds a fist on the wall, finding neither her nor the wall bore any marks of the gesture. "War crimes? What the fuck is a war crime when are are no rules of war anymore? Polite fictions between peers that know they'll fight someday, but never to the death! A crime against the comfort of the organizers and beneficiaries of war! That's a fucking war crime."
"Well." Lydia leans against the counter, letting the outburst play out. Some small part of herself is satisfied to see Azel's facade break, but the main of her is mirthless. "What do you consider your crime to be, then?"
"Memory. The crime is memory." Azel blanks her mind, putting a hard wall between Lydia and the lingering sights and sounds, the screams and terrors of the ending days of the ancient war. She reaches for her wrist and seizes her fingers around the raised seam where the hand portion of the suit makes a vacuum-seal lock with the sleeve for purchase.
"Going to elaborate on that?" Lydia raises an eyebrow, and her mind drifts briefly to the panic button built prioperception sensors lining her suit. If she clenches her jaw hard enough, security will breach. Not enough time to do anything interesting.
Besides, Azel has lost her apetite for games today.
"No."
"Look. You get the Uriel back, you get to be important, and they'll probably even let you name the unit when you return to duty." Lydia puts her free hand over Azel's grip and smiles. "Just... wear clothes next time. And eat something. We can clear you to walk around with an escort if you can manage that a couple of days."
Azel rolls her eyes. "Fine, but I don't really know how to eat this Earthian garbage."
"Mmm. I guess we should have furnished you with more ready-made food. I don't really know how to cook that well either."
Neither of them is satisfied with what's been heard or said today. The two of them exchange a long look, tense and without any catharsis to accompany their mutual outbursts. Lydia convinces herself easily enough it's progress, that they've established dialogue and that the breakthrough is soon to come. Azel knows better, but now knows that the absence of command does not signify the absence of authority, and that power is exercised more subtly in this era. Collective bodies, collective responsibilities, new languages of regulation and care, these are weapons built when their effective heirarchies failed.
She isn't sure if she can learn, but unspoken Lydia's confidence in her monstrous mind and relentless adaptability gives her a small succor. Furthermore, she'd had to to dissapoint.
As the dishes pile up on the count and various ingredients are measured, her minder seems to have worked out an exercise to test her compliance. She smiles as she offers it, knowing Azel can't refuse.
"How about crepes?"
Azel smiles back and nods, feeling the shackles grow slightly tighter.
The Udala Amendment, being an amendment of the Udala Contract between Applegate Teamsters Orbital 78, hereafter AT, and Yammacin Freeholds, hereafter YF. This amendment is hereby enacted upon the mutual consent of AT and YF, according to Article 5 of the Udala Contract.
1. An additional clause shall be added to 1., that being:
1bii. YF may construct or call upon external contractors for development of additional facilities on Udala Station. The cost of such endeavours shall be solely shouldered by YF.
2. Clause 2b. shall be amended to the following:
2b. YF will establish a security force on Udala Station, not exceeding forty (40) mobile suits, in addition to security personnel. Security will be a joint endeavour between YF and AT.
3. Clause 4. shall be amended to the following:
4. AT will immediately begin training personnel from the YF in the use and operations of the African Elevator, including station and port facilities.
4. Additional clauses shall be added to 4., that being:
4a. YF will lease seventy (70) Troop Lifts to AT for the increased transferral of goods in the African Elevator. These lifts are to be possess Yammacin crews and trained by Applegate personnel. A premium shall be paid by YF to AT for their training.
The Udala Contract
The Udala Contract, being a contract between The Applegate Teamsters Orbital 78, hereafter AT, and The Yammacin Freeholds, hereafter YF.
1. For the contract period of 3 years the AT will operate bulk goods and passenger transfer on the African Elevator for the purposes of inter-polity trade. Both parties may extend the contract for up to 15 years upon mutual consent, with a finalisation date of half a year before contract expiration.
a. For the purposes of facilitating the operation of the elevator AT will take temporary possession of and refurbish the station at the top of the African Elevator, to be named Udala Station. AT and YF will jointly bear the costs of this endeavour.
i. Sales of stationboard facilities or its continued ownership by AT will be negotiated when the contract has run its course.
ii. YF may construct or call upon external contractors for development of additional facilities on Udala Station. The cost of such endeavours shall be solely shouldered by YF.
b. For the purposes of maintaining the integrity of the African Elevator, AT periodically inspect the elevator from end to end, and effect repairs as necessary.
c. For the purposes of maintaining the security of the African Elevator, AT will establish a garrison force to deter piracy.
2. All transit of the African Elevator, with the exception of AT maintenance and security frames, will be subject to approval by YF.
a. YF will establish a corp of diplomats and customs officers at Udala Station for the purposes of customs and trade negotiation.
b. YF will establish a security force on Udala Station, not exceeding forty (40) mobile suits, in addition to security personnel. Security will be a joint endeavour between YF and AT.
3. AT will charge the sender of goods up/down the African Elevator some percentage of the value of the goods, as negotiated and agreed upon by YF and AT. This value will be adjusted for inflation.
a. YF will pay half the rate of their trading partners on all transfers.
4. AT will immediately begin training personnel from the YF in the use and operations of the African Elevator, including station and port facilities.
a. YF will lease seventy (70) Troop Lifts to AT for the increased transferral of goods in the African Elevator. These lifts are to be possess Yammacin crews and trained by Applegate personnel. A premium shall be paid by YF to AT for their training.
5. YF and AT agree to sign the contract in good faith, and alter it upon mutual consent for the benefit of all parties. YF and AT agree avoid the manipulation and exploitation of the contract's terms.
[X] First Minister for Interior Falala Mani, Yammacin Freeholds
[] Applegate
Eva's brother loved cinema. It was something he picked up during his time in the Military Academy according to Gloria. Imperate Dramas, CanMex Telenovelas and even illegal Islander Animations or Chinese Documentaries. He even showed Eva a few of the latter ones once or twice.
Leon Qasvah Jaburo; the Bohemian in the family. Red Prince as the more reactionary nobles would whisper when they thought she wasn't listening.
She misses him so much.
"Are the preparations complete?" Eva asks as the ensemble of makeup artists complete the finishing touches.
Sneaking a glance at a mirror, she admires their handiwork. She looks like a caricature of herself, enough powder and lipstick to make her feel like a clown. But she does have to admit, all of it combined makes her look stunning.
A Heroine right out of the picture books, a Beautiful and Ethereal Warrior Princess.
"Director Reichenbach is ready for you, Your Grace." At least Bea is talking to her again even if it's just something like this. Giving a brief thanks to the makeup artists on retainer with Reichenbach, Eva stands up and heads towards center stage.
She had one of the ancient bases with a hangar to the outside secured and refurbished for her speech today. Later on it'll be repurposed again to store Mobile Suits as part of the Jaburo Garrison but today, the facility is but one big stage for her.
Her speech itself will take place on an observation deck overlooking all of it, multiple cameras (some modern, others bought from Bazaar-1) at various angles to broadcast it not just to the entire nation but to the entire hemisphere.
It'll be played via radio, via movie theater, via the rare personal computers privately owned by the nobility and even by the old ways of print and town crier, all will hear her from the lowliest peasant to the most blue blooded aristocrat.
"Ah, Your Grace! Just in time, the sun had already begun to rise. It'll serve as the perfect backdrop for this reel's conclusion." Reichenbach was one of her brother's favorite directors, having worked on a number of his and her favorite Imperate films.
Thus, he was the natural choice to helm her propaganda project, the man being a diehard Mondist afterall. She'd thought he'd be too busy having been hired by a German prince for some movie or another, but it seems fate had other plans.
With the man's schedule freed up, she had Condor contact him and present a rather generous multi-year offer to the auteur. And now here he is.
Eva wonders what her brother would think of all this.
"I am ever punctual, Sir Reichenbach. Once more I offer my sincerest thanks for your help in this matter, your skill is truly undeniable." She gives a shallow of her head to the man who brushes off her praise as if it was second nature to him, though he fails to suppress the smug smile forming at the corner of his lip.
"The cheers and adulations of the masses will be my reward, Your Grace. You've merely provided me with the tools to make my genius known. Besides you sell yourself short, you're more agreeable than some of the actors I've worked with." Eva smiles at the man's preening. A truly skilled director, but unquestionably arrogant and egotistical.
Still, she's worked with worse people.
"I thank you for the praise, Sir Reichenbach. Though I believe it's time for me to take the spotlight?" Eva says with a little hint of playful teasing. The director muttering a chorus of 'of course, of course' leads her to the elevated podium where she's to make her proper debut to the world. Behind it, serving as the division to the rest of the hangar is a massive heavy curtain with her sigil and Jaburo's flag on it.
The observation deck that had been secured for their purposes is actually rather large, sizable enough that, aside from the various equipment needed for recording and broadcast, there's space for a decent sized audience of men and women to watch her speech live.
Said audience mostly consists of her supporters in the army brass and nobility, Condor agents and a handful of her knights. Both Ser Godwinson and Lady de la Luna were in attendance, alongside another of the Round Table, a young Lady Gertrude.
There's also the soldiers, various engineers and workers currently seated on the staging areas of the hangar outside the observation deck. They'll be able to hear her speech via speakers and will have a front row seat to her speech's finale. She feels giddy just thinking about that part but she still has work to do before that still.
Standing on the podium as Reichenbach's crew finishes a number of last-minute details, Eva buries the last lingering embers of doubt in her heart. Staring directly at the lights until her eyes acclimate, she waits for the Director's signal to begin.
Steadying the beating of her heart, Eva prepares to speak.
"Heed me, People of the Americas! From the loyal sons and daughters of Jaburo to the faithful of Canada and Mexico! From the Bolivians, Chileans and even the Amazonians; the sniveling rats of the Exiles of the dead Colombia hiding beneath your skirts!" Eva forces her voice to boom and echo, to be as grandiose as her brother was before he died. To capture for even a moment a modicum of his glory.
"I am Evangelista Qasvah Jaburo and I have come to bury the dead."
"Eight years ago the nation that was once known as Gran Colombia died, torn asunder by the consequences of the greed and incompetence of ministers enabled by my decadent father." She holds little love for that human ogre, insults for him flowing off her tongue easily like honey.
"Vast industrial works and vanity projects that produced only misery and deprived the people of all mind, body and spirit. As such heaven judged the Kingdom of Gran Colombia as a failure!" She can see the shock and scandal on the faces of a number of the nobility, but the army brass and most of the new bucks, those who inherited titles following the deaths of their parents in the Revolution nod in grim approval.
The dead have no rights, they cannot complain about the sins piled upon them. Any shortcomings of her regime are merely unwanted inheritances from a failure of a father. Or so the official line goes.
"His sins watered the soils where the so-called flowers of Liberty bloomed. One that whispered sweet lies to the masses failed and made desperate by the past. Their Revolution promised the future and delivered only ashes. They themselves split apart by infighting and petty warlordism, their promised tomorrow mired in the mud of petty egos and personalist grudges." Eva hates the Republicans for killing her family, for assassinating her brother, for tearing her nation apart in the Civil War.
But most of all, she hates them for losing. For their sheer incompetence and the arrogance that had once accompanied it. Of the eight men and women that had formed the Gran Colombian Council of the United Front, more than half had died by the hands of their comrades at the end of the Civil War. She herself only managed to get her hands on Louvelle, that demon in human skin, commander of the Infernal Columns and murderer of the Lokono and Kalina.
"It was not Royalist forces that crushed the Guyana Commune, but the commissars of the Revolution itself that devoured its children. It was not Condor that broke the backs of the Anarchist Labor Federation, but the guns and bombs of the Socialist paramilitaries, betraying the workers and peasants they had been named after." It is truly hilarious that the Amazonians chose Durino of all people to represent the Exiles, the runt of the old Gran Colombian Revolutionary Junta. An untested youth that swept into control after all the old heroes and towering figures good and evil died.
"The Colombian Revolution was the revolutionaries' to lose and they had lost it! With this, history has judged the Republic of Gran Colombia as a failure!" Her victory in the Civil War had been a miracle, even with CanMex aid.
"I have no interest in necromancy, reviving the dead is the providence of messiahs alone. My father's Kingdom belongs in the grave and to my people, Republicanism has proven itself a false hope." Eva wishes she can bring the dead back to life, she truly does.
"A new path must thus be forged. A new nation must be born! Jaburo is but the midwife to the birth of a future long denied to our people!" Involuntarily, she stands up straighter, puts more force into her voice. Everything prior was just setting the stage, this is the part that truly matters.
"This now I proclaim to you Jaburo, as your Princess!"
"For our future to be born, it must be forged through Blood and Iron! To the Farmers and Laborers, the heart of our people I give to you the promises the Revolution swore but failed to deliver! Rights and protections to be upheld by royal law and the newly established Jaburian Labor Front, to hear your pleas and defend your livelihoods. All I ask in turn is for you to work and grit your teeth, for it will be through your struggle that a future will be born."
A watered down version of the Alpinate reforms; with Cult support already secured, all that's left is to implement them.
"For our future to be born, it must be forged through Honor and Valour! To the proud sons and daughters of the Nobility, the minds of our nation, I deliver lands, knighthoods and titles to those who prove themselves on the battlefield! The Nightmare of Republicanism can only be snuffed through righteous struggle!"
Excited whispers break out amongst the young bucks, men and women eager to prove themselves to their peers, to their families and to themselves.
"And thus for our future to be born, it must be forged through Holy Struggle. It will only be through Victory will we seize the future denied to us! The past months have only been the beginning of our struggle!"
She's never been under the delusion that war with Amazonia would be easy, it took two years for the Civil War to end and the forces there were minuscule compared to the ones deployed in this current conflict. It would always be a long, existential struggle with or without Spacian interference.
"Many of your fathers and siblings have perished valiantly, those who have sacrificed themselves for the sake of our people! Shall we allow their lives to be in vain?"
"No! I refuse to let them and their struggle fade into the long night! To them and to the soldiers, pilots and airmen of Jaburo, numbering nearly two million souls all in all, I shall deliver Victory!"
She had waded through oceans of blood to reach this point, she cannot stop now.
"I could never in good conscience ask others to sacrifice what I am not willing to give myself. If a Ruler does not lead, how can they expect their subordinates to follow?"
Eva throws her hands up as if to embrace the audience, embrace her people watching and listening to her speech.
"Heed me, People of the Americas! I am Evangelista Qasvah Jaburo and I shall pilot the Type A Mobile Suit Nemesis!"
On cue, the curtain behind her opens and reveals to the world the first Type-A uncovered since fifty years ago. Carefully prepared just for this moment, every single blemish or mark had been removed, leaving only stark metallic white and blue.
Eva relishes at the shocked expression of nearly everyone in the audience, only her knights and Condor had been briefed on the matter. Reichenbach has a manic giddy look on his face, like a man witnessing history (and thus his career) in the making.
"Like divine blessing it had come to our hour of need, to deliver us through this crossroads in our history. When my eyes laid upon it, I knew what had to be done!"
"To those beleaguered at the front, beset by the enemy, I ask of you to hold fast and strong. If you're in need of hope, then I ask you to look up. Past the false angels and bombs of the enemy, there you shall find me. A pure white star, who will deliver to you salvation and to the enemy divine punishment."
"Because for our future to be born, I shall fight!"
With one last grandiose flourish she turns around letting her cape fly, as she marches towards the open cockpit of the Nemesis.
"¡SALUDO VICTORIA! ¡SALUDO JABURO! ¡SALUDO EVA!"
Outside in the hangar proper, a near deafening chorus of cheers and shouts acts like music to her ears. Her beloved soldiers saluted her, raising their fists in adulation and mania.
The Legend of the Type-A had long been under the control of the Republicans. The Nightmare of all crowned heads the world over. And now such a legend will serve her, as all things should.
"¡SALUDO VICTORIA! ¡SALUDO JABURO! ¡SALUDO EVA!"
Boarding her suit, she turns Nemesis around to face the open doors of the facility's hangar. The gate to the outside world. With confident earth-shaking steps, she heads out to the morning dawn, a truly beautiful sight, a backdrop to her ascent.
Activating the suit's vernier thrusters, Nemesis flies. The shouts and screams, still ringing in her ears.
"¡SALUDO VICTORIA! ¡SALUDO JABURO! ¡SALUDO EVA!"
Heed me, People of the Americas! From the loyal sons and daughters of Jaburo to the faithful of Canada and Mexico! From the Bolivians, Chileans and even the Amazonians; the sniveling rats of the Exiles of the dead Colombia hiding beneath your skirts!.
I am Evangelista Qasvah Jaburo and I have come to bury the dead.
Eight years ago the nation that was once known as Gran Colombia died, torn asunder by the consequences of the greed and incompetence of ministers enabled by my decadent father.
Vast industrial works and vanity projects that produced only misery and deprived the people of all mind, body and spirit. As such heaven judged the Kingdom of Gran Colombia as a failure!
His sins watered the soils where the so-called flowers of Liberty bloomed. One that whispered sweet lies to the masses failed and made desperate by the past. Their Revolution promised the future and delivered only ashes. They themselves split apart by infighting and petty warlordism, their promised tomorrow mired in the mud of petty egos and personalist grudges.
It was not Royalist forces that crushed the Guyana Commune, but the commissars of the Revolution itself that devoured its children. It was not Condor that broke the backs of the Anarchist Labor Federation, but the guns and bombs of the Socialist paramilitaries, betraying the workers and peasants they had been named after.
The Colombian Revolution was the revolutionaries' to lose and they had lost it! With this, history has judged the Republic of Gran Colombia as a failure!
I have no interest in necromancy, reviving the dead is the providence of messiahs alone. My father's Kingdom belongs in the grave and to my people, Republicanism has proven itself a false hope.
A new path must thus be forged. A new nation must be born! Jaburo is but the midwife to the birth of a future long denied to our people!
This now I proclaim to you Jaburo, as your Princess!
For our future to be born, it must be forged through Blood and Iron! To the Farmers and Laborers, the heart of our people I give to you the promises the Revolution swore but failed to deliver! Rights and protections to be upheld by royal law and the newly established Jaburian Labor Front, to hear your pleas and defend your livelihoods. All I ask in turn is for you to work and grit your teeth, for it will be through your struggle that a future will be born.
For our future to be born, it must be forged through Honor and Valour! To the proud sons and daughters of the Nobility, the minds of our nation, I deliver lands, knighthoods and titles to those who prove themselves on the battlefield! The Nightmare of Republicanism can only be snuffed through righteous struggle!
And thus for our future to be born, it must be forged through Holy Struggle. It will only be through Victory will we seize the future denied to us! The past months have only been the beginning of our struggle!
Many of your fathers and siblings have perished valiantly, those who have sacrificed themselves for the sake of our people! Shall we allow their lives to be in vain?
No! I refuse to let them and their struggle fade into the long night! To them and to the soldiers, pilots and airmen of Jaburo, numbering nearly two million souls all in all, I shall deliver Victory!
I could never in good conscience ask others to sacrifice what I am not willing to give myself. If a Ruler does not lead, how can they expect their subordinates to follow?
Heed me, People of the Americas! I am Evangelista Qasvah Jaburo and I shall pilot the Type A Mobile Suit Nemesis!
Like divine blessing it had come to our hour of need, to deliver us through this crossroads in our history. When my eyes laid upon it, I knew what had to be done!
To those beleaguered at the front, beset by the enemy, I ask of you to hold fast and strong. If you're in need of hope, then I ask you to look up. Past the false angels and bombs of the enemy, there you shall find me. A pure white star, who will deliver to you salvation and to the enemy divine punishment.
"Citizens, my people, my children. I am speaking to you today in order to discuss the war. For three months we have fought, driving back the Republican rebels on every front, and holding our ground against the Egyptians and Arabian forces who have intervened in this conflict. Many have been liberated, freed from their bondage to an uncaring regime that only desires power and control.
In recent weeks, our government engaged in peace talks alongside our allies in the Divine Monarchy to bring an end to this conflict. We came in good faith, willing to discuss terms that would allow for a peace with honor while recognizing the victories we have achieved in the war thus far.
Despite our best efforts, talks failed. This was through no fault of our own, but because of the blatant greed of the Republican rebels. Our gains were to be returned, and we were to be forced to pay massive reparations for what they viewed as unprovoked aggression against them. And though we attempted to compromise, they would not accept anything less. I could not, in good conscience, agree to such terms.
But this is no surprise. The intervention of the Astarti has emboldened the Republican rebels and expanded their ambition. Even before the conference, we were informed by our Alpine allies that the Republicans had demanded the cessation of the entirety of our Asian territory as well as European Istanbul. Any deal that they make now is simply time for them to recover so they may strike again and cry out their expansionist ambitions.
Nor was there any succor to be found with the other powers on the opposite side. The OSRA has become so beholden to Spacian interests that they cannot, or will not, acknowledge the reprehensible actions of their own allies. The Federation of Islands, that bastion of Republican idealism and democratic freedom, told us in no uncertain terms that 'you should be asking very nicely to be allowed to give back the land you've occupied lest your total destruction result'. They believe that we should kiss the feet of the Republican rebels and beg for our lives, as if they do not intend to extinguish them later at a time of their convenience. They will destroy us if given the chance, just as th4ey sought to do fifty years ago.
To my people, it is clear that they do not see you as anything more than a rabble to be conquered. They believe that all of your accomplishments are meaningless because they were not given warning, that the blood you shed to carry us to where we are here and now has no value. They do not recognize that it was the people who clamored to fight, rather than a struggle compelled by imperial decree. We fight because you demanded that we do so, not solely because I wished it.
We will show them. We will show them the fighting spirit of the people of the Kingdom. We will show them that we will not allow ourselves to be extinguished, to be trampled under foot by power hungry leaders. We do not come seeking to conquer but to liberate those who find themselves und4er a regime that no longer represents their interests.
Perhaps we will fall, whether it be to treads of Egyptian tanks or the beam weapons of Astarti mobile suits, but we will fall as free men and women. I call on each and every one of you to give your greatest effort for victory in this war. Together, we will prove wrong those who believe that we lack a martial spirit or the determination to see this conflict through. Together, we will triumph.
~~~
"The maw of the lion." Iris muttered to herself as Bazaar-1 port loomed ever closer. Behind her sat the cyberized veterans and expat students, all Cold Leaguers sent at beginning of the year when Spacians first dawned. She was ambivalent of the culture and trade exchanges, transactional approach was un-Vangism but it was a fair way of creating dialogue. Still, she kept her thoughts of her forced assignment to Zolon private. Now they are at Bazaar-1, another Spacian colony abet livelier and newer. They are here on an unusual summon of leaguers in space, excluding other embassy staff. Iris wondered where she would be assigned this time, hoping it would be to the frontlines against the liberal imperialists.
~~~
The concept of clubs and bars was not foreign to the people of the Cold League. A love of sweet liquor was almost ingrained in them, much like their southern cousins. Small bars and pubs dotted towns big and small, serving drinks as varied as the words used to describe the bleakness of the weather. It was no wonder that the venue of choice for a Cold League space party was also a pub. The only surprise was the sight of dozens of men and women brawling inside.
It all started with a simple introduction. "Good evening everyone, Thank you making the trip from Zolon for this reunion. There's much to discuss, but first, I'd like to introduce our benefactor, the women of Axis Seraphim," Aage said with a smile, unaware of the fears Cold Leaguers felt when invited by distant acquaintances to unfamiliar event, not to mention one by central committee.
The veterans are alarmed, all too familiar with Filterrådet's tricks. Were Seraphim working with them? Was this a purge? Would Zolon offer them shelter like it had given them a new lease on life? Minds racing, the veterans moved as one to shield the expat students as dozens of Seraphim women walked in, dressed like partygoers and seemingly unarmed. The expat students sensed something was off, looked toward their Consul, Iris Annala, hoping for direction.
Suddenly, Iris's temper flared. "Traitor!" she yelled, lunging at Aage. Her anger stemmed from the bitterness of being reassigned to Zolon, stuck watching as their home burned while babysitting expats. Aage was pulled away by his red-haired guard as the other intercepted. With cat like grace Iris shifted her weight onto the space woman and…. was immediately caught in a vice like embrace. She gave up after minutes of futile struggle, noticing the space woman was more amused than strained by her attempts.
The tension in the room settled as the cyberized veterans lined up on one side, while the expat students gathered on the other. Seraphim women loosely surrounded both groups, having patched up the wounded. Fortunately, no one's escalated beyond throwing fist during the chaos.
The air felt heavy as the scuffle ended, the quiet more unsettling than the commotion. Aage stood at the center of it all, his wrists bound in the Seraphim's trinkets, but his gaze was steady. He took a breath, as if weighing his next words carefully.
"I am not your comrade, traitor!" Iris then looked at the woman holding her and demands. "Let go Seraphim, this does not involve you!"
"Actually, it does," Aage interjected calmly. "I'm under their custody, you see. They're to accompany me until I finish some unfinished business. Which is, incidentally, why I invited everyone to the party. A chance to talk before anyone did anything rash." Something only a hypocrite would say.
"Am I supposed to feel shame or something? You ran from the war and those protecting our homeland. Did these Seraphim arrest you for cowardice? They better."
"Well, no," Aage replied, his tone steady. "It might be hard to believe, but I got them to collaborate with my plot to overthrow my government." Once a traitor……
"...What?" Iris stared at him in disbelief.
"A coup. A regime change. What Maxwell did to the previous republican government ten years ago when we were busy with Alpine war."
"Is this some kind of a sick joke?"
"You'd think so, but no," Aage said, a hint of sorrow in his voice. "I assure you this is a complete coincidence; history is funny like that. As for why, I hope you can accept my excuse of desiring less blood on my hands."
"What blood, you barely did anything."
"Iris, now is not the time to have selective memory. Let's set aside what constitutes a political terror state that the League has been for the past decade. I tossed several cities' worth of people into fancy political prisons. We can debate whether anyone was personally responsible for the state's actions, but you get the point."
"They were reactionary insurgents who sought the collapse of our homeland to serve liberal colonial interest."
"I really should read the party paper more often." Aage muttered. "Did you come up with that, or was it fed to you? If I can get you to believe anything at all, please rethink everything that's been said by me, by us. We set the wrong example in our haste, our panic, our grief. We—I—filled fields with corpses chasing Maxwell. Vangism was a shortcut, and it devoured us."
"……Maxwell is never wrong."
"Says who? Us wearing his name?" Aage asked gently. "Iris, please understand. This is unnatural. No one is themselves on a pedestal; no one deserves to be put on one. That's why we're reunited here. I've made my choice, but it's not the only choice. We'll return to Helsinki tomorrow, where everyone will have a say. Perhaps for the first time since that day, people will truly have a voice."
I write to you after having received the three letters you have written to me during the last month. They arrived all together and soothed my fear of something having happened to you. Despite holding them in my hands, I am left wondering just how you are getting on at the front and will look forward to the relief that your next letter will bring me. The neighbors and I came together on your birthday in the garden of the post station and talked about you and the boys who had headed out together. I fear Ms. Marnell was completely beside herself after she only now got the news that her youngest had not survived the enemy's attack against our brave navy. The Mayor came by and raised a small tricolore at her door to commemorate the first fallen hero of our town.
Your nephew Matthias has come to visit me, one of his partners has volunteered and the other was enlisted at the start of the war. He told me that their factory is running with only half of their usual workers, things are looking bad but he hopes to find a sales market with the Spacians. He seems quite discontent with the current situation but has promised his partners to keep the factory afloat as long as he can. Still, he is as miserable as anything you can imagine and your sister worries he might enlist too if they straighten his spine at one of the new hospitals.
If you can believe it: they closed down the communal bath which the mayor opened so proudly last spring. It seems that all of its staff except old Mr. Bonfirm were called to arms. This has led to quite some discontent, especially among those who labor in the mill and go there to wash. The mayor is looking for some volunteers to make sure it can re-open and I am half tempted to apply as a lifeguard. I am sure you are looking at this letter quite incredulously now, but you ought to remember who taught you to swim my beloved husband!
Johann and Nicole sent their love and I look forward to the day the war is over and you walk back through our door. Till then I sent you all my love and pray for your safe return,
Yours forever,
Eliana
Dear Luíza, beloved sister,
I am not sure if this letter will find you - we are currently camped in an ancient ruin about the size of the old church back in our village somewhere in the jungle. You will be glad to hear that I am still together with Rocha and Miriam, the three of us left the services of Ms. Damasceno together and we made it into the army together. I know you are quite cross with me, but we were three of nearly 7000 girls they kicked out as soon as the mondists attacked, my sergeant knows those numbers, he was part of the postal office you know. There are many of us girls here at the front and you will be proud to hear that my lieutenant trusts me enough to handle one of the new Algerian guns for the brigade. This comes with a small raise and I made sure to send you, mum and dad a little bit extra.
Our Lieutenant, who was here on a dig he tells us, claims that large graceful predators had lived in this region just scant 14-15 years ago. Today we mostly find fat fish and the occasional bird that brightens up our diet. Military rations are quite dull, but so far we have not gone hungry. From what I heard the mondists can't claim the same on their side.
I hate them, you know. I have no idea why they are here and killing us because their princess told them so. Don't they have sisters and friends at home too?
You won't believe it but I saw a mobile suit in the last battle - one of our own. I had the nightwatch and suddenly a bright yellow light appeared in the sky above us, coming closer from the east and then speeding towards the west. Pablo claimed it was only a new kind of shell, but while Rocha is sweet on him I think he's a bit of an idiot, but then it went straight up and then the night erupted into lights. We were all standing in our trenches and looking over the river and then the hill the mondists had camped on blew up - a beam must have hit their ammo dump.
The next morning we went over to check and take the hill and we found two giant footprints backed into the ground and I gathered some spent casings to work with. Rocha and I can make some nice little bracelets out of them - it must have been a T-Type, the Bs use smaller shells.
See, I am already a veteran sis. Don't worry about me and give mum and da a hug from me.
With sisterly love,
Soraia Vargas Vasconcelos
Dearest Brother,
For the first time I am glad our father did not need to go into exile with us. I am sure he couldn't have endured the shame of seeing our own countryman attacking the people who have so freely given us shelter and opened their arms to us.
You won't believe it, but after spending years pushing me into the medical track, mother herself has done an auxiliary nurse-class at the evening classes. While most of the teachers are at the front with you, they brought some of the older nurses here to give classes to anyone interested. Mother looks marvelous in her white uniform and she's perfectly suited for the job: brave, capable and strong at her 44 years the doctors are happy to have her with the complicated surgeries.
Despite my studies, you know that my strengths lie elsewhere: giving syringes and changing dressings is a horror for me. Despite my studies I continue to fail at seeing living people and living flesh without empathy. Thankfully I have found another task for myself: our station is one of the last ones before the frontline right now and while many think about moving to Belém to make sure we don't fall into the royalists hands again, I prefer to work in the cantina giving out soup and drinks to the soldiers. Between sandwiches and nuts I got more than a few addresses and kisses just rained everywhere - even some of the lady soldiers seemed to take joy in taking part in these boyish rituals.
Know that each kiss I returned was with sister affection as if I could reach you with each kiss I sent to the frontline. A few days later we got one of the special hospital trains going back towards Belém and the new Seraphim hospital there. It was a much harder worker to give these men and women some solace with soft words and warm soups and I take heart that they told us that the spacians can heal just about any injury of the body. Of their souls I don't need to talk with you about.
My dearest brother, take care of yourself and think of what we owe this Republic. If you need to fight against our old neighbors and countrymen then do so knowing that we would fare ill in their hands and need to ever champion the cause of freedom. As speaker Durino said: we must be victorious for all of mankind and are proud that you are defending our freedom in this battle.
Your sweetest of sisters - don't you dare believing anything to the contrary Maria says,
"You'll be pleased to know the Culture Jamming Commission didn't go with Haldis' proposal."
Zahra shakes awake, bolting upright from her posture quietly disassociating an armchair of the cultural studies library, watching old statherotype recordings of ancient fauna. The soft, quiet voice of her interlocutor is preceded by no footsteps and her thoughts were carefully burried in a way that made her affiliations to the Council obvious enough. Zahra's fingers dig into the unyielding rubberized padding of her armchair as she turns to respond.
"I'm not." She offers bluntly, making her expression as blank as the one she's facing. "Schadenfreude is unseemly."
"We'll be going over your syllabus over the next few days." Layla Roswell is a tall, thin fiction in a porcelain mask and a white bodysuit finished to a porcelain gloss, tailored to give her a waspish, doll-like proportions while concealing any impressions she might have made as a human being. The mask renders her voice to a soft whisper, barely a breeze. The raise and descent of her boots is bereft a satisfying click on hard surface, and every pore of the costume exudes a faint, audible white noise.
The members of the Council and its agents serve on conditions of anonymity, facilitating their replacement and ensuring power does not accumulate. Most wear simple masks in public appearances, but that rare right to absolute secrecy results in some extraordinary pageantry when some draw their lots to serve.
Roswell's theatrics are not unfamiliar nor unprecedented to Zahra, who feels a sliver of familial despair being brought into the conversation. "Well I'm taking a sabbatical. I told the Commission to leave me alone."
"You're taking a sabbatical on the grounds of Commission facilities. And what is this that you're watching?" Roswell turns to the large flat screen playing the recording. A host of red-speckled lions on a grassy plain, licking the meat off the ragged bones of a freshly-killed impala.
The recording, transferred from optical tape to digital medium to engrammatic storage on fossilized DNA, shows only the grainy quirks of the original recording and its degredation before first archival, placing it at some point around the first or second of the ancient anthropocene extinctions. Decay of the original medium has blurred the faint white emboss of the commissioning company for the footage in almost every frame, and the human audio, spoken in a hypnotic baritone with an aristocratic staccato in its emphases and pacing, is nearly incomprehensible even with AI assistance.
"An old documentary. One of the old ecosystems." Zahra turns back and leans her head on her hand, as if trying to go back to half-sleep. "The Veldt."
"Do you enjoy watching animals murder one another for fun?" Layla sits in the adjoining armchair. Her voice is like a breeze, without accusation or condemnation except in its phrasing.
Her response is a sigh. There is a feeling, an ancient anxiety passed down by some unknown accident of genetic heritability or the echoes of the all-encompassing human collective unconscious, Zahra thinks, that makes her understand that her hobby is something an 'old woman' would do. "I enjoy the animals. The reintroduced lion specia extant today contain too many exogenes to appease the yeoman fantasies of the Counter-Civilizational agrarian gentry. They're omnivores with an aversion to the flesh of humans and cattle, which had knock-on impacts on sociology."
She's had to explain this to a lot of girlfriends, all of them eventually exes. Some of them, the nice ones, just think its sad to look at animals that don't exist anymore.
"What effects?"
"Despecialization reduces the impetus for cooperation. By making them resistant to industrial diseases and capable of turning plant matter into working muscle, the natural competition shifted from favoring young, well-coordinated, successful hunter-males and hunter-females to older, physically robust and consistent scavengers. We turned them into pretty, stupid ursines who occasionally commit infanticde. These sorts of social organizations, packs or 'prides' as the documentaries describe them, emerge only rarely now in regions with abundant wild game." Zahra explains, only occasionally looking over to see if Roswell is paying attention. "Of course, they were already scavengers, thus the scraping tongues and grasping claws, but now they're even more incentivized to look for garbage, food waste, and the rich slurry of agricultural rendering plants."
"I'm fascinated that you speak so fondly of these social organizations that are majority-female with socially important breeder-males." Roswell asks in a whisper, her attention focusing increasingly on the footage as they way together. "Should I be concerned that my sister is a crypto-heterarch, a natural moralist or worse? Will this factor into the dossier?"
"Oh what terrors await, a world where the men you have to deal with day by day are young, vigorous and ambitious." Zahra's response comes with a faint affect of drama, responding to the jest with another.
"I'm sure I'd survive somehow. Still, I can't help but feel a lick of concern at how your preferences are informed by aesthetics." Roswell's accusation comes lightly. The two of them watch lion cubs play, frolic like amber housecats with round ears and paws like ping-pong paddles.
"I think a beautiful world is a world that makes life worth living. We are an interplanetary species that only failed the jump to a Type-II civilization by a series of unhappy accidents. I think we can afford to be a little bit indulgent." While she can't totally refute it, Zahra has her excuses. "Natural selection already over-favors tool-using generalist K-type breeders. I can't tell you how many recordings of beautiful birds I've seen ended with an archival addendum of 'and they ceased to be because pigs and rats ate their eggs and human beings cut down their trees to build boats and luxurious furniture'."
The porcelain mask glints red as the screen shows a brilliant African sunset, rich in its colors in a way that film of that specific era was. "Well, when you put it that way, you're right to be a little bit upset. But you might be the only person alive today pining for the return of man-eating lions."
Zahra lets a faint chuckle escape her lips. "I guess."
The statherotype has a brief intermission, showing script honoring those who laboured to its completion, and flashes of services offered in that day. Consumer devices, trendy clothing, legal services, vacations. Places that no longer exist, their names erased or distorted by the passage of time. The two sit in silence as the next presentation comes about, a reflection on the continent's crocodilians. Cool, emotionless killers with their lizard politics fully inscrutable behind unmoving eyes like wet, black pearls. Wading in the mud, swimming like attack submarines in the great rivers and lakes of the continent.
For a moment, Zahra imagines she feels a faint pull of interest from Roswell.
She speaks to it, as the narration again is barely comprehensible. "Would you believe me if I said these are still around? Unchanged by the Cataclysm, by every indication, or the technological charnel house of the anthropocene eras."
"Impressive."
"The end of the world barely registers to the ancient reptilian brain. There is suddenly more meat, then less. Life congregates at the junction of arable land and water, so there's no reason to change. Flooding and sea rise, desertification and sea falls, only force them to migrate. This isn't even their first mass extinction event." Zahra stretches her legs, considering she might want to stand up soon. The crawling aches, mediated by the gentle, continuous full-body massage of her underlayer vacsuit, suggest she's been sitting there for hours. Slow hunger is starting to crawl back into her thoughts. "Probably not their last."
"Let's hope everyone is off-Earth for that one." Roswell gets up and pauses the statherotype, even taking a moment to save their timestamp for later. "So why do you think your proposal is going to win out, in the end?"
Zahra stood as well, using the arm of the chair to lever herself to her two feet, and let out a small groan as she stretched her extremities to squeeze the languor out of them. "I thought Haldis' plan to place an antipope in a friendly monarchy was charmingly flamboyant, but there is no center of traditional power on Earth not having some paranoid conniptions about us. If the monarchs and aristocrats of Europe and the Americas had given us the time of day, I'd be telling you to offer them superior genes for their kids and longevity for their beloved national heroes."
"That's very strong 'if' given our circumstances."
"I think the last thing a former mystery cult needs is a clear-cut sign of persecution to feed into the exegetic revisionist fantasies of their founding years. Secret religiosity among the socialist states is greater than the tepid republics. The data we have proves that." Zahra's answer comes with a frown and a grunt, as she feels a loud pop in the synovium between her shoulder blades. Pain, relief, satisfaction.
Roswell winces, more to the noise of cracking joints than the rhetoric. "You've made your point."
"So these beautiful birds and noble lions, perfectly suited to the ecological niche of the throne room and privy council chamber, need to meet their blandly generalist competitor. A hundred tutors will make one great prince."
"So?"
"So for every one of them we'll make a hundred adequate statesmen."
The Seraphim Council has approved a request to lease a 100 km^2 coastal land allotment within the ASEZ to develop a second enclave known as Seraph Sarai for a period of 99 years. Among the first facilities built there will be a Spacian component factory (compliant to the pre-existing SADE framework) and significant public works, the benefits of which will be extended to the surrounding countryside.
[X] Scarlet Blanche, Special Envoy of the Earth Development Commission
Today is a great day, for the first time in aeons, mankind has once again returned to the stars. Rather than visits from our kin in space, we have gone up to visit them. It is with great pride and pleasure that Algeria announces to the world the establishment of our first colony in space.
Dhar Tichitt
Named after a settlement from a time before time. A land known to us only thanks to fragments of ancient texts, which was known to the writers even then as a place so ancient that is seemed to be from a different world. It is only fitting, then, that one of the oldest settlements in Algeria should be the namesake of our newest.
Dhar Tichitt will be reclaimed from its state of ruin and brought back to life. Not as it was, but as a new and colourful existence which will stand as a beacon of the new opportunities possible thanks to the rush of progress we have gained from the reintroduction of our kin in space. Algeria will forge a new future out amongst the stars, and prove that our spirits burn just as bright as they do.
We are, of course, conscious of the history of the colony upon which we tread. All care will be taken to avoid damage to historic artifacts, and all data and documents found will be preserved and displayed so that their stories may be remembered. Should we find human remains, they will be given all due respect, and we will consult others to determine the best possible course of action in helping them to their final resting place. To that end, we seek the assistance of the archaeological experts of the Amazon Territory, and the humble souls of Eden 511 in this endeavour, their expertise will ensure this is done with the care and expertise required.
As newcomers to space, we face many challenges in making a home for ourselves, and so Algeria would extend an offer to the people of space. Any companies, nations, or people who wish to lend their knowledge and work to our grand project is welcome to join us. We will provide adequate compensation, housing, and food for the duration of your stay.
In addition, to the people of Earth, those of you who have yearned for the stars and wanted to be amongst them. Dhar Tichitt welcomes you with open arms. Simply apply at any Algerian embassy, and you will be welcomed to a daring new project.
It will be work, dangerous, long, and delicate work, but the work will be worthwhile. We know it.
Let this be the first step in ending the arbitrary distinction between Earthian and Spacian. Let this day go down in history as a victory for humanity.
Let the stars know
We are here, and we love you just as much as the land we have walked upon for thousands of years.
Like many of the so-called 'Liberal Monarchies', the Kingdom coupled a centralized authority with a democratic assembly to provide popular representation in the government. In the Kingdom this took the form of the National Consultative Assembly. A unicameral legislative body, the Assembly oversaw the budget, proposed legislation, and advised on matters of foreign policy. As such the Assembly had some control over the executive functions of the government but not complete domination, as the Prime Minister served at the behest of the King.
That is not to say that the body was completely representative. While representatives for each region were decided via election, those elections were not universal. Regulations varied by region within the area still under the control of the Kingdom, but for the most part regional administrations instituted a poll tax, and similar requirements which prevented the full extent of the masses from making their voice heard. Ballots were nonetheless secret, and there was no restriction on gender.
As always, the Assembly saw its fair share of political factions. Following the initial exodus a unity movement had existed, but as it became clear that their end was not imminent that movement fractured as various ideologies presented themselves. These parties would bandy and shift, before eventually settling into the current parties that exist today.
Common Brotherhood Party
One of the first parties to emerge from the post-revolution coalition, the Brotherhood Party rests on the Traditionalist side of the political spectrum. It supports the monarchy, represents a coalition of interests that includes big business and local aristocracy, and as such supports industrialization and free trade. It was one of the driving forces behind the Pan-European Accords and closer relations with the Liberal powers of Europe. They are currently in power.
Liberal Democratic Party
Another party which arose in the aftermath of the revolution, the Liberal Democracy Party is the other main party on the political scene. The Liberals support the shifting of more power to the legislative branch, though they are willing to retain the King as a figurehead. Economically they lean protectionist, having the support of agricultural interests, banks, and others. They also support closer ties with the other Liberal powers of Europe, as well as the other Republican nations. However, reconciliation with the CSR still remains a step too far for them.
National Royalist Party
One of the smaller parties, the National Royalists espouse a belief in a strong centralization of power in the office of the King. They advocate for forceful reunion, and against Republicanism in all its forms. They have also pushed for close relations within the Mondist countries, and have expressed admiration for their policies in dealing with radical dissent. With the resumption of war this party has grown in influence.
Free Republican Association
A minor party which has faced a concerted effort by the government to keep it from seeing electoral success, the Association supports the abolishment of the monarchy, reconciliation with the CSR (whether reintegrating or as separate entities depends on who you talk to), and overall closer ties to the OSRA. Now that war has resumed, they are under closer scrutiny than ever, though some committed Republicans remain active and outspoken in their beliefs
Balkan Unity Pact
One of the smaller parties, this Unity Pact is a vehicle for the interests of the Balkan region within the Assembly. They primarily focus on cultural issues, as well as regional economic matters. More radical members of the party have flirted with the idea of an independent Balkan State, that view is not the mainstream at this time.
Intermarium Party
Similar to the above, the Intermarium group represents local interests to the north of the Carpathian Mountain Range. It supports local interests, culture, and takes a noted involvement in regional economic and political issues. In recent days they have sought to direct the conversation on the government's response to the coup in the League of Free Cities.
Arab Progressive Party
Similar to the above, this party represents the regional interests of the Arab community within the Kingdom. It has a bit more influence due to the location of the capital being in Damascus, but otherwise serves as a vehicle for cultural, economic, and political interests of the Arab population within the Kingdom.
Arab Republican Party
A recent splinter of the Arab Progressive Party, members of this group espouse the 'Nasserism' that has arise as a result of the Egyptian revolution and are resolutely opposed to the monarchy and the major political parties. This Party has been banned by the government for association with terrorist activities in favor of secession or unification with Arabia or Egypt.
People's Revolutionary Front
The Front is the main Socialist organization within the Kingdom. It has been banned by the government, but this has not stopped it from carrying activities as it stirs sentiment against the monarchy and against the war.
Unity of Humanity Party
The newest political party, it has only appeared in recent months as a reaction to contact between Earth and Spacian governments. Espousing a universalist view, they advocate for closer ties with the space faring parts of humanity, a sharing of historical and technical knowledge, and a supranational union of all the disparate parts of mankind to prevent further warfare and destruction.
At the moment, the general political consensus supports the ongoing conflict with the Caspian Sea Republic. That said, there is no telling how that support may change with battlefield fortunes, and whether the current political climate will find itself shaken yet further
DECLARATION OF HOSTILITIES TO THE RENEGADE PARAMILITARY GROUP KNOWN AS 'JUNO'
A missive from the Seraphim Council.
The Seraphim Council has obtained actionable intelligence that the Astarti paramilitary organization known as Juno, under the command of the renegade Persephone Sarquiyy, has begun to recklessly proliferate certain critical technologies without consideration for the consequences in violation of diplomatic norms. In recognition of this and their reckless actions on Earth since recontact, the Council has declared them to be a terrorist organization. We call upon our partners and peers in the Human Sphere to cease their dealings with this group.
A number of special operations against known Juno positions have been organized at select locations.
We offer absolute clemency to those states and organizations which suspend business arrangements with Juno going forward, to Juno personnel who surrender honorably or withdraw from the organization. The fleet vessel 'Juno' itself will not be harmed at this time unless it is seen to be engaging in military action.
The coup inside the cold league began with a fairly simple set of unit reassignments, with hard line Vangist formations deployed to Denmark to attempt to retake lost territory. Despite the odds against them, they initially proved successful. The force included large numbers of secret police raised units, but also elite formations such as the Red Jaeger Division, the People's Grenadiers, and other fanatical and elite hard line vangist units. They stormed ashore along the coast of Denmark and immediately launched into a counter offensive.
The offensive took the Liberal forces facing them by surprise. Secret negotiations had been taking place between the Alpine Imperiate and its European Allies, the Axis Seraphim and elements of the Cold League's committee for the removal of the Vangist government and its system of camps and secret police for a while. Many, even inside the League's top echelons had grown sick of the killing, the camps, and the starved convicts freezing in the winter snow. They hoped, more than anything for peace. The forces left in Denmark were meant to be containment only, and had underestimated the Vangist hard liners, who the Liberals saw as nothing more than political soldiers who would have little battlefield skill.
Instead the Vangists hit the European lines like a hammer and sickle. Despite being mostly infantry, they overran multiple mobile suits and broke through the line in a pell mell assault which flung the Liberals back from helsinki in a painful rout.
The European Union had shifted most of its forces East to confront the newly Vangist League of Cities, and found it difficult to stem the breakthrough. For a moment, Vangists in the League celebrated.
Then, their victory was stolen away.
Across the country, the order of surrender went out. Axis Seraphim suits dropped on the camps, together with battle groups of infantry, quickly disarming their depleted guard forces and freeing the prisoners for medical care. Few of the Vangist units in the League proper put up much of a fight against the overwhelming might of Axis, and those that did could only seek to break contact and join up with their fellows operating in small pockets.
The central committee signalled its desire for a conditional peace. The hard liners, isolated in Denmark and still surrounded by Liberal forces, could do nothing.
For a moment, it seemed that all that Alpine's Queen had dreamed would occur. But there were other royal lines at play than that of the Imperate.
The Gyldenløve Affair
When the countries of the old Nordic monarchies had fallen to Vangism, not everyone had died. Many business owners, aristocrats, even royals had escaped, mostly to the Lily Kingdom but also to the Imperiate and further afield. There, they formed various societies for the liberation of the cold league, and the restoration of their old privileges.
The most successful of this movement was the Gyldenløve faction, based around the ancient family of the same name. The Gyldenløve had made a vast fortune in the Lily Kingdom, in Belgium and in Spain before the collapse of the Nordic monarchies, the family remained rich even as much of its property in the league vanished beneath the socialist boot.
However the Gyldenløve never forgot their dispute with the league, or ceased to desire to restore their privileges. The vast royal monopolies they had owned in the old Nordic monarchies had been the jewel in their crown. Some, such as the family's eldest daughter Anja, had even greater ambitions. If the Nordic monarchies could be restored, could not the Gyldenløve family, who had at least a distant claim to each of them not take the throne?
Over the years before the war, the Gyldenløve had cultivated many links inside the Alpine military, and had built up their own private army of anti-cold league exiles, mercenaries and adventurers in the Free Cities and petty kingdoms around the flanks of the great European monarchies.
As the cold league surrendered, the Gyldenløve forces took ships across the now open sea and made landings all across the League outside Denmark. Troops of uniformed troops who seemed to many in the League like Alpiners marched into towns and declared the death of socialism and the restoration of all privileges of the old monarchies. In some areas they brought actual Alpine and Lily military units, often stretching the exact letters of their orders with them.
In some areas, the people welcomed the restoration of the old ways. Religious groups who had been subjected to persecution by the Vangists especially came forward to support the idea of restoration. However, in others, people fought back. The result was a disorganised war which almost always disfavoured the Gyldenløve forces. Local defence militia shot it out with various mercenary and barely supported EU units around the Cold League, and often made use of the newly provided Seraphim Type-C work suits, sometimes fitted with crude weapons to bushwack the ill prepared enemy. Their success, combined with the fighting in Denmark saw a huge upsurge in League patriotism, and the rise of many revolutionary groups, not necessarily vangist, but often drawn from the even more left wing groups that the revolution had suppressed but never fully eliminated.
Nor were the Axis Seraphim happy with this state of affairs, and often intervened in dialogue attempts to, as they saw it, betray the agreement before it had been really signed.
The result of the Gyldenløve Affair was a PR disaster inside the Liberal powers. The gutter press, already filled with tales of Seraphim perfidy for events in the Mediterranean carried ghoulish stories of peaceful refugees returning home only to meet death at the hand of traitorous commissars.
It would take all the monarch's of Lily and the Imperiate's political skill to try to prevent this crisis from turning back into war, a war which other events had made obviously more difficult to prosecute.
The Godot line
The League of Cities was in chaos. Several areas exploded in uprising as support from various monarchies flowed in against rebel groups. On the battlefield, as well they suffered an initial reverse, as French and Alpine mobile suits beat back the so called "Battlegroup Cerberus" in a viscous mobile action around Hanover, leading to the loss of dozens of Vangist mobile suits to the lethal Alpine X-types and superior piloting on behalf of the highly trained Liberal mobile suit pilots. The great weight of European Union troops advanced on them from their previous assault on Denmark, quickly pushing them back past Magdeburg, guerrilla attacks by Godist left behind units hampered the advance but could not really slow it.
However, the League endured. Hard Core Vangist units, and those drawn from the agrarian Popular Front put up stubborn resistance against massively superior forces. Even as partisans of Godot and the old royalist regimes shot it out on the streets of Kyiv and Berlin, others toiled to craft a vast fortified line, named with standard personalism, the Godot Line, to halt the enemy before Berlin.
The Monarchist forces had no belief that the line would fall easily, and took several weeks to mass sufficient quantities of material against it to attempt to storm. Rain delayed the attack two extra days, the liberal infantry endured in filthy temporary trenches. As the Sun rose clear on the tenth day, they began their assault. If they could break through the Godot line and push into Berlin, where counter revolutionary insurrection was still ongoing, it was hoped they could unhinge the entire Godotist position and perhaps restore the League to monarchy in short order.
Up came the Liberal infantry, tough Alphiner legionnaires, men and women from the slums of Paris and the agricultural communes of Belgium and the Varday. With mobile suits wading through them like giants, they swarmed towards the Godot line, and were met with massive artillery and machine gun fire, with dug-in tanks and the remaining suits of Battlegroup Cerberus. Small Series-C machines, apparently received from the cold League, were employed in ambush and counter attack roles. The battle roiled back and forth for several days and with massive casualties on both sides.
By the end of the third day of the battle, fighting had become focused around the village of Wiesenburg, turned into a fortified strongpoint by the Godist forces. An initial mass infantry/mobile suit assault by the Alpine 243rd Legion was repulsed with heavy casualties and the loss of several B-types, and by the end of Day three, the Vangist red banner still stood defiantly above the church.
On Day-4, the Alpines brought up several X-types to blast their way through the village with mass artillery, and to kill any Vangist mobile suits that dared to show their face. With the defences all but silenced, the remains of the 243rd, joined by the 111st, and the 27th began to move once again on the village. Only to be met with more fire. Several Vangist mobile suits did indeed show their face, along with tanks and anti-mobile suit guns. The battle that followed saw one of the X-types knocked out, but the Vangists once again repulsed, with most of an armoured brigade lost as it attempted to reinforce the line against the fire power of the X-types.
Grimly, the Liberal infantry moved up towards the village. In their trenches and remaining strong points, the army that had sworn itself to Godot waited grimly to die standing against overwhelming numbers.
Then, a trumpet. Artillery. New forces were moving in from behind the Liberal lines, their arrival shrouded in M-particles to prevent word of their advance. For a moment, the Liberal assault fell into confusion as it was struck from behind. Red Banners waved above the approaching tanks as they slashed into the back of the surprise liberal army, and the French and Alpiner soldiers found themselves attacked by troops with gleaming red shoulder patches.
The remains of the Cold League hard liners, left to die in Denmark had slipped away, travelling at night and with help of the League of City's Frankenstein Group threw themselves into battle against the mass of liberal forces. They were vastly outnumbered, and without substantial mobile suit firepower, but they were the elite of the cold league's army, and after the march they had made they felt invincible. For all the firepower in the royalists hand, it was for a moment surprise and human will that made the difference, and the Vangists streamed through multiple breaches to reinforce the Godot line, the forces of united europe checked before Berlin.
The Battle of Lesbos
While the War in Northern Europe captured headlines, it was around the Mediterranean that held all eyes. The Seraphim Declaration of war against the Juno occupation, short as it was on details, caused much consternation in space and on earth. The declaration and subsequent attack came, with predictable Seraphim timing, as most of Juno's military forces were engaged in high orbital exercises meant as a demonstration against their erstwhile fleet mates, the Astarti.
Within a few minutes of the declaration, Seraphim suits were dropping from orbit towards hidden Juno bases at Lesbos. The Junoian garrison, mostly command types, was surprised, but not taken unaware, and rapidly rose to engage the Seraphim attack force, which consisted of some thirty suits, with an orbital task force and several troop transports in support.
The resulting battle was fierce, and pulled in a number of other Junoian suits from a second secret base somewhere in the Mediterranean as they fought desperately to keep the Seraphim away from their largest earth colony. However, it was not to be. The Seraphim forces included a number of advanced models, including the first appearance of the new, massive Series-1, a true next generation machine, which while only a mass production type was considerably technologically ahead of even the RC types. Also present were a number of salvaged Type-2 Ps, inferior to a true Type-P, but quite capable of hanging with the fairly limited number of Junoian limited production units.
The Seraphim made clever use of data from Axis spy satellites, downloaded into their systems via psychic links, along with their superior numbers and fire from their ships in low orbit to rapidly defeat the Junoian garrison. The remaining rogue Astarti fell back towards the Atlantic, vanishing in clouds of M-particles and psychic countermeasures as they retreated to lick their wounds.
Soon troop shuttles dropped onto Lesbos itself. There was some resistance there, and much documentation, with Juno assuming the Seraphim would engage in a mass slaughter of civilians, however, they were instead pretty gentle, securing the island with minimal civilian casualties and taking control of the base.
Across the world at the Juno base in Hispaniola, the strike was less gentle.
The Angel of Fire
The Mondist sale of the island of Hispaniola to Juno in exchange for various industrial considerations had been another major acquisition of many for Juno's ambitious leadership. Without a substantial civilian population like the more developed Lesbos, and with a much larger footprint, the Seraphim had no problem unleashing their full power against it.
The Seraphim force approached at first in relatively conventional fashion, completing their drop at distance and then making their approach at high altitude to draw up defenders. Junoian units rose to meet them.
And then fire. The horizon turned bright, the flash registered by Lunarian observers as far away as Havana and Church observatories on the American coast. Brighter even than a nuclear bomb, the Uriel's main beam cannon slashed through the climbing Junoian units. When it struck the ocean, boiling steam jetted into the sky, even as burning Astarti mobile suits fell into the fog bank.
A moment later the Uriel fired again, annihilating the half completed defence citadel dominating the island. Moments later, Seraphim transports and mobile suits arrived to occupy the rest, once again taking any Junoian civilians they found captive, and disarming the surviving military personnel.
In the wake of the attacks, the Seraphim began to make public a large number of Junoian records, showing their proliferation of Spacian weapons, including weapons of mass destruction such as nuclear bombs, to numerous Earth powers. It was enough of a crime that many in space through their actions against the barely trusted rogue Astarti justified.
The news of the proliferation of weapons of mass destruction bring a great sorrow to Algeria. These foul weapons taint the hands that hold them just as much as they do the lands they blight by their deployment. Already we have seen the usage of one such weapon against a military outpost, qnd the results are staggering.
All around us, on earth and in space, we can see the reminders of a past. A past that saw towering heights of glory and riches beyond our wildest dreams. They are ruins now, because of weapons like those given to the nations of earth by Juno. We know that the people holding those weapons aren't fools, we know you have compassion in your heart.
We implore you, look at the ruins that surround us. Do you want to be like them?
Also, while the actions of the Seraphim in bringing to light the proliferation of these terrible weapons must be applauded, we are concerned by the unveiling of the weapon used over Hispaniola. While we do not object to the targets of its ire, we cannot help but worry at the presence and ownership of such weapons in the hands of anyone.
The people of Algeria would like to host a summit between representatives from all the nations of earth and space in order to negotiate a treaty to stop the development of weapons of mass destruction, disarm, where possible, those weapons currently in service, and limit the use of those we cannot disarm.
We are counting on our brothers and sisters to come to their senses and see that no conflict between people is worth the end of our world.
"Language, Prince Oscar. And defeatism, at that," Prince Javier replied in a weary tone from his seat.
Normally, Javier would be meeting his only older brother, and CanMexico's nominal Minister of War, in the plusher confines of Lake City's labyrinthine royal palace. However, given the circumstances that called for this private meeting, and the greater defense conference happening around it, it was judged far too risky to place the First and Second princes in the same location as the King himself, lest they all be smote from orbit in a fit of Seraphim pique, hence the emergency conference's location at a more remote manse in Inglessa. The fact that that would result in the immediate accession to the throne of Fourth Princess Catarina was considered a bad outcome within CanMexico due to the fact that she had bravely taken the field in the tropics as part of the AEUG Combined Chiefs of Staff, and a bad outcome outside of CanMexico by every living being who'd ever met Catarina personally or read about her in the newspaper.
As for himself...Javier found the despondent mood had left him pensive. Not afraid or resigned like his brother, but he could almost physically feel his brain running through scenarios that he had considered impossible prior to the Hispaniola Incident. The Seraphim, just as much as they'd proven themselves an opponent to the Divine Monarchy's agenda of order and continuity, had proven themselves far beyond anything human in strength, erasing one of their enemies on until-recently CanMexican territory without so much as committing two soldiers to the endeavor. Probably, he thought. Spacians loved single-crew mobile weapons almost as much as the appearance of their own faces.
"Don't you 'language' the Crown Prince, Javier. We've got tens of thousands of loyal, taxpaying subjects camped out in the damn rainforest taking potshots at archaeologists and their Spacian girlfriends can just wipe out the whole front at the wave of a hand if they feel like it! Or sink what's left of poor Catarina's fleet in a flash of sunlight! Or kill any one of us and everyone within ten kilometers without warning! They have a gun to the head of every Earthian state as surely as if we were being mugged in an alley. No, they're Sol Invictus Himself, destroying us with god-rays from the sky on a whim! What are mortals meant to do with that?" Oscar demanded.
"Hm. You have a bit of a point, brother," Javier admitted, taking a serious look at the first in line for the throne. He loves Oscar, in the way he loves any of his siblings, but he has to admit that out of any of the nepotistic positions bestowed upon the children of the Divine Monarch, War Minister perhaps suited him less than his or Catarina's or L--anyone else's positions. Oscar certainly looked the part, having inherited Father's massive frame and gravitas without any of the stooping or scarring of age, but he was more suited to lead a parade than a war effort. Too much tendency to panic when he started losing. That was going to have to be curbed before he inherited...or all his future appearances as a monarch carefully choreographed, at any rate.
"That is," Javier continued, "the Seraphim consider themselves as Gods. Not that they'd admit it or call it that - 'guardian angels', perhaps, at most - but that is their attitude toward the world. Morally superior, technologically superior, assured of their righteousness and invincibility. Who can blame them, really? This 'inorganic angel' of theirs likely isn't even their most terrible weapon, or they wouldn't have fired their warning shot at some insignificant settlement. Possessed of the ultimate weapons, innumerable minds all agreeing with each other that their ways are the best ways, and even eager worshipers among more ideologically naive nations, how could they not think themselves so superior as to dictate to the world at gunpoint?"
"I hope you're going somewhere with this, brother," Oscar grumbled.
"I am, but you know how I like to ramble," Javier admitted. "How do you think I got my job? But...let's look at the big picture, Oscar. Why did the Seraphim fire their terrible sun-ray?"
Oscar thought. "To destroy Juno, right? Before those arms dealers could proliferate anything that could stand up to the damned thing."
"And who are the Junovians? And how did they get weaponry the Seraphim could worry about?"
"...they're a splinter faction of a splinter faction, right? It's part of their alleged war with the Astarte."
Javier nodded. "Indeed. There is a War in Heaven, brother, and the Gods are fighting each other. Earth is but the latest battleground in a war that the Seraphim have been fighting for, as far as I can tell, the last thousand years. The bearers of the Inorganic Angel are the faction most favored by the neighbors that they lord over - lady over? I need to get in touch with the Academy for usage there - at any rate, they're the kindly but still dangerous version. Unleashing an ultimate weapon like that isn't in their interests, unless they can persuade the other residents of Heaven that it was both justified and necessary...and admitting it's necessary is a tough pill for a God to swallow."
"So what does that mean for us?" Oscar scoffed. "None of the Spacians are monarchists, and none of them admit to being Empires. We're not winning a propaganda war against psychic goddesses with agents in every Spacian settlement and half of Earth's governments by now."
"It means, Oscar, that the Seraphim were afraid of what Juno was unleashing."
"So, what, you want to go digging for whatever it was they were peddling? Invite the god-rays down on our skulls faster?"
"No," Javier says emphatically. "Main force won't overcome this Sword of Damocles hanging over our heads, you have that much right. But, brother, all we need to do is look to Scripture for inspiration. After all, Mithras didn't overcome Sol Invictus by beating the undefeated God to death, now did he?"
"No, he reached apotheosis through...," Oscar trailed off, troubled. "...you're going to offer the Seraphim a sacrificial bull?"
"Not quite, your highness. I'm thinking more of the banquet."
"Diplomacy with someone with an ultimate weapon, someone who's already seen fit to make imperialist demands of us in a war we're technically winning--"
"Who said I was inviting only Sol Invictus? No, I think I will dine with the Bull."
Oscar paused, confused.
"...the Algerians, brother. I'm going to make a united front with the Algerians on this, the only thing they've ever appeared to disagree with the Seraphim on."
"You'd have better luck launching yourself into orbit and fistfighting the giant laser."
"I'll pass that along to Catarina as a plan B," Javier smirked. "But for now, we try it my way. Keep our brave soldier boys' spirits up, will you? Apollo-Mithras Himself will defend them from the light of the false sun, along with everyone praying for them back home. And His duly appointed representatives on Earth will help that miracle along, won't we?"
Despite our current conflict, the Divine Monarchy of CanMexico enthusiastically supports the ideal of an arms limitation treaty, lest our political quarrels spiral out of control and repeat the mistakes of past centuries. Indiscriminate development of weaponry has already destroyed human civilization once, and it is our solemn duty as modern states to prevent that from happening again. As a show of good faith in this matter, our Prime Minister for State, Prince Javier, volunteers to attend such a summit personally, under a binding promise of truce and safe conduct while engaging in negotiations.
Doctor Ceará Silva was awakened by the feeling of her head getting submerged into brackish and still water, her mouth and nostrils quickly tasting like a particular dead end of the Amazonas. This rough pull into the world of the waking was accompanied by the feeling of bruises forming all over her back and side, the slightly singed leather of her jacket still smelling like the gasoline their C-Series had used to burn its way into the ancient ruin, putting an end to centuries of growth between the reinforced concrete pillars. Still, now wasn't the time to pity the roots, for she barely had time to spit out the water filling her mouth, before her head already snapped to the side, a rough backhand splitting the skin of her cheek on one too many rings as her half bedraggled but still baleful look landed on a pair of small dark and squinting eyes.
"Doctor Silva. A pleasure to welcome you back into the land of the living.", her opponent oozed with satisfaction, his small neatly groomed mustache and elegant coat and felt hat at complete odds with her own roughened up wear - or the state of his henchman. Letting her eyes flick from one side to another, she saw the burned remains of her own expedition camp, the unmoving bodies of students and workers strewn around the still smoldering fires, a few of them moving - weakly, but alive.
The man wasn't in any hurry to continue, seemingly drinking in her realization of the situation she was in, before holding out his hand. Ceará could only watch as one the CanMexican soldiers, or at least that's what they might be under the grim and mud of the jungle, handing him a long automatic pistol with a blocky integrated magazine. Even knowing what was to come she could hardly keep in the gasp of pain as the barrel of the pistol was pressed against the underside of her jaw, making her swallow as she felt the various cuts and bruises flaring up again. But even with the warm steel against her dripping skin, she kept her eyes on the tall man as he grandiosely intoned:
"You may call me Don Felix Galán Aguinaldo, pure noble blooded since sixty generations and…", with another swipe of his free hand he gestured towards the entrance of the ruin they had found: "...faithful son and pilgrim of the one true and catholic Church of Apollo-Mithra. Here to safeguard the holy heritage of Mankind from your grasping hands."
At this point Ceará couldn't hold her contempt back anymore and spat a glob of thick red saliva at the gloved hand of the noble, defiantly calling back: "These artifacts belong into a museum! Not into the hands of your inbred king or your corrupt church!", the only reward she got for this were the stars that lit up her vision as Aguinaldo pulled back his pistol and smashed his free hand into her temple, sending her reeling before firm hands grasped her jacket and pushed her down again, the brackish water filling her mouth and noise again as she struggled with her oxygen rapidly fleeting…
….and was only pulled out again to watch those hateful eyes glaring down at her from behind these small glasses. Another slap was the only warning she got, before she was dragged sideways, her boots digging into the mud and straining against the roots, before she was pulled further and pushed to her knees in front of an ancient tree that had marked the side. Her heart sank a little when she saw the remnants of the C-Series smashed into the century old trunk, the light unarmoured plating having withstood neither the small arms fire of the mondist soldiers - nor the gun on the light tank they had brought with them.
She couldn't even wonder just how they had gotten it through the swamp - for her head was forced upwards again, watching a pale white bundle hanging from the tree. Wrapped up tightly in ropes, with her legs together and one arm hanging uselessly from her side, while the other was bound behind her back, Ivy - her Applegate liaison tasked with interpreting the orbital imagery and data - had clearly seen better days. She could only let out a small sigh of relief when she saw the rise and fall of the girl's chest, taking a small comfort in at least not having gotten that bright young thing killed.
"As you can see, not even your deviant spacial girlfriend will be able to rescue you.", the words girlfriend were obviously drawn out with the same kind of shuddering horror and insulted disbelief that mondists seem to carry against any kind of progress that they took as a personal attack on them. She nearly missed the next words of the fanatic next to her as she watched a large colorful bird of paradise landed on Ivys head and seemed to get comfortable there:
"...no chance of working her witchery. The man guarding me have been chosen for they neither desire nor crave a woman's touch or image. It will be better if you cooperate Dr. Silva, or your girlfriend will…"
Maybe it was the oxygen making her lightheaded or the sheer absurdity of what was just getting said to her, but even if every breath hurt she couldn't help but throw her hair back and laugh, loudly and without abandon. Even as the grip on her shoulders tightened and she was pressed down with gleaming bayonets planted before her nose, she couldn't stop laughing, her body shaking and sinking into the moist ground as she thoroughly lost it.
Of course all good cheer left her as the pistol came up again, but this time it wasn't aimed at her - but rather at the girl hanging from the tree, while two mondist soldiers were aiming a machine gun at her unconscious form. Swallowing any hint of merriment she stared up into those hateful eyes again, the black barrel aimed towards her helpless expedition member, as the noble barked:
"You republican deviants have not a hint of sense - your situation is hopeless Dr. Silva. Your guards lay death and dying, your lover of a witch is at our mercy and if you don't give me the code for cracking open the vault I will…", as he was steadily talking himself into rage, his hat swaying dangerously, the high pitched cry of the bird of paradise interrupted him, its orange and green plumage flaring up at the noise below it. The noble merely raised his arm a little and with a loud bang that echoed through the canopy, the bird hit the floor of the jungle, mournful little cries beginning to echo in the jungle around them, making the mondist soldiers raise their arms warily as their commander merely cursed the blasted birds.
A smile working its way onto her lips again Ceará raised her head, rolling her wrists a little against the bounds of the ropes, calling out softly "This was your second mistake Aguinaldo…", this seemed to be enough of a disrespect for him to raise his gloved hand again, but he paused when Ceará only grinned a little wider, saying in a soft tone more suited to the lecture hall: "The Birds of Paradise are Bioengineered to spread seeds after wildfires. Local cultures see them as symbols of life and rebirth, some even declare them holy…"
"Heathen superstition and primitives!", the noble barked, even as the mournful song of the birds seemed to pick up more and more, sending a hint of nervousness through the soldiers as they turned to face the foliage and jungle. It had spooked them, spooked them bad enough that Aguinaldo made another harsh gesture and the diesel engine of the light tank came to live, moving it forward as its turret began to turn and observe the surroundings. "Even if there are some spear wielding savages, we have a tank and they have what: stones and slings?" His low chuckle was echoed by the soldiers around them, as if they weren't feeling the wear and tear of the jungle, as even their commander began to look less and less immaculate by the moment in the humid heat.
But even as the tank moved past her, interposing itself between the MG nest and her, Ceará only smiled with bloodied teeth. "That might have been true. But your first mistake was…but that wasn't my girlfriend. She is.", the nod was enough to make Aguinaldo turn around, just in time to see the nearly invisible outline of a female figure behind one of the tree trunks. The cry of warning that was coming from his throat was too slow for Zohra had already pressed down on the trigger. A small flash, the outline of a flying rocket and the warhead of the bazooka buried itself into the side of the tank, the resulting explosion throwing Ceará sideways, while a particularly unlucky mondist was crushed by the blackened turret crashing down on him.
From one moment to another the air was filled with arrows, the mondist behind her reaching up and desperately clutching at his throat as a feathered shaft was suddenly sprouting from it - his comrade just dazed enough that Ceará could kick his legs away from under him, sending him sprawling into the dirt with her as she hooked her bound arms around his neck and pulled, her eyes going for his rifle and the gleaming bayonet promising freedom. Thus she didn't lose any time, as soon as he started to go slack, she threw herself forward, not minding the mud as she pressed her wrists to the blade, ignoring the shallow cut on her palm as the ropes fell.
With her hands freed she was already up and running a moment later, watching the now equally singed black coat of Aguinaldo and its wearer dragging themselves towards a small clump of wildly firing mondist troops. But a motion at the edge of her vision made her stop - and then charge sideways: the mondists at the MG had been turned into a pincushion, but two of their comrades were making their way towards it. With a shout of desperation she pulled her arm back and instead of bothering to reload the rifle of her erstwhile guard, she propelled it forward with all the finesse she could muster. The shock of a bayoneted rifled suddenly appearing in his comrades side and sending him crashing sideways like a puppet with its strings cut was enough to make the second one turn around. To her dismay he didn't bear another rifle, but a small stocky submachine gun of Gran Colombian make - she could only throw herself sideways again and into the dirt as he emptied his magazine - emptied it into the sky.
When she looked up he was already sinking to his knees, his helmet and head neatly split by what was clearly an axe of local make, all scavenged materials and well meaning charms. In this moment it contrasted wonderfully with the light green of the first series of Algerian Jungle Uniforms, the glistening dark skin of her girlfriend making her rush forward and crush into an embrace of arms and lips, hands intervening and bodies pressing together in a testament that they had both survived…
…only broken when the loud stuttering of their riverboat drifted over to them. With a last look they both took off, running towards the riverside - just in time to see Aguinaldo and his few surviving troops disappearing down the river, accompanied by a few last waves of arrows that went down all around them, creating the impression of a summer storm going down on an otherwise clear day.
But with the mondist clearing off, Ceará was left holding her girlfriend's hand as the warriors turned back towards them: barely glad bodies, rich ritual paint and enough bows to pin them to a tree arrayed before them. Thankfully no one seemed intent on doing just that and all arrows remained in their quiver. And when the movement went through the crowd of tall and well proportioned women…they were all women….she was greeted by the officer cap of the republic and a young woman smiling brightly from beneath it as she saluted more playful than anything else:
"Doctor Ceará Silva? I hope we have been on time? Captain Taynara of the Ubirajara, 3rd Amazonian Jungle Fighter Brigade.", while this was said seriously, those bright eyes dipped into something more mischievous as she added "....we have all been quite looking forward to seeing our famous sister-in-law.", these words were now accompanied by widespread laughter, the woman coming closer and crowding around her, leaving Ceará utterly unbalanced as she sought her lovers eyes.
Obviously said Algerian beauty was unwilling to do more than give her an equally amused grin, before sauntering over and wrapping an arm around the waist of the good Captain - a captain who aside from her uniform cap was wearing precious little below the neck. "Well, I found myself a little lost, then found and finally adopted. Honestly I can't wait to tell my six siblings back home that I have expanded the family by another 37 siblings."
The captain nodded equally amused and cooed "My grandfather is more than happy to hear what kind of river Algeria has. And the tribe will be more than happy to host you and your followers now that we have rescued the stolen bride of our newest sister. He will surely look forward to celebrating both the adoption and the rescue in style. Afterwards we can sent word to Belém to your university. A few of my sisters will stay here and prepare the wounded for transport. Meanwhile…"
"...meanwhile me and my fiance will have to talk a bit more about what I meant when I told her to dive into the culture of the Amazon Territories.", whatever seriousness she wanted to convey was of course undercut when Zohra simply let her eyes glance sideways - and downwards - before grinning back "Ohhh, I am sure you will just love the traditional costumes for tonights celebrations in the village love. Nạnạj thinks it's very important to keep local traditions alive…and can phone the registry office tomorrow as well."
Siberia in the summer was green with new growth, and the bright crimson with mega-particle strikes. As summer fell away both sides of the greatest land conflict the world had seen since the cataclysm unleashed their full strength and brilliance.
Here came the great armies of the CSR, the most advanced tanks and equipment built on earth, with their stamped metal semi-automatic rifles and cheap, simple submachine guns. Following with them were an ocean of B-types, salted in with the more advanced Ts, close combat fencers, and salvaged E-flats.
And above them the Astarti, the spear of the outer system, once the strongest soldiers of the Seraphim, now their most bitter rival.
The army facing them was of equal cosmopolitanism. Country boys conscripted from the farms as work machines brought from orbital sources replaced horse drawn ploughs and peasant labour. City folk from the great industrial slums of the coast. Young officers and aristocrats, willing to die for a millennia of tradition. Ancient family mobile weapons of the old knightly caste augmented with spacian technology built in mass produced families. Volunteer troops from the spacer powers who loathed the Astarti more than anything, more than even they understood the war in front of them. The volunteers were confident, many of them strange clone women who the Siberians thought like the Astarti themselves, and were supported by the great powers of orbit, now holding a huge military exercise in the skies near Siberia to show their displeasure at the Astarti attack.
The first conflict was not even in Siberia proper. In the darkness of the Russian fallow zone, teams retrieving mobile suits from Archangel were ambushed by stealthy Astarti special operations suits moving through the trees. These suits, the lethal SAAS-Mamba, were dwarfish by the standards of even a B-type, and far shorter than the much larger R and D-types, they were never the less lethal fighters. Nicknamed wolves by the Siberian team, they hunted through the woods and strange weather of the Russian fallow zone, leaving burned out vehicles and shot down mobile suits in their wake as they hit and ran through the deep forests.
They couldn't stop the flow of Siberian material out of the Fallow Zone but they could slow it, case casualties and loot convoys.
The main event however took place in Siberia proper. The Siberians drew up a second line of defence, the Tomsk line, deploying a mobile force of elite units, including the Bears, D-types and other salvage elite units, along with various Spacian battlegroups to try to defeat the advance against it. This however had been anticipated by the Astarti, and they once again attacked with full force. In the Bears they found a force far more capable than any they'd faced since the Cataclysm, save the wars fought against their sister Seraphim. The machines had been extensively repaired and re-equipped, and now used hand weapons, mostly made from converted railroad artillery, used like massive rifles. Huge numbers of secondary guns had been fitted in great fortress backpacks, to pour flack out at the much faster Astarti suits.
The orbital volunteers had also arranged a number of mobile weapons in orbit to attack the Astarti as they dropped in. These would be hit and run attacks, fleeing quickly from a strike back towards the assumed safety of the military exercise.
The Bears and their escorts indeed proved a tempting target for the Astarti hunter group, almost a hundred and fifty strong, tasked with destroying any enemy mobile weapon they found. They came in at high altitude, opening initial fire with their anti-ship guns as they descended. Volunteer suits dived in, only to find an ambush waiting for them, Type R-commands waited in top cover over the hunters, and roared down against the orbital suits as they committed to dive combat, driving them off with heavy casualties.
On the ground, the two elite forces confronted one another, and the Siberians, for all their salvaged wonders, found themselves unable to stem the fury of the Astarti assault. Hit after hit from anti-ship beam cannons tested the shields on even the Ursus Majors, bits twirled through the combat like sycamore seeds, striking from all angles. The Astarti were deploying bit control systems not just on their Type-P units but now on their R-Command types as well. Continued hits drove the bears back, knocked out secondary guns and attrited their escorts, until the titanic machines were obliged to flee, using the Ursus Major Custom's exclusion field in a desperate gambit to break contact with the hornet swarm of Astarti combat machines.
Heavy bombers pounded the Tomsk line and the transport system behind it daily, Astarti suits escorting them in and smashing any attempt at an intercept. Cities deep in Siberia were pounded with high explosives and incendiaries. The worst were the parachute mines, converted sea mines dropped on parachute, silent until they hit the ground and exploded.
The CSR's army seemed to have found its feet after last seasons near debacle, with officers who'd earned their stripes in peacetime drills and the hallowed halls of the rarified military academies pushed aside by those who had shown excellence in the last six months of counter terrorism and battle, and demanding training programs of the Astarti. They smashed through the Tomsk line like it was paper, overrunning much of the reserve forces meant to counter attack it before they could properly be readied and crashing forward again as the Siberian defence melted before them. Green and scarlet anti-ship beam fire raked away strong points as Astarti mobile suits dived in to clear a path for the victorious armies of their allies.
For a moment it seemed the Siberian armies would break, and perhaps it would have, if not for the efforts of a few officers and volunteer units. General Seop Yi Jae was not a particularly well connected officer, coming from a mere cadet house of a cadet house of the princely dynasty that ruled backwater Korea. She had not had a particularly glorious career up to this point, mostly chasing insurgents in the badlands, and commanding coastal defences in her homeland. It was for that reason that she had been left in charge of the forth line of defence at the Ob river.
It is not known what changed inside Seop Yi Jae on that day. Later, many would say she was inspired by Apollo-Mithras. Perhaps she had simply been waiting to shine. With her connection to higher HQ severed by bombing, Seop Yi Jae far exceded her authority to mobilise the remaining orbital volunteers as blocking units, forcing fleeing units to re-form and man partly built defences around the Ob river. As more forces arrived she organised what mobile suits, Spacians and elite forces she could into a ad hoc counter attack.
The CSR and Astarti force had become strung out as it approached the Ob, confident that no organised resistance remained in front of them. The Astarti hunt groups, attrited by their battle with the Bears were mostly undergoing a refit cycle. The moment was perfect, and, General Seop unleashed her counter offensive. The assault did massive damage to the CSR and Astarti vanguard, driving them back in momentary confusion. Commanding the battle from her E-sharp, General Seop was almost killed by a fencer type, before being rescued by her escort, but despite her wounds continued to direct the battle from her damaged machine. The Siberians withdrew in good order behind the Ob, forming a new defensive line on the river. The CSR made several attempts to breach the Ob line, but were repelled again and again with heavy casualties.
The Siberian army had once again been defeated, but it had once again held, and now, vast amounts of new manpower, freed from the farms and inefficient industries of Siberia's city, would soon flow into the army. It seemed unlikely that the Empire could be defeated in a mere three months before the vast flow of newly raised conscripts arrived at the front. Astarti and CSR strategists looked ahead to a far more bitter winter. Meanwhile the Siberian secret police continued to carry increasingly worrying reports of subversion. Even as Siberia mobilised its great manpower against the foe, its people looked to other futures than the Empire. . .
Troop Trains
The war had, until now, gone well for the Two Sea's governorate. Despite Egyptian intervention, they were very much a secondary front, and had enjoyed a favourable balance of forces. With their success in the spring and summer, they believed they could hold the CSR at the mountains while dealing with Egypt and their Arabian allies separately. With the Alpine League having guaranteed its pre-war borders, the Governate believed it now held the strategically favourable position, despite the increasingly superior numbers set against it.
This strategy initially paid dividends. The newly discovered E-major marine types sank a pair of Egyptian battleships trying to operate in the Med, and the Governate was able to leverage its mobile suit superiority to begin pushing the Egyptian armoured units back, despite their superior guns. The Egyptians had mostly backed off, concerned by possible Ethiopian or European intervention, and were now attempting to retain their mobile suit forces.
Unfortunately for the governorate, there were other forces at play.
Across the CSR, more trains were running. A brilliant feet of coordination by the CSR's medium of transport allowed the vast network of silver rails that spanned the great republic to be used to the maximum, with as much civilian and CSR military traffic as possible shifted onto roads to make room for the vast fleets of trains routing from East to West.
Packed into the troop cars were soldiers in unfamiliar uniforms. Khaki clad Indians and Chinese in new camouflage rather than the green uniformed soldiers of the Republic. They stopped to rest and take on fuel only at rural stations, where CSR security police had disconnected all but the official telephone lines and operators censored any mention of the troop trains.
And so, quietly, a great concentration of soldiers and mobile suits was built up near Tehran, joining the CSR's own build up of troops and mobile weapons for its great counter offensive.
The Battle of the Zagros Mountains was perhaps one of the most brilliantly fought since the Cataclysm. Both sides fought with incredible elan and tactical excellency, employing ambushes, feints, and strategies which would be taught in military academies for generations. At the end of the day though, while no fault could be found with the Governate's conduct of the battle, it was attempting to face down one hundred and eighty Indian, ninety Chinese, and seventy CSR brigades with perhaps fifty of its own. In mobile suits the situation was far worse. Almost two hundred mobile weapons faced them, mostly Type-Ts, Type-BBs and even the newly Astarti constructed CSR type-Rs. The allies infantry were also better equipped, not just with CSR technology, but with the combat engineering packages used by the socialist brigades, which proved vital in forcing passes, long ridge lines and defensive strong points.
By the end of July allied forces broke through at multiple places, and reserve forces pulled from the Arabian front were quite unable to stem the tide. After a month of fighting, the allies had penetrated to the coast of the black sea, the remaining Governate forces falling back to fresh defensive lines in Turkey. The first clashes took place between Republican and Alpine forces in this period, as Alpine mobile suits set to defend the Governate's border from incursions. Egyptian and Socialist forces had both begun to strike into Syria, at first with a series of quick mobile suit raids which the Alpine forces quickly moved to counter.
The battle that followed was hard fought, with the superior T-type mobile suits of the Republican and socialist forces telling initially, but the Alpine B-types were able to drive off their attackers with casualties through an ambush by a second B-type unit.
As the fighting began to grind down to fresh defensive lines, mobile suit escorted supply ships and aircraft began to cross the black sea towards Ukraine, linking up with the Godist forces.
Diplomatic notices of the Directorate of Hispania
- The regime of General Godot is unrecognised by the Directorate : the League of Cities government in exercise before the outbreak of war remain the legitimate representative of the League.
League assets held in Hispanic banks and territories will be kept safely frozen until normal governance is resumed.
We encourage League citizens and individuals involved in dealings with the League seeking clarification or arbitration to contact the Alpine Imperate and the Kingdom of the Lilies currently hosting and collaborating closely with the League government.
- The Gyldenløve family is unrecognised as monarchs of the territories which are part of the Cold League.
Gyldenløve affiliated groups are deemed private mercenary companies and volunteer groups acting on their own authority and not representing any legitimate government.
RED ALERT : TRAVEL FORMALLY DISCOURAGED in :
Western Siberia , Two Sea Governorate , Caspian Sea Republic , Sinai Peninsula , Northern Arabia , Amazon Jungle , League of Cities , Cold League
due to intense warfare
TRAVEL DISCOURAGED UNLESS IMPERATIVE in :
Siberia outside of Western Siberia , Egypt outside the Sinai Peninsula , Arabia outside Northern Arabia , Amazon , Margravate of Jaburo , Algeria
due to participation in active conflict
REINFORCED VIGILANCE in :
Bazaar , all earth installations and colonies of spacenoid groups and nation due to hostilities between several groups
HEREBY ,
the SERAPHIM group is denounced as BELLONA INCARNATES
due to the multiple unprovoked and unilateral attacks on Earth soil on flimsy pretexts , and due to the supreme crime of using a RELIC of DESTRUCTION on Earth for the first time since the Calamity and the long years of Devastation that followed.
The Seraphim is now legally recognised as a criminal and terrorist organisation by the Directorate of Hispania , and any of it's representatives is under threat of arrest if entering the Directorate.
The Seraphim vaccine is banned on the territory of the Directorate.
Individuals and groups found to be actively supporting the Seraphim organisation is liable to be under judicial pursuit. @Exhack
This message is to serve as formal notice that we hereby declare the existence of a state of war between the Kingdom and the People's Communes of China as well as the India Councilist Republics. Our grievances are thus;
The killing of Kingdom military personnel by your troops
The occupation of Kingdom territory by your troops.
The seizure of Kingdom material assets in the form of ships
The aiding and abetting of Republican rebels in direct conflict with the legitimate government of the Kingdom.
Your ambassadors will have 24 hours to leave the country. After that time they will be considered enemy actors and detained.
It brings us no pleasure to do this, but you leave us with no choice. The rebels have made their position clear, and there can be no coexistence or compromise with them or those who aid them in their imperialist agenda.
A black chamber, every surface scoured to a mirror polish. No light. No heat. She feels the spin-out as the craft rolls out from the shuttle hangar, tumbling in microgravity. Auxiliary gas-jets apply counter-spin and allow Uriel to face feet to the lightless deep sky of space and begin re-entry. The whole frame shudders and rattles as friction in the descent creates vortices of heat and plasma along the irregular flourishes of the frame.
The ceramic applique armor holds an entire 60 seconds, breaking off in irregular chunks to throw off anti-orbital tracking. The Uriel is still tepid inside, insulated by a sum of 800mm-plus of spaced alloy armor and the enormous cooling jacket that keeps the main gun from boiling her and the unit's powerful and delicate computer in one go. Azel gives the collar of the pilot suit a quick tug to get the fit right, feeling the sweat under her collar. Her fists grip the controls, sinking into well-worn prints exactly matching the shape of her hands. 180 seconds in, she feels static behind her eyes. An eletric tickle of M-particle release. The AA solution has switched from thinking of the assault drop as debris to threat. Hispanola's night sky glitters with beautiful blue lances, barely alighting the sky, each strike carrying a tepid rebuttal.
"Go away!"
"You are not welcome here!"
"You cowards, we aren't even at war!"
Azel outstretches one hand, turning back the condemnation with a well-remembered anger. Uriel's reactor screams to life, filling the cockpit with light. Enormous glass domes, each the size of a battleship turret alight with the violent rotations of the armor's I-field, scattering the incoming fire to guttering blue fireworks twisting behind the Uriel. She feels her senses and neurons complete with their missing pairs within the frame of the machine, her anger and listlessness dissolving to calm.
"Inorganic Angel Uriel. Welcome back, ████. It has been... Too Long."
"URIEL."
Her outstretched arm pales as her mind meets the Inorganic Angel's artificial intelligence. The skin boils and burns, the flesh melts into tarry liquid and her bones ignite, reaching for the sun. Societies enforce weapons taboos in their own ways. Swords held in peacebonds. Missiles requiring two keys held by stern-faced men. The Seraphim prevent calamity with pain. To kill, Azel must die, allowing her corpse to descend the River Phlegethon and become consumed by it. She ceases to be, and in that brief moment she returns to life, the world saturated in sounds and colours, her clear mind full of purpose. Uriel hums as its deadly main weapon emerges from the descent armature, frozen ozone falling off the cooling jacket in chunks as they instantly sublimate from the device's precipitous climb in temperature.
"Alight thy Sword, ████. Kill in the Name of Peace."
"KILL."
The Uriel's main weapon divides the night. A million Bound pairs of particles, dancing through the night sky The first strike meets its mark. As the fortress' guns turn to intercept them, she reaches into the flame
The protesting cries from the Junoian fortress are silenced, and the concrete and steel suddenly erupts into a volcano of flag scattering fire and ash to to the sea.
"I won't scatter your ashes to the heartless sea." Azel speaks to herself in the afterglow of the engagement, feeling only tranquility. Her breaths come slowly, hotter than the cockpit air.
"I will always be with you. Plant your roots in me. I won't see you end as ashes."
Uriel speaks in her voice. Sometimes they speak as one voice. She no longer remembers if this was always the case. Her swirling questions are dismissed by adrenaline and the stabilizing processing power of the ancient machine, allowing her rational mind to fill the crevices of damage with plans and solutions. The sunrise begins to rise as the order comes in to descend and begin the occupation of the fortress, bringing with it uncertainty.
Azel knows only one thing for certain now. She is.
The letter was informal, just bordering on disrespectfully so. More than anything, it looked as if the sender wasn't expecting the letter to be read, or even received. It was no surprise why they may have that opinion, given that it was sent to Vancouver on Algerian letterhead.
I write to you in the hopes that you can quell my fearful heart. I have just heard news that Papal troops have been sighted assisting the troops of the Holy League in the jungles of the Amazon Territories. I hope it is not so, for there are many faithful amongst the republican and socialist nations of this world who would feel betrayed by your involvement.
The reply was not necessarily expected, and came in the form of an unmarked, unsigned missive. One that could easily be denied, and probably would have been written off if not for the peevish, prickly tone it oozed.
Would they? I think they would understand the importance of defending Earth against Spacian invasion.
With contact established, the following letter fixed the mistakes of the previous. All proper and signed by the Algerian Secretary of Religion, as well as just much more attention paid to wording and handwriting. Rather than annoyance at the peevish tone, it seemed to reflect it back as an earnest plea for understanding.
To call it a spacian invasion is to make the spacial into an other, a foreign and different people, instead of seeing them as humanity coming home. Does the sun not shine on them just as clearly? Applegate launched an attack, yes, but is that attack any different than the ones launched on the Cold League, the Caspian Sea Republic, the Amazon Territories?
The second reply came by the same means, but was far lengthier and less hostile. Yet it was just as clear that this was justification and elaboration rather than concession. The Sun still shines on them, as it does on all of its children. But that humanity is what makes them a threat. It is precisely because they are human, that they are subject to the same wants, the same ambitions, that they must be viewed with wariness. The Astarti have tipped their hand and shown the true nature of their ambitions, and those ambitions are nothing less than complete and total subjugation. Who is to say they are not simply the most direct and honest of those who live among the stars? The Spacians' access to superior technology and weaponry means we cannot simply treat them like any nation, because their capabilities are far greater.
This is why the actions of the Seraphim, the Astarti, and Applegate demand that the church must lower itself to the mud and blood of temporal conflict.
The third letter from Algeria had a more dour tone, a deep sadness that began to leak through the page itself. There was worry, and compassion, but not very much hope.
I fear that His Holiness is at risk of losing himself to a shadow which is cast from those around him. That a darkness assails his heart from the pretty words and tithes of tyrants who see things through a shattered lens that twists and distorts Apollo-Mithras' holy light.
I see no such thing in the actions of the astarti, the seraphim, or applegate. In them I see a people united to put a stop to the mistakes of the past, and unwilling to bear the injustice of the present.
More than anything, I fear that by fully committing to the defence of these men, these rulers who oppose freedom, that his holiness is casting aside those faithful who number in the millions who believe in the dreams of republicanism and socialism. Souls who look to his holiness for guidance and spiritual health while forwarding the cause of freedom for mankind.
By the time the third response arrived, it was clear this was becoming a routine. So too did the length of this message speak to a more involved effort. Perhaps the one who composed it sought to actually convert the Algerian to his view, or merely to explain himself in response to questioning.
It is this grand alliance that is a concern, in of itself. History is replete with countless examples of empires and states that pledged to bring enlightenment and end the injustices of those they saw as barbaric, only to turn into the most vile and wretched of tyrants, sowing sorrow and injustice that persisted for generations. The specter of this is there.
You trust the Seraphim, as they have been good to you. They justify themselves with grand ideals. But there is a contempt in the heart of the Spacians. A high handedness that displays itself, again and again. They do not view us as peers, only as lessers. Some they will uplift, because they are useful, but I fear they are viewed only as means to an end. I trust individuals. I do not trust their leaders or their nations.
You fear that by aligning myself with despots that I am abandoning the faithful, and tarring the church. It is the reverse. I align with those who are willing to stand against the threat of reduction into a mere colony of our wayward cousins. The faithful in those nations whom I cannot reach are not abandoned, nor are their dreams abhorrent to me. Their rulers have aligned themselves on the wrong side, but this is not the fault of their people.
For the first time, there was hurt in the letter sent to Vancouver. It was clear that the composer of the letter looked up to the respondent, but that her ideals simply couldn't allow her to accept the words she had read.
It saddens me that you would reduce us to a misguided puppet, that your vision cannot see what has happened in our lives. The Seraphim have given us respect that we have been denied, again and again, by those very same despots you call the bulwark of the earth's independence. Where the Canmexicans and Siberians dismiss us as insignificant rabble, they see us as equal partners, they trust us to act independently and seek permission where their designs meet ours. How could we not, then, see them as allies, when the world has made us into enemies? In Algeria, there are many threats to our independence, many people who would yoke us to their designs as a colony. They reside on earth, every single one.
Are these fears of yours rooted in the reality of the deals made, or the fears of what those deals represent? Have you gone to the people touched by our cousins amongst the stars, walked among the new neighborhoods and seen the fruits of these new connections? How can you claim to see into their hearts when you have seen only the most surface level impressions of their actions?
The next reply comes quickly, faster than the others. Interest is piqued, but it becomes clear that the one on the other side is entrenched. Unmoving.
The Seraphim have done much for Algeria, only a fool would deny that. But nothing is given without the expectation of something in turn. If the price that has been asked is a pittance compared to what is given, that only means they think repayment will come through other means. Perhaps you are correct, and the Spacians are noble, and good, and will not reduce earth to a dependency.
But I look at the skies above Siberia, or the initial demands sent by the Lunarians, or the whispers of what was originally planned for Antarctica, and I cannot find it in my heart to believe so. As well...the light of the Sun reaches further than many believe. There is much that goes on in the shadows we are aware of, and it only fosters greater concern.
It would be a better world if you were correct, but I cannot rely on such hopes. It is my responsibility to shield my followers and prepare for the worst. And if I must stain my hands or name to do so...the loss of one soul is a small price to pay for the future of countless others.
With time, we shall see who is closer to the truth.
The last letter that would arrive in Vancouver feels different. The words carved into the page like stones laid down to form a tomb, the sense of loss is palpable. There is one last, faintly glimmering light of hope, but it feels drowned out by grim realisation.
I only hope that before all is lost, and the world is plunged into darkness, that His Holiness finds the strength in his heart to reach out. All it takes is one gesture of faith to change the fate of millions, and I believe they deserve that. I truly do.
We know the prices we must pay, and we know what we would pay otherwise. Now, it seems we are asked to pay both because the leaders of the world and beyond cannot help themselves from grabbing greedily at power and vengeance. Words cannot express our sadness that we find ourselves on opposing sides of this conflict.
I swear upon the holy light of Apollo-Mithras, that we will make that better world. Whether it takes one hundred days or one hundred years, the faithful of Algeria will never stop working towards that dream of a common destiny for mankind. No spacian, no tyrant, no cataclysm will stop us. Let them try.
When we have made it, I hope more than anything that you will be there to usher in the light of the new dawn.
The last message is short, and brief, the words seeming to be consumed by the vast expanse of the blank paper around them. They bear a decisive air of finality.
I would wish for the same.
But I do not think both of us will reach it.
It was well into the evening and Amiera found herself in the canteen of the government complex. In theory, everyone should have gone home hours ago. In practice, most people in the building treated the end of the work day as a suggestion rather than a rule. It had gotten to the point where there had been serious discussion about hiring security to more closely enforce the labour laws that had been written in this very building.
Thankfully those talks were still in the planning stages, and so Amiera Taha, who had written some of those labour laws and sat on those talks, was safe. She saw her colleague, Secretary of the Sahara, Rahi Aym sitting at a table and took a seat on the other side of the bench seat. She got a nod of acknowledgement as form of greeting, the standard when working late.
Normally when two people saw each other in the office at these hours they avoided conversation. Perhaps out of the knowledge that they shouldn't be here, or just fatigue. Whatever the reason, it was a convention that Amiera broke when she spoke. "Have you seen Raysha around? I haven't seen or heard from her since she got that letter."
Rahi paused, then frowned. "One of her letters from Vancouver?"
Amiera nodded.
"Bastard," Rahi hissed. "I saw her an hour ago and it looked like she'd been crying for hours. If that decrepit little wre-"
A door opened, silencing the two women, and they turned at the sound of footsteps. Raysha ult Othman, the Secretary of Religion, appeared, walking with the kind of purposeful march-like steps used by people who weren't entirely connected to reality at the moment. She sat between them without saying a word, and the two women exchanged glances above her bowed head.
The first to find the courage to speak was Rahi. "Hey girl, are you alri-"
"I want to build a church," Raysha said, cutting Rahi off unceremoniously.
The two looked at each other again, Rahi shrugged. "That should be fine," said Amiera. "We could get the funds for that and get a vote wherever you want, okay?"
Raysha took a deep breath, raising her head to look forwards. "And then, I want to build another church." The two looked visibly confused now, and their silence seemed to be taken as license to continue. "And then I want to build another church, and another, and another."
"A whole program should still be doable," Rahi ventured. " Is this bec-"
"And then I will make those churches into shining beacons of light that will attract followers from all over the world," Raysha said, charging ahead like her life was on the line. "And then with those followers I will create a light so powerful that it will reach from the earth to the farthest stars in the sky."
Rashi was beginning to look worried. Amiera couldn't blame her, she was starting to feel the same. Neither of them were religious, and Rashi had even been part of a group that had suggested adopting anti-clericalist policies. They weren't the best audience for this, but that didn't seem to matter.
"And then when the forces of darkness try to assail us we will beat them back, no matter how much it may cost. Because what is the blood in our veins but fuels for the burning fire that is our souls?"
Amiera, who had at least read some Apollo-Mithran texts, furrowed her brow. "I'm not sure if that's..." But her words went entirely ignored.
Propelled by her impassioned speech Raysha was now back to being half standing, arms braced on the table to keep herself steady. "Whether it be spacians or the people of earth we will fight until there is nothing left that seeks to extinguish the light and warmth in our hearts."
"And then when the dust has settled, and the sounds of conflict have faded, I will take his hand and lead him out of the darkness. I will show him what we have made, the better world that we have always deserved. And... and then..."
Raysha slumped back down into her seat, seemingly out of whatever energy was compelling her. Rashi had gone quiet, gently moving away, clearly overwhelmed by the sudden burst of fervour. Amiera, who had had much more experience dealing with people, was no less rattled, but saw what she needed to do. She had seen people like this before, and she knew that more than anything else, they needed comfort. So she moved over and wrapped an arm around Raysha, her friend, and asked, "and then what?"
Raysha closed her eyes, leaning into Amiera. "And then I want to build a church."
