thread policyDiscussion of politics that does not directly relate to the Quest or to Quest votes are banned from hereon out. This thread policy will be enforced by the Moderation team. Do not ignore it.
[x][NEWS] Spread the word as far as it will go. Inform the world that you lived up to your promises. Ensure that everybody know that you beat Victoria. See if that shakes something loose from this embargo, and or perhaps motivates those foreign observers and spies to make recommendations at home.
[X][ISLANDS] Siege. Under constant, focused, withering artillery bombardment from naval and shore-based batteries, on soft, level ground, and with no real entrenching gear, the islands will be unable to hold out even if given an untouched supply line by air. Erode them over weeks of artillery bombardment, landing only once all activity has either ceased or been thoroughly suppressed.
I got two volunteers for Russian and one for German. I flipped a coin on the Russian. Thus, please thank @Blackstar for your Russian-language section (you'll see it in a bit) and @Uniquelyequal for your German-language section.
Felix peers at the monitor. "Clouds are clearing, I'm starting to see bits of ground. Finally. We haven't been able to get any good images since the Commonwealth's Air Force got ripped out of the sky."
Henning leans over Felix's shoulder. "Hey, give them some respect for it, they got in more hits than they had any right to." He peers at the image on the screen. "How do you think it turned out for the ground forces?"
"Slaughter," says Felix, watching the feed from the observation satellite intently. "Burns is good -- must be, to be alive -- but he's got, what, two divisions? If that? And one division with some ancient tanks that are probably all but rust blocks by this time. Maybe they'll be good for mobile cover. Maybe. More likely, they're there for morale. The Victorians will slaughter him."
"He might fall back," opines Henning.
"With how he's deployed?" snorts Felix. "Not soon enough. He's going to have a division of BTRs ramming themselves up his asshole by the time he decides to fall back. Good luck falling back with those on his side of the riverbank."
Henning sighs, leaning back in his chair. "I feel sorry for the old bastard. He's been fighting this long. Now it's all going to end."
"Probably felt age coming on and he decided to go down fighting," calls Annika over from her station. "Can't say I blame him." She turns back to her screen, typing away, and mutters, "If I had to live on the same continent as those madmen, you bet I'd grab and gun and shoot back."
"He could have had the decency not to drag a perfectly viable successor into things," opines Felix, frowning at her.
"Maybe he thought he had a shot," says Henning, folding his arms. "I don't know. If he hadn't let them land, he probably would have."
"But he did let them land," says Annika. "Somebody who's been fighting that long should know better."
Henning frowns. "Maybe he thought-"
"Getting something!" calls Felix. The other two immediately glance over, even as others in the room start turning their way.
The senior agent in the room walks over to them. "What do we have, Agent Sauer?"
"Getting clear images from the feed," says Felix. "If we look here..." He taps a few keys and zooms in on one section of the screen. He looks up-
His jaw drops. "Jesus."
His supervisor scowls at him. "Watch the language, Agent, you're on-" His eyes flick up to the screen briefly; a moment later, they snap back up and stay. "...duty. What..."
Henning and Annika trade glances and then subtly lean over to look at the screen. They both go pale with shock. "God in Heaven," murmurs Henning.
The senior agent has no words of rebuke for that, this time. Instead, he turns away. "The Chancellor needs to hear of this. You three, get an accurate count on those vehicles."
"Yes, sir!" replies Annika, ducking back over to her screen to her work. Henning rolls back to his station as well.
Felix, for a moment, simply stares. Stares at the sight of a division's worth of BTRs, all of them still belching smoke into the afternoon sky...with not a single Commonwealth vehicle in sight. Then he blinks, shakes his head violently, and starts counting.
Felix peers at the monitor. "Die Wolken brechen auf, ich kann ein bisschen vom Boden sehen Boden sehen. Endlich. Wir haben keine guten Bilder mehr bekommen, seit die Luftwaffe aus dem Himmel gerissen wurde."
Henning leans over Felix's shoulder. "Hey, zeig ihnen etwas Respekt, sie haben besser ausgeteilt als realistisch zu erwarten war." He peers at the image on the screen. "Was denkst du, wie ist es für die Bodentruppen gelaufen?"
"Massaker," says Felix, watching the feed from the observation satellite intently. "Burns ist gut-- muss er sein, um noch zu leben -- aber er hat, was, zwei Divisionen? Wenn überhaupt? Und eine Division mit einigen uralten Panzern, die inzwischen vermutlich Rostblöcke sind. Vielleicht werden die für mobile Deckung gut sein. Vielleicht. Es ist wahrscheinlicher, das sie aus Moralgründen da sind. Die Viktorianer werden sie niedermetzelm."
"Er könnte zurückfallen," opines Henning.
"So wie er aufgestellt ist?" snorts Felix. "Nicht zeitig genug. Zu der Zeit, wo er so zum Rückzug entscheidet, wird eine Division BTRs in seinem Arsch haben. Viel Glück beim zurückziehen, mit denen auf seiner Uferseite."
Henning sighs, leaning back in his chair. "Der alte Bastard tut mir Leid. Er hat so lange gekämpft. Jetzt ist das alles vorbei."
"Hat vermutlich sein Alter gespürt und sich entschieden, kämpfend unterzugehen," calls Annika over from her station. "Ich kann ihm da keinen Vorwurf machen." She turns back to her screen, typing away, and mutters, "Wenn ich auf dem selben Kontinent wie diese Irren leben müsste, kannst du wetten das ich mir eine Waffe schnappen und zurückschiessen würde."
"Er hätte so freundlich sein können, keinen absolut überlebensfähigen Nachfolger mit reinzuziehen" opines Felix, frowning at her.
"Vielleicht dachte er, er hätte eine Chance," says Henning, folding his arms. "Ich weiß es nicht. Hätte er sie nicht landen lassen, hätte er vermutliche eine gehabt."
"Aber er hat sie landen lassen," says Annika. "Jemand, der so lange gekämpft hat, sollte es besser wissen."
Henning frowns. "Vielleicht dachter er-"
"Ich hab hier was!" calls Felix. The other two immediately glance over, even as others in the room start turning their way.
The senior agent in the room walks over to them. "Was haben wir, Agent Sauer?"
"Ein klares Bild," says Felix. "Wenn wir hir schauen..." He taps a few keys and zooms in on one section of the screen. He looks up-
His jaw drops. "Jesus."
His supervisor scowls at him. "Passen sie auf die Sprache auf, Agent, sie sind im-" His eyes flick up to the screen briefly; a moment later, they snap back up and stay. "...Dienst. Was..."
Henning and Annika trade glances and then subtly lean over to look at the screen. They both go pale with shock. "Herr im Himmel," murmurs Henning.
The senior agent has no words of rebuke for that, this time. Instead, he turns away. "Der Kanzler muss davon hören. Ihr drei, gebt mir eine genau Anzahl für diese Fahrzeuge."
"Jawohl, Sir!" replies Annika, ducking back over to her screen to her work. Henning rolls back to his station as well.
Felix, for a moment, simply stares. Stares at the sight of a division's worth of BTRs, all of them still belching smoke into the afternoon sky...with not a single Commonwealth vehicle in sight. Then he blinks, shakes his head violently, and starts counting.
-Toronto, Ontario, Canada-
-Torontan Directorate-
-Wednesday, April 10, 2075, 4:13 PM-
-Mayor Travis Fisk-
Mayor Fisk holds the phone a good distance away from his ear, blunting the shouting coming through the other end. "Yes, Governor Hill, I've heard about the ongoing disaster out West. I assure you, you have my fervent sympathies. May God shelter your men, as they do His work. How fares the supply column?"
"That's what I've been trying to tell you about, you deaf old Canuck barbarian!" screams the Governor of New York. "They've been wading through a forest of guns, and now that they're in Hamilton the damned orcs are coming out of the woodwork to shoot at them! I'm going to lose the Buffalo Militia if this keeps up, and the Hamilton Militia's helpless to do anything about it! I need you to rally your forces and get my boys out of there!"
Fisk's expression flares with fury for a moment at the Governor's tone before he masters himself. "I'd be happy to help, Governor," he says. "I'm sure you understand, though, mobilizing troops is expensive-"
"Expensive? You want to talk to me about expensive? Buffalo's gonna be sitting through winter in their shirts this year and you want to whine about expense?"
"-and my control over the Peacekeepers is not absolute," continues Fisk, undeterred. "Their commanders may simply refuse if they receive orders to move with some incentive. I'm sure you understand -- we're not Victorians here, good men are always in such short supply."
There's a pause, broken only by heavy breathing on Hill's end of the line. "How do your officers like loot?"
Fisk shrugs. "Oh, quite a lot. Why do you ask?"
"We really just need those men back," explains Hill. "Goods we can replace somehow. If your troops won't move without an incentive, tell 'em they can keep the baggage train. We'll live. But we can't replace those hands. Get my boys home in one piece, and you can have the baggage train."
Fisk grins. "That is a very generous offer, sir," he replies. "I'll relay that to the officers. I'm sure they'll find it more than convincing."
"Yeah, great, sure. Like bargaining with a Jew-"
The line cuts. Fisk takes a moment to dance a little jig. Then he darts over to the door to his office and leans out. "Stacie! Get me the mayor of Hamilton! Tell him that I know what he's doing and we're coming by to make him stop, but if he'll hear me out for ten minutes, we can both get rich today!"
-New York City, New York, United States of America-
-Free City of New York-
-Thursday, May 30, 2075, 9:17 PM-
"We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming with an emergency announcement. As many of you are aware, some hours ago, the Commonwealth of Free Cities issued a formal statement regarding their war against Victoria, simultaneously authorizing a full release of information and records gathered by war correspondents and foreign government observers present for the battle. They claimed that they had won a crushing victory against the Victorians. After careful review of the information now available, the City government is prepared to issue its own statement:
"The claims made by the Commonwealth's representatives are correct in their entirety. Twelve of the thirteen active service divisions in the Victorian Army have been destroyed, along with one of the three CMC field divisions. The last remaining Army division appears to be cut off on the Lake Erie Islands beyond any hope of recovery. By all indications, Victoria's campaign in Erie has been a complete, catastrophic failure. Mayor Mesbah will be holding a press conference on the matter tomorrow morning.
"We return you now to your regularly scheduled programming. Thank you for your time, and God bless America."
-San Francisco, California, United States of America-
-New California Republic-
-Thursday, May 30, 2075, 3:56 AM-
-Sandra Steele, Head of [REDACTED]-
Sandra Steele sets down the Victorian report, her face like stone.
The President of the Republic raises an eyebrow at her. "Well?"
She nods, grudgingly. "He came through-" She breaks off, her voice cracking.
The President blinks. "Sandra? Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," she replies. Then she blinks and looks down at her hands.
Her fingers are trembling.
"I'm fine," she whispers. She swallows.
The President doesn't say anything, for the next few minutes. That's probably wise of him; had he tried to comment on the tears, she probably would have shot him.
-Wyevale, Ontario, Canada-
-Unorganized Territories-
-Tuesday, July 30, 2075-
-Private First Class David Hartman, 5th, "Luke," Division, Victorian Army (DEFUNCT)-
David sprints through the undergrowth, his breath rasping in his ears. Behind him, he hears the sounds of shouts and the odd gunshot. Once, he hears the thin crack of a bullet snapping past his ear.
Where the hell did they get high-velocity rounds? he wonders, in flickers of thought in between planning his next few steps and trying to break line of sight.
It's as he's ducking around a tree to do just that that a root catches his ankle and sends him hurtling forward through the air with a great, heaving gasp of shock. He lands hard, losing all of his breath. For several precious seconds, he lies there, dazed.
Then he notices the boot an inch from his forehead.
He doesn't even register drawing his sidearm. One moment, he's on the ground; the other, he's leveling the (empty) pistol up at the man standing over him.
A man in rough clothes, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, and for all the world looking like any of a dozen breeds of survivalist roaming the continent, blinks down at David through a pair of glasses, more befuddled than threatened. In his hand, he carries a walking stick as tall as he is. The only thing to set him apart from any other eccentric is the Roman collar holding his shirt closed at the top.
A priest, thinks David. I'm pointing a gun at a priest.
The priest squints for a moment. "You don't have any bullets in that gun."
David blinks. "...I do."
"Your slide's locked back."
Again, a blink. "Oh."
The shouts get louder, all of a sudden, as David's pursuers force their way through a thicket. The priests looks off their way, and David...
...panics. He throws himself away from the man and rolls into a ditch overgrown by bushes. It's a terrible hiding spot. He's visible from a huge variety of angles. The bushes are swaying wildly. The priest gives him a baffled look.
And somehow, hopped up on adrenaline as they are, the hunting party that charges into the clearing misses all of these things.
The woman at the front looks at the priest with a wild expression. "Father Smith! Where'd he go!"
The priest -- Smith, apparently, blinks owlishly back at her for a moment. The bottom on David's stomach falls out; to compensate, his heart migrates to his throat. His gaze fixes on the glint of sunlight off of one of the party's shotguns.
"That way,"says Smith, pointing in the exact opposite direction as David. "You'd better hurry, too. He's armed."
"You okay?" asks the woman, even as her companions rush onwards without a word.
"Right," she pants, charging off. "And thank you!"
"Thank me by staying safe!" he hollers after her. He watches them for a minute; then he looks back at David. "...are you quite all right?"
David stares for a moment. Then he shifts, testing himself. As expected, aches and pains everywhere. "Probably."
Smith steps over to the ditch, surveys the tangle David's gotten in, and then plants his feet, holding out his stick.
David grabs onto it and uses it to pull himself out. Once he's back on solid ground, he gives the priest a nod, panting in the fading rush of adrenaline. "Thanks." He then doubles over, retching. Nothing comes up; it makes his stomach hurt even worse. He can't quite stop, though, not for a few moments. Only once it subsides and he has a second to catch his breath does he look back up at Smith. Up close, the priest is clearly older; by no means infirm, but his hair is starting to go grey, and he has wrinkles aplenty. His skin is the ruddy brown of too much time spent outdoors. He doesn't look like a priest. And unlike everybody else David has seen over the past...whenever...there's not even a glint of hatred in Smith's eyes. "...why?"
Smith looks David up and down. "How long have you been running?"
David stares back, mouth open. "...I don't know."
Smith nods, as though that is any kind of answer at all. Then he steps past David. "If I were you, I'd make myself scarce. They'll double back after a while, reasoning that you must have. This direction might be a wise choice!"
David gapes. "...you have to know who I am!"
"Of course I do!" says Smith, smiling over his shoulder. "You still have your name tag. Come along, young man! No time to waste."
David's jaw drops. "Who are you?"
"The name's Smith," he replies. "Now, if you don't mind, we have quite a distance to travel! They're very persistent."
David shakes his head. "But where are we?"
"Ontario!" calls Smith. "Near the Eastern tip of Lake Huron."
"Huron," murmurs David, consulting a mental map. If he's around there, then if he were to head due east, he'd end up back in friendly territory before too long. He could make it. He glances over his shoulder.
Then he pauses. He remembers the shell fire. He remembers the endless runs on the trenches. He remembers General Colt, blowing his own brains out. He remembers being there, witnessing it, and knowing that the CMC man, spitting fire and fury, took down his name.
He glances after Smith.
The priest waves. "Are you coming?"
David glances over his shoulder again. Then he puts his back to Victoria, and follows the priest.
It's safe to say that Alexander is Not Impressed by the effectiveness of the reforms the Victorian military has done, or their ability to avoid another Pacific War disaster.
On the subject of phones, satellite phones can be used even in places where the infrastructure is nonexistent. Of course, they're expensive, so they wouldn't be common, and they'd require a sponsor with a functioning satellite network. And now that I think about it, said sponsor could presumably also listen in on any communications that were being passed through those phones, too. It has a lot of attractive features for both parties, now that I think about it.
You have plenty of good points, however, as mentioned before Lind himself wrote that military and medical technology is exempt from the high-tech ban. Although as I've also mentioned before, I suspect at least for now such tech is primarily used by the elite to secure their power and for their luxury. Now Blackwell's in charge and Alex's patience has run out I suspect that at least the military will begin to embrace high tech communication.
Plus, there's chapter 46 where after destroying their cultural enemies, the new-founded Northern Confederation embraces technology.
Given that even today, most people don't know squat about Tesla's work, and Victoria likely manipulates the information about him, I suspect he is used to justify quite a bit of civilian non-medical technology that the Victorians have found they don't want to do without.
Also, since the military gets a free pass, if they really need something modern like, oh, modern electrified trains, they could just make any electrified track be under military control if calling them Tesla trains didn't work.
So all in all, I think people who expect the Victorians to be too consistent in living to the spirit of Lind's ideas are expecting too much.
Plus, there's chapter 46 where after destroying their cultural enemies, the new-founded Northern Confederation embraces technology.
Given that even today, most people don't know squat about Tesla's work, and Victoria likely manipulates the information about him, I suspect he is used to justify quite a bit of civilian non-medical technology that the Victorians have found they don't want to do without.
Also, since the military gets a free pass, if they really need something modern like, oh, modern electrified trains, they could just make any electrified track be under military control if calling them Tesla trains didn't work.
So all in all, I think people who expect the Victorians to be too consistent in living to the spirit of Lind's ideas are expecting too much.
Plus Alex has killed all the true fanatics like Rumford, so the current Victorian regime is both interested firstly and primarily in their own survival and painfully aware that Russia owns them, and is Very Disappointed with their abysmal excuse of a campaign, so they will be willing to shed at least the majority of the most self-defeating aspects of Karlfordism. And I suspect those features will become even more pronounced once the inevitable purge gets underway as they scramble for scapegoats to appease not just their own satisfaction and their populace's but Russia's.
You know, the Vicks are probably the only nation I ever have seen/read where there institutional 'knowledge' is so toxic and backwards that a purge (both military officers and civilian officials) could be a net-positive.
You know, the Vicks are probably the only nation I ever have seen where there institutional 'knowledge' is so toxic and backwards that a purge could be a net-positive.
Only if they have time. Even if they are purging toxic people, those people still have experience running things, know where the paperwork is filed, know who to talk to to get things done...
What I am saying is that they'd better finish recovering from their purge before things will get better.
Only if they have time. Even if they are purging toxic people, those people still have experience running things, know where the paperwork is filed, know who to talk to to get things done...
What I am saying is that they'd better finish recovering from their purge before things will get better.
Only if they have time. Even if they are purging toxic people, those people still have experience running things, know where the paperwork is filed, know who to talk to to get things done...
What I am saying is that they'd better finish recovering from their purge before things will get better.
So what you're saying is... They need to embrace the anime protagonist they try to be and run with their sandwich in their mouth before they're late for class?
Well, even Victoria's military will be a bureaucracy. It takes alot of institutional knowledge to keep an army marching, even one as Mad Max as the Victorians.
Of course, that they barely have an army at this point will make purging THAT relatively easy.
So what you're saying is... They need to embrace the anime protagonist they try to be and run with their sandwich in their mouth before they're late for class?
Well, even Victoria's military will be a bureaucracy. It takes alot of institutional knowledge to keep an army marching, even one as Mad Max as the Victorians.
Of course, that they barely have an army at this point will make purging THAT relatively easy.
Sure but it's abnormally understaffed logistically among other "read end" positions, due to their foraging (read: looting) and frontline fighter fetishes. They will need help to create something even acceptable within the decade (which we think the next attack is going to be) because there is no respect or understanding of the vital work they do in a functional army.
Although as you said the complete collapse of their military does make this process substantially easier.
On an unrelated note, I'm now morbidly curious what the perceptive of a Victorian soldier who made it home is like.
Apparently SV's alerts borked today. I posted an update last night! It's the threadmark before this one, if you missed it. Check it out! And this one as well. ^.^
-Rockford, Illinois, United States of America-
-Commonwealth of Free Cities-
Friday, June 7, 2075, 7:21 AM-
-Major General Robert Foulkes, 7th, "Matthew," Division (DEFUNCT), Victorian Army-
The worst part is the boredom.
Bob dealt with the sneers. He even relished them. After the hell he'd been through, he almost relished being able to look his enemy in the eye and sneer right on back. It was exactly what he needed.
Similarly, he was fine with the accommodations. Sure, the camp to which they'd moved him had hardly been luxurious, but he'd endured far worse.
No, it was the boredom that got him. At first, he was nearly alone. He had work to occupy his hands, helping his captors in the construction of his own prison. He had the occasional escape attempt, none of which ever succeeded. But there were hardly any other Victorians around, and all of them were so low-ranked and in such dire need of medical care that they were no good for casual conversation.
There was nothing to distract him. Nothing to occupy him. Just endless rounds with communist interrogators and endless nights remembering an Abrams putting round after round into the roof of the cabin he'd commandeered for a command center, as a pair of Strykers rolled up to drop troops.
He could deal with torture, had there been any. He could deal with deprivation, had they tried it. He could not deal with this endless, fruitless waiting.
That, he told himself, was why he kept agreeing to the interviews. Just to keep his mind sharp, and spar with a Communist. They could not get anything from him; he would never break.
Especially not since they'd been foolish enough to have a woman interrogate him.
Francesca nodded to Bob as he took his seat. "Good evening, General," she says.
"Francesca," he replies. "How good to see you again."
She gave him a quick smile. He smiled back in approval. She's been so dour when these sessions began. He'd set that right soon enough. Communist or not, no woman could resist the old Foulkes grin. She looked much prettier with a smile on her face anyway.
"Thank you for agreeing to speak with me again sir," she said. "There's...a lot to tell, today."
Bob gave her a tolerant grin. "Yes, yes, the stories they've been feeding you about disasters out in Detroit. Tell me, how many divisions have the Abrams slaughtered this time?" He shook his head. "When do they plan to admit that they couldn't keep those garage queens running in a real battlefield any longer?" He grinned, expecting her to laugh with him. What had happened to him was terrifying, but with the benefit of time and distance, he knew that it could only happen the once. The old United States's gear couldn't hold up under real-life conditions. They'd blown their load. There would be no attack on the southern force.
But Francesca didn't laugh. "Sir, I...I'm afraid I have bad news." She hands him a file folder. "Toledo switched sides, and...well..."
Bob opened the folder, and froze. Captured there, on a neat, glossy photograph, was a row of corpses. Ten of them; nine in Army flannel, one in the over-formal uniform of the CMC's Crusader divisions. He swallowed, eyes tracking down the faces of his fellow generals. His jaw tightened when he got to Colt. And when he was done...
"Where's Blackwell?" he asked, rasping. "And Carter?"
"Carter was captured by Toledan forces in the field when they overran his command center," said Francesca, her voice gentle. "We haven't found Blackwell yet. We've heard reports that he was ill; perhaps he-"
"Traitors."
Francesca blinked as Bob snarled that word under his breath. "Sir?"
"Traitors," he growled. "Those damned, ungrateful, cowardly Toledan traitors!" He slammed his hands down on the table. The pictures spilled out, showing an image of Carter, bruised and battered, getting dragged behind that up-jumped whore the Warlord thought Victoria didn't know about. "We made you!" howled Bob, tears streaming down his face. "If it wasn't for us, you'd just be another customer for Detroit, but we made you strong! We gave you the freedom to stand, and you stabbed us in the back! God damn you to Hell!" With an inarticulate roar, he hurled his chair at the wall.
With a slam, the door burst open, and Commonwealth soldiers rushed into the room, their guns leveled. Francesca stood. "General, sir, please-"
"Not a damn word out of you!" He snapped, pointing at her. He seethed, and though he knew he'd regret saying it later, he hissed, "You get out of my sight, you worthless Communist whore!"
Francesca flinched, her eyes widening. For a moment, her mouth worked as tears slowly filled her eyes. Then she whirled and bolted out of the room, a sob echoing back through the door as it slammed.
* * *
Agent Francesca Yates straightened as the door closed, wiping her eyes.
"You good, Fran?" asked the guard next to the door.
"Fine," she replied, her tone light. She turned and walked down to the observation room, entering without a pause.
The man waiting there kept his eyes on the sight of the guards subduing Foulkes. "Nice one, boss."
"He's not as smart as he likes to think," said Francesca, picking up a piece of paper and a pen from the desk in the room. "And he's a sucker for a pretty face."
"Gotta say, it feels good to watch a Vick cry," he said, smirking.
"No kidding," she laughed, writing her observations down before they could slip away. "It was hard to keep a straight face."
"You did, though," he said.
"Yes indeed," she replied, smiling. "And now we have some more specific questions to ask our Toledan friends."
* * *
-Augusta, Maine, United States of America-
-Northern Confederation of Victoria-
-Friday, June 14, 2075, 11:42 AM-
-Major General Gideon Blackwell (SUSPENDED), Victorian Army-
Major General Gideon You-Would-Be-Damned-If-Christ-Had-Not-Died-For-Your-Sins Blackwell — Gideon Damned Blackwell, in normal use, out of a sense of just barely tolerably blasphemous humor — stepped out of the front door of Regina's Diner and sighed.
The man waiting out front, dressed in the typical plaid-and-denim of a Victorian in a prominent role and standing in front of a long, black car, gave him a neutral nod. On his collar, there was the symbol of the CMC's Inquisitorial branch. On his breast, a Colonel's insignia. "General, sir."
"Colonel," replied Blackwell. He stifled a feeling of crushing disappointment. It was not that he had precisely expected his statements back there in the diner to go unpunished. What he said about the actions Victoria would need to take was dangerous. In fact, it was threatening. One does not so boldly thrust blame for a disaster of such magnitude onto patterns of thought typified by one's dining companions and expect there to be no repercussions. Still, he had hoped that he had phrased it carefully enough that the CMC would remain aloof from the ensuing struggle.
He had not expected, but he had hoped.
"Colonel Braxton," said the Inquisitor, giving his name careful stress. "I'm here to relay orders to you to report to the Governor's Mansion."
Blackwell blinked. He had been expecting a slow draw and a sharp shot. In fact, he would have preferred it to going with an Inquisitor to the most secure building in Victoria. He had seen the products of the chambers under the Mansion more than once. Briefly, he considered Colt's route out of the CMC's clutches.
He disregarded it almost immediately, stepping forward. "I will obey," he said. Stepping up to Braxton, Blackwell turned his back and unsnapped his holster strap before holding his arms in front of him. "I believe it is customary to disarm."
"That would be correct, sir," said Braxton, gingerly lifting out the pistol. He pocketed it after unloading it and clearing the chamber. Then he turned to the car. "Transportation is ready for us."
Blackwell gave Braxton a brisk nod before heading for the car. He entered, idly noting the spacious and comfortable interior. He managed to restrain the sneer of contempt that tried to rise to his lips. Instead, he simply made way for Braxton.
The two men passed the drive in silence. It was not too long a wait. Regina's sat just on the outskirts of Augusta. Especially with roads kept so rigorously clean of traffic, it took merely...oh, about twenty recitations of the Lord's Prayer.
Blackwell counted.
Still, all things come to an end, and the ride came to an end in front of the magnificent marble facing of the Governor's Mansion. A new construction, the mansion stood out in Augusta. It was a statement — a statement of Victoria's wealth and influence. A statement of its might, and its worthiness of respect.
Blackwell hated it. He always had. He barely kept his expression steady as he got out of the limousine and looked up at the Mansion.
Braxton stepped out of the car as well and walked past Blackwell. "This way, sir."
Blackwell frowned. "I have been here before, Colonel. More than once."
"Of course, General," said Braxton. "But we're not going in the the usual entrance today."
Blackwell raised an eyebrow and followed. Sure enough, Braxton led them to a door on ground level — one of several that the public never had access to. The two of them stepped through and into a security line.
What followed was the most thorough frisking Blackwell had ever experienced. He felt vaguely violated, and were the men searching him not also wearing Inquisitors' pins...well, he might have formed uncharitable speculations as to their characters. As he stepped clear of the line, he snapped his clothes back into line with an aggrieved snort. He was a Victorian, he did not require frippery, but neither did he prefer to look like he had been accosted by a Sodomite. He glanced up as Braxton joined him, the Colonel's face suspiciously blank. Blackwell scowled. "What am I here to do, Colonel?"
Any faint traces of amusement on Braxton's face immediately vanished. "You're here to give your report to the Boss," he said, stepping quickly down the hallway.
Blackwell followed, jogging slightly to keep up. "I've already given my briefing to the Governor, Colonel Braxton."
Braxton threw a vaguely scornful look over his shoulder. "General, if I had meant to take you to the Premier, we would have gone in the front."
Blackwell stalled out mid-stride. There was only one context in which a CMC man would ever refer to the Maine Governor by the title the wider world knew him by. "You mean..."
Braxton came to a halt by an unremarkable door and swung it open. "The Boss." He gestured to the doorway. "This is your stop."
Blackwell's eyes flicked over to the door. Then back to Braxton. Then the door again. Then he took a deep breath. "I see." He stepped forward, hesitant. He peered into the room, and found it barren save for some machinery at the far end and mounted in the walls. He glanced at Braxton one more time.
Braxton nodded to the door frame. "Orders, sir."
Blackwell swallowed. He gathered himself one last time...and then he stepped through the door. Braxton closed it as soon as Blackwell's heels cleared the threshold, and all noise from the rest of the building instantly died.
Blackwell looked around the room again. As before, it looked barren save for the machinery at the end. His lips curled as he stepped over to the stuff; it didn't look retroculture at all. No bulk, no machinery, no honest, simple wood and steel. All thin, sleek, black plastic, far too slender to house anything but some wired abomination. It looked like the sort of thing the Commonwealth would have gladly sold their souls to possess, if only they hadn't already sold theirs to the Machine to begin with. It was the kind of thing he hated to see being used by his country. To be sure, they needed things like this in order for the people to enjoy the true bliss of simple living, but that didn't make it less distasteful. "Probably needs a technician every other day," he snorted, turning away.
At that point, all the lights went off.
Blackwell stood still, not daring to move a muscle. Then he heard the whining of the machine behind him coming to life. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and at last, he dared to turn.
Not an inch from his nose was a glowing green man, slightly transparent and larger than life. He looked older than Blackwell himself -- far older. Despite his almost withered appearance, his eyes glinted with the shine of steel, even through the haze and discoloration of the image.
A moment of horrified staring later, Blackwell processed two things. First, and with numb horror at this vile manifestation of something from even beyond the hated Modernity from which Victoria had long since freed its citizenry, he realized, A hologram. It's a damned hologram.
Second, he took note of the thin circlet atop the green man's head, and immediately took a step back, dropping to a knee. He bowed his head. Then, in fluent, if accented, Russian, he said, "Your Imperial Majesty, Alexander IV Romanov. I am here as ordered."
The Tsar stared down at Blackwell for a long moment, weighing him with his gaze. Only when Blackwell's knees started to hurt did the Tsar speak. "Major General Blackwell. You are the highest-ranking survivor of the greatest military defeat my subject has ever suffered. Explain what occurred."
Blackwell swallowed. "As you command, Your Majesty. The Marxists-"
"Stop," said Alexander. "I am uninterested in your incoherent political theories. I do not want to hear about strength of will and the nature of the soul. What you say to cast blame on the more reactionary of your compatriots is your own business. I want an honest and clear report that gives me the facts of the situation. Begin again."
Blackwell felt rage pouring up his throat at that dismissal, but he choked it down. Oh, how he choked on it. I know the truth of things, and that is enough. God stands by my shoulder in this, and that is enough. Alexander is not one of us. He is useful, but he is not one of us. I must tell him what he wants to hear. To everybody, what they want to hear, so they give me what I need to have. He swallowed again and spoke. "My lord, our material deficiencies overcame us. Our mortars were overcome by waves of long-ranged artillery. Our supplies now rest at the bottom of Lake Erie thanks to Commonwealth vessels. Our men were cut apart and slaughtered by fast-moving elements on standardized trucks." He gritted his teeth. "We need support. We must have support, and..." He nearly gagged on the words, but just barely, he managed to say, "The teachings of Rumford have led us wrong, and are unsuited to this manner of war. We need to learn from you, my lord. We need your help. I need your help. My government will never work with me without your word. My own comrades will turn on me and cast me down without your support."
His soul rebelled against every syllable. Not wrong! he screamed internally. Misapplied, yes! Not wrong! When fighting men, it remains preeminent, but we face a machine now!
But the Tsar, of course, was uninterested in that line of thinking. Instead, he heard only what Blackwell said. He gazed at the man without a change in expression. "So that is it? Your idiocy finally comes home to roost and you come pelting home, screeching for what I have tried and failed to push on you for decades?"
Blackwell winced. "Your Majesty-"
"Enough. You merely confirm what I have already heard." The Tsar turned away. "You have no new information to offer. You are dismissed."
Blackwell's head came up. "But, Your Majesty, what about-"
"That is not your concern at this time, General," bit out Alexander. "You have your own affairs to look after before you can concern yourself with the Commonwealth." He began stepping away, slowly, held back by age.
"But what of me, my lord?" asked Blackwell. "Will you help me to convince Victoria to accept the changes we need to win this war?"
Alexander didn't even turn. "Your fate will be as ordered. I concern myself with it no further."
Blackwell freezes. He cannot speak. He cannot even blink.
"Farewell, General," says Alexander, fading from view. A moment later, the humming of the machine dies away, and the lights come back on.
Second, he took note of the thin circlet atop the green man's head, and immediately took a step back, dropping to a knee. He bowed his head. Then, in fluent, if accented, Russian, he said, "Ваше Императорское Величество, Александр IV Романов. Я здесь, как вы приказали."
The Tsar stared down at Blackwell for a long moment, weighing him with his gaze. Only when Blackwell's knees started to hurt did the Tsar speak. "Генерал-майор Блэквелл. Вы самым высокопоставленным выжившим этого ужасного военного поражения мойа предметная страна когда либо не страдала. Объясните, что произошло."
Blackwell swallowed. "Как вы командуете, ваше величество. Марксисты-"
"Oстановить," said Alexander. "Меня не интересуют ваши непоследовательные политические теории. Я не хочу слышать о силе воли и природе души. То, что вы говорите, чтобы обвинять более реакционных ваших соотечественников, - это ваше личное дело. Я хочу честной и четкий отчет, который дает мне факты ситуации. Начните снова."
Blackwell felt rage pouring up his throat at that dismissal, but he choked it down. Oh, how he choked on it. I know the truth of things, and that is enough. God stands by my shoulder in this, and that is enough. Alexander is not one of us. He is useful, but he is not one of us. I must tell him what he wants to hear. To everybody, what they want to hear, so they give me what I need to have. He swallowed again and spoke. "Мой господин, наши материальные недостатки преодолели нас. Наши минометы были побеждены волнами дальнобойной артиллерии. Наши запасы теперь лежат на дне озера Эри благодаря судам Содружества. Наши люди были разделены и убиты быстро движущимися элементами на стандартизированных грузовиках." He gritted his teeth. "Нам нужна поддержка. Мы должны получить поддержку, и..." He nearly gagged on the words, but just barely, he managed to say, "Учения Румфорда привели нас к ошибке и не подходят для этого манера войны. Нам нужно учиться у вас, мой княаз. Нам нужна ваша помощь. Мне нужна ваша помощь. Мое правительство никогда не будет работать со мной без вашего слова. Мои собственные товарищи предадут меня и свергнут меня без вашей поддержки."
His soul rebelled against every syllable. Not wrong! he screamed internally. Misapplied, yes! Not wrong! When fighting men, it remains preeminent, but we face a machine now!
But the Tsar, of course, was uninterested in that line of thinking. Instead, he heard only what Blackwell said. He gazed at the man without any change in expression. "Это всё? Твой идиотизм, наконец, возвращается домой к курятнику, и ты приходишь домой, крича от того, что я неудачно пытался тебя сказать десятилетиями?"
Blackwell winced. "Баше Величество-"
"Достаточно. Вы просто подтверждаете то, что я уже слышал." The Tsar turned away. "У вас нет новой информации. Вы уволены."
Blackwell's head came up. "Но, Ваше Величество, как насчет-"
"Это не ваша забота в настоящее время, генерал," bit out Alexander. "У тебя есть свои дела, о которых нужно позаботиться, прежде чем ты сможешь заняться Содружеством." He began stepping away, slowly, held back by age.
"Но что из меня, мой князь?" asked Blackwell. "Ты можешь поможешь мне убедить Викторию принять изменения, которые нам нужны, чтобы выиграть эту войну?"
Alexander didn't even turn. "Твоя судьба будет такой, как приказано. Я больше не занимаюсь этим."
Blackwell freezed. He could not speak. He could not even blink.
"Прощай, генерал," said Alexander, fading from view. A moment later, the humming of the machine died away, and the lights came back on.
Blackwell stood alone, acutely aware of the dead silence of this room. Slowly, he closesd his eyes. He took a deep breath, opened his eyes, stepped over to the doors, and opened it.
Braxton turned and saluted. "Major General Blackwell."
Blackwell blinkd at the gesture; the CMC was always more formal than the Army, but they did not tend to offer rank courtesies to Army officers. "...what is it, Colonel?" he asked, his muscles pinging with tension.
"I have received orders, sir," said the officer, eyes fixed somewhere over Blackwell's left shoulder. He produced the sidearm Blackwell handed over earlier and extended it to him, grip-first. "Your weapon."
Blackwell took the gun slowly, expecting Braxton to shoot him at any moment. "And what are your orders, soldier?"
"I am to assist you, sir," said Braxton. "Understand that this is completely of the CMC's own initiative, and the Boss is entirely uninterested in who ends up shouldering the blame for this fiasco." He tilted his head with the barest hint of a raised eyebrow. "And the decision of the CMC's Inquisitorial branch is that your assessment of the situation in Detroit is correct. We are offering you our full support, sir."
Blackwell froze, for a moment absolutely refusing to believe that this was anything other than a cruel prank before the end. But the punchline never came, and a mind honed by decades of survival and competition in Victoria drew connections with lightning speed.
"I concern myself with it no further," indeed, he mused, grim. In English, I'm fairly sure you pronounce that, "sink or swim, boy." Snapping out of his daze, he nodded sharply, holstering his pistol. "I have the Crusaders on my side?"
"I would actually say no, sir," said Braxton. "Their blood is up over the Moses Division. They want vengeance, and...their pride is on the line." He shrugged. "All they have that makes them special is their relative superiority to the regular Army, and your plans directly threaten that. They will never accept you. They have always lacked reliability, as far as the Inquisitors have been concerned."
Blackwell had seen some terrifying men in his life. Even so, he frankly shied away from contemplating what Braxton must have considered adequate dedication, if the Crusaders came up short. "We have a problem, then," he grumbled. "They have the guns."
"Perhaps," said Braxton. "But we, sir, have the public broadcast system."
Blackwell tilted his head. "How do you mean?"
"Victoria's weapon of last defense has always been the militia, sir," said Braxton. "Now we face a battle not for something as petty as land, but for Victoria's very soul." He folded his hands behind his back. "You have an army, sir. It simply falls to you to direct it...and let us handle the rest of it. We've been ready for something like this for a very long time."
Blackwell blanched. "The economy is already slumping just from the shock of what has happened out west. If we raise the militias — and then feed them to the Crusaders-!"
"We will survive," said Braxton, uncaring. "The people will endure. They have grown accustomed to doing so. And we will sell them the misery as deliverance. Have faith, General." He smiled slightly. "God favors us."
Blackwell hesitated for a moment. What Braxton — what the Inquisitor branch in general! — was suggesting was madness. Throwing away the last regular forces in the country and having to make do with militia only? Blacklisting the Crusaders? Blackwell was no stranger to more...political...operations, but the unwritten law in Victoria was that the CMC was protected. They were the ultimate authority. Nobody went against them.
To do this would be to gamble for Victoria's life with its very soul. Looking into Braxton's eyes, at the moment, Blackwell wasn't sure they had anything to bet with. His mouth opened, ready to tell Braxton to go to hell.
But then his memories echoed with machine gun fire, and the endless whistle of artillery shells overhead.
His mouth closed. He swallowed.
He reached out and shook Braxton's hand.
Civil war! The Crusader branch of the Christian Marine Corps has rebelled against the lawful government in Augusta. Violence began as CMC officers resisted arrests allegedly for the purpose of questioning their conduct on the front and in the planning stages of the war, and the surviving two CMC divisions followed their commanders into rebellion! Their conspirators in the Army General Staff, however, were detained with no incident. Major General Blackwell, the sole general to remain loyal, has raised the militias in a full mobilization and rallied loyalist forces to stamp out the revolt. Despite the fearsome reputation of the CMC, foreign observers predict that they will be overwhelmed swiftly by the loyalists' force of numbers. The loyalist government has sent overtures to the Commonwealth of Free Cities and the City-States of Toledo and Detroit, asking for peace negotiations. General Blackwell urged the populace in a public broadcast today to remain calm and stay strong, and trust that the mobilization will be brief. "The Army is already reforming from among the brave volunteers who have risen to cast out the Cultural Marxists infiltrating our most sacred defenders," he assured constituents. "We will stamp out this revolt by Christmas, and you may rest secure in the knowledge that once more, the brave warriors of Christ in Victoria stand between you and harm."
And with that, the campaign is over, and next update, we return to half-yearly turns.
Apparently, "hologram," is not exactly the right word for what Alex has, but it is apparently a thing these days, and even after the Collapse, I could see it being scaled up by the 2070s. And it'd make a fantastic way for him to keep Victorian subordinates off-balance.
In general, I tend to characterize Alex's attitude towards Victoria like an abusive spouse's. He is very clear on his contempt for them, and everything is always their fault (now, it usually genuinely is, but that's not really the point by now). When addressing individuals in the know in a private setting, he has absolutely zero problems letting them know exactly how little he thinks of them, and he doesn't fucking hesitate to order the CMC — which, it turns out, does not actually answer to the Victorian government — to help an ambitious general kick off a bloody civil war if that's what it takes to make Victoria useful to Russia again.
He really is a bastard. Good sense of presentation, though.
Welcome back, folks! The computer lives once more, and it's time to show off what I can really do. See y'all around the thread, and I hope you've enjoyed the update. Thanks again to @AKuz for donating the character of Blackwell. He'll be quite useful to me.
HAH!
I foresee another surge of refugees off the Victorian coast and onto the shores of Long Island. Less than 40km by boat after all.
Better Red than dead.
We can't effectively reach out and touch them yet, so entering some form of peace negotiations might be worthwhile. At least to buy ourselves some breathing space. Otherwise we'll just be on a permanent war footing until we can actually build the logistical and technological tail to get to them.
....Good god almighty, I was not expecting it to escalate into civil war. While this is a boon in the short term I am fucking terrified about what is going to happen if and when Blackewell wins. Once the CMC is gone, Blackwell has the Tsar's approval to rebuild the Vick armies into a current gen fighting force designed specifically to kill us. Once that happens, unless we can make an alliance with the NCR, Europe and anyone who hates Russia it is game over because I have no illusion about us winning against a force like that.
Good god almighty, I was not expecting it to escalate into civil war. While this is a boon in the short term I am fucking terrified about what is going to happen if and when Blackewell wins. Once the CMC is gone, Blackwell has the Tsar's approval to rebuild the Vick armies into a current gen fighting force designed specifically to kill us. Once that happens, unless we can make an alliance with the NCR, Europe and anyone who hates Russia it is game over because I have no illusion about us winning against a force like that.
We need to strongly support the CMC allied parts, as a fast victory for Blackwell is going to end up with a stronger state. If we can force a multi-year grind, or force a bloody CMC victory, the Victorian state will be out of action for quite. Every single one of their trained soldiers that falls in the civil war is one less thrown against us.
you know I always wondered what the religious composition of the commonwealth is. I know that christianity is one mahor faith, from various cannon omakes, but the idea that every non christian has been killed by victorians and neo nazis a bit hard to believe.
