The Marquise of Bordeaux sat upon his stool. A double reverse quadruple agent, a commoner amongst barons, and now, a marquise amongst representatives. The French head of Foreign Intelligence, since the Barons rule. Hailing from an indeterminate region of France, an enthusiast of sharp suits and even sharper knives. Born as a son of an alcoholic and a prostitute under the old regime, he had shot, stabbed, begged, bribed and crawled his way up the social ladder of the old tyrannical Commune. He himself had been poisoned, shot, executed, stabbed and blown up, and came out unscathed. So he was not a man to be scared easily. Indeed, he was a man who scared others easily. Even Pierre, the brave reformer who, with his contacts in the army, had re-organized the communes entire society into a democracy, feared the Marquise.
And yet now, the marquise was afraid. The news that was coming from the outlands was well
outlandish. When he had first heard it, he was inclined to believe that his contacts had gone mad. This sounds reasonable, until one realizes who these contacts were. These were thousands people who the Marquise or his closest men and women had personally found, raised (sometimes from childhood), and trained. They had kept tabs on the ROTFLs mobilization when war between the two European nations seemed likely. They had given him information on the Japan crisis, before the rest of the world had heard the phrase Mainland Japan. They had told him about Pierres rise when Pierre was still a starry-eyed Lieutenant. But what he was hearing now was much less plausible than the extremely unlikely event of thousands of reasonable and loyal operatives suddenly going insane.
But then, he heard foreign intelligence chatter reporting the same things. Throughout the outlands, regions of the world like Germany, Pakistan, the Amazon and the Congo, which remained unincorporated into the post-plague, post-collapse civilization, local people were finding functional nuclear warheads. They didnt have the capacity to launch them, but yet they were there.
He had run a basic statistical analysis program on the known warheads serial numbers, and got a rough estimate of how many of them there were: 6 million. That didnt make sense. It was literally impossible. If the entire world spent all of its resource output, with its best technology, into making nuclear warheads, it could not make that many. Even at the height of the Twilight Struggle between the US and USSR, there had not been that many nuclear warheads in the world. And yet, here they were. They shouldnt exist, but they do, and it was no longer possible to deny that.
The Marquise knew what this meant. Nothing on Earth could have made these devices. Only a cosmic superpower could have covertly seeded the plants surface with nuclear bombs. This was an extraterrestrial invasion, of the most baffling sort. These bombs were well within the means of even the smallest rouge state. Even Vinland, whose lunatic leadership had recently declared war on half the world, could easily obtain an arsenal that would rival the size of the old Soviet Unions. Whatever planted them here wanted us to find them, and to use them. To use them to annihilate each other, without it having to even lift a finger.
However, right now, there was an even more pressing issue. France needed to be safe from the oncoming nuclear storm. The Marquise loved his country for what it could become. He also hated it for what it had done to him. And right now, he needed to find a plan to save it from an arsenal capable of sterilizing the planet.
An emergency meeting of the French High Council had been summoned. Select politicians, military leaders and scientists assembled in the War Room. President Pierre entered in simple workmans clothes, a man of the people to the end.
Marquise: You have three listning devices on you, Pierre, one of which is planted by a foreign intelligence service. Two are attached to the bottom of your briefcase, and one is designed to appear like a button on your jacket.
Pierre: Good morning to you to. You have five listening devices on you, two of which are foreign. Check the bottom of your chair, and the handle of your coffee cup. Their both hollow.
The Marquise blushed, realizing that Pierre was right. No wonder the general was still alive, he knew the tradecraft as well as the experts. A wheelchair rolled into the room, bearing Dr. Robert De Sade, the head of the French nuclear program. The good doctor was physically crippled by Alien hand syndrome (
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alien_hand_syndrome) in the left side of his body (hand and leg), but mentally, he was a genius, especially on the topic of everything radioactive. He spoke with a vaguely Germanic accent as he greeted the others assembled in the room.
Joan, Speaker of the opposition, head of the Socialist Party and brilliant Southern French industrialist rounded out the list of French powers that be, gathered in the room. In addition to her, a heavily encrypted signal livestreamed a video message of Anna Foster, a spy currently located on a small tundra island in the Hudson bay, where one warhead had been found. The warhead proudly bore the serial number 4320071 and had no other markings.
Marquise: Ladies and Gentlemen. The topic of our assembly currently sits behind Ms. Foster, on an island near the border of the rouge state of Vinland. There are at least 4 million, probably 6 million such devices scattered throughout the world.
De Sade: Sir, vith all due respect. Zat is impossible. Zere is not enough enriched uranium in ze vorld to produce half zat number.
Marquise: And yet, I have numerous sources, internal and foreign, corroborating this. Please, look at the briefing folders in front of you. Within them are numerous images, tapes and transcripts that match the information currently being shown on screen.
(to be continued
)