Patriotic_Fool
The Mitt ©
Tech theft needs to be one specific tech. it was so lame for someone to steal ALL my advanced techs.
*sniffle*
*sniffle*
Multipolarity II - Game Thread
- Thread starter Tani Coyote
- Start date
Thorvald of Lym
A Little Sketchy
Second-last pre-Epilogue sequence. This is also based on RP intended during the game; it's not particularly inspired, but I wanted one more scene with the anonymous government officer before we find out who he is.
The final demo was, by all accounts, anticlimactic. A sheet of metal, tinted dull-green, was held in a brace while a technician pummelled it with a sledgehammer. They watched quietly as the worker struck again and again. He had a good swing regardless of any invisible augmentations; but the metal proved resilient, and despite his best attempts, he was unable to dent it.
“Alright, you can take a break,” called the foreman after a few minutes. “Feng! Feng!” He waved his arms; the man set down the hammer and pulled one of the mufflers off his ear. “You can stop now,?” he laughed. The worker gave one forlorn look at the sample, then picked up the hammer and wandered over to the other technicians. The foreman turned back to his guest. “So, there you have it.”
“I must say, I am impressed,” the man nodded lightly.
“We call it silksteel, in recognition of its tensile strength. It’s pretty much carbonan in plate form, but a thousand times cheaper. R&D had been experimenting with a similar alloy decades earlier; we picked up from where they left off. In combat, it’ll offer the same level of protection as current armour for a little over a third of the weight; it might just be the answer to the FTZ problem.”
“Forget the military; its industrial applications will be innumerable.”
“Will?” he repeated, lighting up.
The man smirked. “If you can get this into mass production as soon as you claim, it’ll kick aerospace back into gear. It’s lightweight and durable under pressure; the space programme was looking for this before it knew it needed to.”
“Well, that’s—aah!” he hissed sharply, throwing his palm over his left eye. “Damn implant’s acting up again,” he explained. He breathed deeply for a few moments, then lowered his arm, winking profusely.
“You haven’t had it checked out?”
“Ever since SynTec folded, it’s been impossible to get new parts. We’ve had to scrounge through third parties for refurbished components. Sometimes they’re decent, sometimes...” he sighed. “And they never seem to last long.”
“If only nanotech was catching up as fast as your team,” he mused, looking over to the sheet. “The Director-General thinks manned missions will resume by the end of the year.”
“You’re kidding,” he sputtered. Then, lowering his voice, he continued: “Is it that bad?”
The man put his hand on the foreman’s shoulder and led him out of the hangar and down the hall. “You recall the Skynet calibration tests five years ago?”
“You mean how ABM command was playing tic-tac-toe with marauder bases? Officially, those never happened,” he grinned.
“Indeed. And officially, those satellites aren’t being replaced in expectation of nuclear escalation.”
The foreman frowned, thinking. His guest watched as he struggled through the logic maze. Diplomatically, China was as involved in Europe as Tippett was in global welfare, i.e. not at all. They had no alliance commitments (that he knew of, at least), and if Skynet needed replacement it wouldn’t be candidate for intercontinental point-defence anyway. The Empire, then? If they were following in the Mad King’s footsteps, nuclear holocaust would be legislated as a First Course of Action. But no, even with bombs, the Empire had remained a surprisingly low priority in military planning. So what could it be?
The switch from confusion to incredulity was met by the other man with a satisfied exhalation. “But it’s ludicrous!” the worker protested, “They have literally no cause to—”
“It?s not about what we have or haven’t done. All that matters is what we might do. We have the ear of a sizeable portion of the world, and they suspect, quite rightly, that we do not condone their actions.”
“And they honestly think an attack will ingratiate themselves to the rest of the world?”
“Be glad you’re not privy to the memos floating about External Affairs at the moment. They recognize they’ve lost all hope for reconciliation, so now they’ve switched to survival mode. They will eliminate anything and everything they deem a threat, and they prefer to do it while the world is still largely divided.” He turned to face the foreman; for the first time during that visit, the faint smile had completely vanished. “He is not a sane man. He will come for us; sooner, rather than later.”
They passed through a set of double doors into the backyard of the complex. Only a few metres away, the pavement ended and the forest spread off into the horizon.
“...I should qualify,” he said after a moment. “He’ll come for us if affairs are allowed to continue as they are. If Europe breaks. If the opposition remains fragmented. If,” he paused for emphasis, grin returning, “The armies are still reading from their individual playbooks.”
The foreman began chuckling the way one does when recalling an inside joke. “Now I’m starting to see where I fit into all of this... Silksteel is going to make us trillionaires, isn?t it?”
“That, ultimately, depends on whether CEMOS is still viable, but you have the right idea.” The man cast his gaze skyward, slipping his hands into his suit pockets. “There’s a storm brewing,” he muttered. The sky was clear, and the sun shone brightly in that early afternoon. If the foreman did not know his guest as well as he did, he might have dismissed the statement as purely metaphorical.
Instead, he asked: “Where’s it headed?”
He licked his finger and held it aloft. “West,” he declared.
They turned back toward the facility. “I went to Europe once,” said the foreman, “Before the Cataclysm. Special school trip one year. Stayed a couple of nights with a family in Italy. It was the year when that weird snowstorm happened.”
“‘92.”
“Got caught right in the thick of it. Delayed our departure for three days while they tried to dig out the airport. ...That was the storm that triggered the revolts in Halychya, wasn’t it?”
“Because the government’s emergency response was itself a disaster, yes.”
“And that’s what eventually spiralled into the Proszłow-Jilechenko Crisis... I don’t know why I thought of that just now.”
“It’s my fault; I got us distracted with the weather,” he gave a short, submissive bow. “Now, let’s go fashion some umbrellas.”
The final demo was, by all accounts, anticlimactic. A sheet of metal, tinted dull-green, was held in a brace while a technician pummelled it with a sledgehammer. They watched quietly as the worker struck again and again. He had a good swing regardless of any invisible augmentations; but the metal proved resilient, and despite his best attempts, he was unable to dent it.
“Alright, you can take a break,” called the foreman after a few minutes. “Feng! Feng!” He waved his arms; the man set down the hammer and pulled one of the mufflers off his ear. “You can stop now,?” he laughed. The worker gave one forlorn look at the sample, then picked up the hammer and wandered over to the other technicians. The foreman turned back to his guest. “So, there you have it.”
“I must say, I am impressed,” the man nodded lightly.
“We call it silksteel, in recognition of its tensile strength. It’s pretty much carbonan in plate form, but a thousand times cheaper. R&D had been experimenting with a similar alloy decades earlier; we picked up from where they left off. In combat, it’ll offer the same level of protection as current armour for a little over a third of the weight; it might just be the answer to the FTZ problem.”
“Forget the military; its industrial applications will be innumerable.”
“Will?” he repeated, lighting up.
The man smirked. “If you can get this into mass production as soon as you claim, it’ll kick aerospace back into gear. It’s lightweight and durable under pressure; the space programme was looking for this before it knew it needed to.”
“Well, that’s—aah!” he hissed sharply, throwing his palm over his left eye. “Damn implant’s acting up again,” he explained. He breathed deeply for a few moments, then lowered his arm, winking profusely.
“You haven’t had it checked out?”
“Ever since SynTec folded, it’s been impossible to get new parts. We’ve had to scrounge through third parties for refurbished components. Sometimes they’re decent, sometimes...” he sighed. “And they never seem to last long.”
“If only nanotech was catching up as fast as your team,” he mused, looking over to the sheet. “The Director-General thinks manned missions will resume by the end of the year.”
“You’re kidding,” he sputtered. Then, lowering his voice, he continued: “Is it that bad?”
The man put his hand on the foreman’s shoulder and led him out of the hangar and down the hall. “You recall the Skynet calibration tests five years ago?”
“You mean how ABM command was playing tic-tac-toe with marauder bases? Officially, those never happened,” he grinned.
“Indeed. And officially, those satellites aren’t being replaced in expectation of nuclear escalation.”
The foreman frowned, thinking. His guest watched as he struggled through the logic maze. Diplomatically, China was as involved in Europe as Tippett was in global welfare, i.e. not at all. They had no alliance commitments (that he knew of, at least), and if Skynet needed replacement it wouldn’t be candidate for intercontinental point-defence anyway. The Empire, then? If they were following in the Mad King’s footsteps, nuclear holocaust would be legislated as a First Course of Action. But no, even with bombs, the Empire had remained a surprisingly low priority in military planning. So what could it be?
The switch from confusion to incredulity was met by the other man with a satisfied exhalation. “But it’s ludicrous!” the worker protested, “They have literally no cause to—”
“It?s not about what we have or haven’t done. All that matters is what we might do. We have the ear of a sizeable portion of the world, and they suspect, quite rightly, that we do not condone their actions.”
“And they honestly think an attack will ingratiate themselves to the rest of the world?”
“Be glad you’re not privy to the memos floating about External Affairs at the moment. They recognize they’ve lost all hope for reconciliation, so now they’ve switched to survival mode. They will eliminate anything and everything they deem a threat, and they prefer to do it while the world is still largely divided.” He turned to face the foreman; for the first time during that visit, the faint smile had completely vanished. “He is not a sane man. He will come for us; sooner, rather than later.”
They passed through a set of double doors into the backyard of the complex. Only a few metres away, the pavement ended and the forest spread off into the horizon.
“...I should qualify,” he said after a moment. “He’ll come for us if affairs are allowed to continue as they are. If Europe breaks. If the opposition remains fragmented. If,” he paused for emphasis, grin returning, “The armies are still reading from their individual playbooks.”
The foreman began chuckling the way one does when recalling an inside joke. “Now I’m starting to see where I fit into all of this... Silksteel is going to make us trillionaires, isn?t it?”
“That, ultimately, depends on whether CEMOS is still viable, but you have the right idea.” The man cast his gaze skyward, slipping his hands into his suit pockets. “There’s a storm brewing,” he muttered. The sky was clear, and the sun shone brightly in that early afternoon. If the foreman did not know his guest as well as he did, he might have dismissed the statement as purely metaphorical.
Instead, he asked: “Where’s it headed?”
He licked his finger and held it aloft. “West,” he declared.
They turned back toward the facility. “I went to Europe once,” said the foreman, “Before the Cataclysm. Special school trip one year. Stayed a couple of nights with a family in Italy. It was the year when that weird snowstorm happened.”
“‘92.”
“Got caught right in the thick of it. Delayed our departure for three days while they tried to dig out the airport. ...That was the storm that triggered the revolts in Halychya, wasn’t it?”
“Because the government’s emergency response was itself a disaster, yes.”
“And that’s what eventually spiralled into the Proszłow-Jilechenko Crisis... I don’t know why I thought of that just now.”
“It’s my fault; I got us distracted with the weather,” he gave a short, submissive bow. “Now, let’s go fashion some umbrellas.”
Last edited:
Tani Coyote
Son of Huehuecoyotl
- Joined
- May 28, 2007
- Messages
- 15,194
I look forward to seeing where this is going indeed...
Hopefully they don't try to go back in time, causing a butterfly effect that creates MP3.
Hopefully they don't try to go back in time, causing a butterfly effect that creates MP3.
Thorvald of Lym
A Little Sketchy
When Einstein did it, it was original. When Zelinsky did it, EA was bankrupt for ideas.Hopefully they don't try to go back in time, causing a butterfly effect that creates MP3.
Daedwartin
Emperor
- Joined
- Jan 6, 2012
- Messages
- 1,785
incorrect. EA doesn't care about anything but ze pocketbook. so they buy lucritive franchises, then destroy them. Command and Conquer for example.
Then their original games they meddle in so much they get destroyed. Mass Effect, Spore...oh god...the 2005 version would have been so much better, also that DRM crap, 80% of their products.
Then they release annually new version of the same game with a few new features...and the game looks identical to the last. EA Sports.
Then they meddle with good ideas some more. their MO.
then release the newest madden version.
Then they continue the DRM crap.
then they run out of ideas for the 80th time..oh wait. they didnt have an idea to begin with. they steal them. to ruin good games.
then get in trouble for forcing 100-hour work weeks.
Thorvald of Lym
A Little Sketchy
Like I said: bankrupt for ideas. 
This next piece has been patiently waiting on the proverbial shelf for God-knows-how-long. It was actually completed before some of the RP during the game's formal run, but I was specifically saving it for a special occasion, probably something involving christos. I was going to wait until I'd emerged from my current deluge of work to post this so I could get the epilogue proper underway lickety-split, but given everything's backlogged so bad it might take me another week, Imma release it early as much for my morale as yours.
MP1 vets probably saw this coming.
The maglev decelerated to a smooth stop. Two seconds later, the car doors parted and the passengers began to file out. She took her time, leisurely casting her glance over the heads of the commuters, down both ends of the track that stretched into the desert fore and aft. Not so long ago, these trains were a common sight in China and much of the rest of the world; now, like so much else, they had fallen into disrepair, communities isolated by broken rails. That an operational line remained this far out into the frontier was virtually unheard of; maglevs were especially vulnerable to marauder raids, and even in the core districts, infrastructure had so deteriorated that transit often had to fall back on more traditional engines.
By now the platform was crowding as arrivals and departures commingled, and she threaded her way through the throng and out into the street. She was the sort of individual who could easily draw attention; independent of her conspicuous attire and striking physical appearance was an aura that resonated sheer authority. Yet she was equally talented in making herself invisible, as circumstances required or mere whims desired, and passersby took at most a cursory notice of her before returning their minds to other things.
She strode casually but determinedly along the sidewalk, the wandering eye of a tourist juxtaposed with the navigational precision of a local. Most of the people outdoors were either on foot or cycling, the trickle of vehicular traffic comprising makes and models decades old; she saw one legacy model that must have been at least two hundred years retired, refitted, likely more than a dozen times, with a contemporary engine; the hobby of a true afficionado. The town as a whole had a rustic feel to it, newer buildings trying to mimic the architectural aesthetic of their surrounding structures, which in turn harkened back to a bygone era.
Off in the distance, nestled between the foothills, a large dome glinted faintly with reflected sunlight. Arcologies could be a blessing or a curse to border towns: they were a multi-billion-dollar project, and formed the cornerstone of the International Space Programme’s efforts prior to the cataclysm. They were also crucial test centres for Revivicación, the ongoing initiative to halt, and possibly one day reverse, the dramatic environmental degradation precipitated by a millennium of on-and-off atomic warfare. But the resources and technology within the complexes made them prime targets for marauder raids, and even before the Fourth Cataclysm, various short-sighted anarchist groups began strategic attacks on a number of sites to further their ideological goals.
No-one knew how many centres still existed in a salvageable state worldwide, but their numbers had been on steep decline since the collapse. Saving the remaining arcos was the government’s top priority, and Xining was deploying troops to both the border and beyond to protect them as fast as it could levy. Consequently, towns like these benefitted from a strong military presence; she could see for herself, teams of soldiers nonchalantly patrolling the streets, assault rifles slung over their shoulders. Initially, bolstering local militia with government regulars was enough to deter marauder attacks; but intelligence indicated a buildup across the board, as though some central authority was now co-ordinating their actions. Rumours abounded; the popular conspiracy was it was a covert operation by the Imperials, but even they wouldn’t be politically suicidal enough to slash-and-burn such a crucial UN legacy.
She chuckled to herself. Would the UN still have a legacy in a thousand years? Tippett had inflicted more damage on the world in his one short term than almost anyone else in the previous cycle, and he did it entirely without weapons. Today, the international community was rife with his disciples, leaders content to pretend the previous millennium had never occurred, happy to let their personal squabbles shout out any meaningful agenda. The Tower of Babel was one of her favourite Semitic fables, but for all the heretical reasons: a united humanity on the threshold of transcendence is driven to factionalism by a jealous, tyrannical god clinging to absolute power. How many times had the tragedy repeated itself? How many little gods had struggled to hold back their people? They came so close this time, too... But if there was one characteristic of humanity she could admire, it was that stubborn determination to pick itself up and try again. Babel never mentions that.
She stopped at one of the town’s few streetlights. As she waited for the go-ahead, she withdrew a photograph from her inside coat pocket. It was old, centuries old, the lamination cracked and the picture itself somewhat faded. It wasn’t rare by any means; she knew she could always acquire a new copy from the archives, and it would be in better resolution to boot. But this particular picture was clipped from the paper the day of, 11 June 2166. She wasn’t prone to sentimentality—her kind rarely handled it well—but the photo, and what it represented, held symbolic power. True, it was a snapshot of the interregnum, and those smiles later turned to tears; but they held fast to their mission, each of them, and ultimately they emerged victorious. From a holistic perspective, this was when the nation was founded.
Jianguo Deming. He thought he would die in exile. Instead, he became the Union’s first president. He thought himself too timid, yet beneath his humble public image beat the heart of a tiger. He’d wanted to stay and fight, to defend his office with his own life. Fortunately she talked him out of it; he would have made a lousy soldier, but he proved a statesman without equal, stewarding China through the GUNS War and into the Age of Peace.
Huiqing Da. The exile had not been so kind to him. Four separate attempts were made on his life, and even after the liberation he was hounded by monarchist extremists. He did not resume party politics on his return, but remained a revered civil servant for the rest of his life, chairing the UN Human Rights Committee for eight years straight.
Lan Xiurong. In a weird way, the war had been fortunate for her: occupied with the post-liberation restructuring, she had escaped the fate of other UN delegates when GUNS razed the building, and served as a poster child for rallying support amongst the outraged nations. She remained one of the most iconic and charismatic faces of the government, and at the age of 53, became the Union’s first, and China’s second-ever, female prime minister.
Zixin Ru. The rookie staffer, after dabbling in a dozen departments in mounting capacities, eventually rose to preside over the Pan-Asiatic League in the aftermath of the GUNS War, helping to rebuild the shattered continent after decades of uncountable strife and suffering.
Fred Serviss. The diplomat resigned from his post in 2173 after Oz refused to stand up to the CRF insurrection. When civil war erupted in 2182, he fled to India, eventually obtaining citizenship and remaining there until he died. He signed on with, and for a few years chaired the International Climatological Commission, the body that would eventually develop Revivicación.
Lastly, of course, herself. Everyone else in that photo became legends in their own right, but she was positively mythological. Literally and figuratively, she smirked. Her exit from the global spotlight had been a necessity, and now, centuries later, the world wasn’t sure how much of her saga was fact or fiction. Many believed she never existed; an icon of the organization, a fantastic figurehead. Others thought she was real, but the beneficiary of an exorbitant propaganda campaign, not some supernatural entity. Some confused the timeline and posited her as an expat Demon whose talents were exaggerated by later scholars into the figure known today. Foreigners invoked her name with the same deference as one would address an elder god. It amused her to no end; she liked to think she was much more personable.
At home, however, her identity was an open secret. The cult that had built up around her and her organization was thoroughly tongue-in-cheek. They would expound about her in glowing terms to the tourists that invariably inquired, all the while flashing knowing smiles between themselves. Not to say the reverence wasn’t genuine, far from it; though she was a fairy tale to the rest of the world, the Chinese knew she was still active behind the scenes, the bedrock of the state apparatus, the guardian of the ideal. She was, in many ways, the nation’s founder, and remained its most faithful servant.
The light changed. She replaced the photo and crossed the street, steering down a side road. And now we face our old foe again. Speaking of little gods... Had she any respect for Beijing University under its new management, she might have felt slighted by her glaring absence from Professor Sin’s historical revisionism. Instead, she was strangely satisfied. They were terrified of her; terrified she would come back; terrified she would smite them as she smote their icon all those centuries ago. Perhaps they recognized the irony that they owed their current existence to her, as well: she had advised the president against pursuing military action, although she could barely remember why. Even as they sought to reconstruct a mass-murderer as a martyr, they knew there was one line they dare not cross.
She had to hand it to the Empire, maintaining so self-denunciative a legacy was no small effort. They even purported to have restored the bloodline! She supposed it was possible they found some distant heir: there had never been news that the queen had borne Otto a child, and Liang disassociated herself from him after his arrest; but who was to say how, or with whom, the king spent his leisure time? An illegitimate child for an illegitimate régime, she mused. It did fit with the Empire’s desperate scramble to piece together an identity. Such a fact would be rigorously suppressed, of course; they had already irreparably damaged their international reputation, and now it was merely a question of how deep they chose to dig their grave.
But, for all their posturing, the Imperials were a minor annoyance, a single node in the vast and delicate web of world order. Presently, she was in the middle of a balancing act that spanned continents, employed dozens of nations, and had at stake the very survival of the planet. Regardless of whatever else she thought of Friedrich Hegel, she hoped he was right that the ultimate human sum was positive; as karmic cycles went, they were in the midst of a thoroughly depressing trough. The present political paradox was one of the most curious she had ever witnessed: the old order was the future, and the new order the past. Well. The vanguard has a fresh generation ourselves.
She came upon a local restaurant directly off the sidewalk. Its single door was propped open, and she turned inside without breaking step, halting only when she was off the street. It was a small shop, with barely eight separate tables, well-illuminated by the outdoor light. A local music station played softly through a portable radio. A man behind the counter gave a short, reverent bow; she grinned, nodding in return. She spied her objective at the far end of the room, seated at the corner table, reading the newspaper. The Deputy Director-General, jack-of-all-trades of the civil service, was purported (quite accurately) to have his hands on all the nuts and bolts of the state apparatus. They were quite alike, she and he, both zealously committed to the Federation’s dream, unyielding in the pursuit of that brilliant horizon. He had a similar knack for visibility, and at the moment had chosen to be noticed, his immaculate suit juxtaposing him against the humble store. She made her way over; his face lit up as he caught sight of her, and he quickly but precisely folded up the paper.
“Hi, Mom!”
This next piece has been patiently waiting on the proverbial shelf for God-knows-how-long. It was actually completed before some of the RP during the game's formal run, but I was specifically saving it for a special occasion, probably something involving christos. I was going to wait until I'd emerged from my current deluge of work to post this so I could get the epilogue proper underway lickety-split, but given everything's backlogged so bad it might take me another week, Imma release it early as much for my morale as yours.
MP1 vets probably saw this coming.
The maglev decelerated to a smooth stop. Two seconds later, the car doors parted and the passengers began to file out. She took her time, leisurely casting her glance over the heads of the commuters, down both ends of the track that stretched into the desert fore and aft. Not so long ago, these trains were a common sight in China and much of the rest of the world; now, like so much else, they had fallen into disrepair, communities isolated by broken rails. That an operational line remained this far out into the frontier was virtually unheard of; maglevs were especially vulnerable to marauder raids, and even in the core districts, infrastructure had so deteriorated that transit often had to fall back on more traditional engines.
By now the platform was crowding as arrivals and departures commingled, and she threaded her way through the throng and out into the street. She was the sort of individual who could easily draw attention; independent of her conspicuous attire and striking physical appearance was an aura that resonated sheer authority. Yet she was equally talented in making herself invisible, as circumstances required or mere whims desired, and passersby took at most a cursory notice of her before returning their minds to other things.
She strode casually but determinedly along the sidewalk, the wandering eye of a tourist juxtaposed with the navigational precision of a local. Most of the people outdoors were either on foot or cycling, the trickle of vehicular traffic comprising makes and models decades old; she saw one legacy model that must have been at least two hundred years retired, refitted, likely more than a dozen times, with a contemporary engine; the hobby of a true afficionado. The town as a whole had a rustic feel to it, newer buildings trying to mimic the architectural aesthetic of their surrounding structures, which in turn harkened back to a bygone era.
Off in the distance, nestled between the foothills, a large dome glinted faintly with reflected sunlight. Arcologies could be a blessing or a curse to border towns: they were a multi-billion-dollar project, and formed the cornerstone of the International Space Programme’s efforts prior to the cataclysm. They were also crucial test centres for Revivicación, the ongoing initiative to halt, and possibly one day reverse, the dramatic environmental degradation precipitated by a millennium of on-and-off atomic warfare. But the resources and technology within the complexes made them prime targets for marauder raids, and even before the Fourth Cataclysm, various short-sighted anarchist groups began strategic attacks on a number of sites to further their ideological goals.
No-one knew how many centres still existed in a salvageable state worldwide, but their numbers had been on steep decline since the collapse. Saving the remaining arcos was the government’s top priority, and Xining was deploying troops to both the border and beyond to protect them as fast as it could levy. Consequently, towns like these benefitted from a strong military presence; she could see for herself, teams of soldiers nonchalantly patrolling the streets, assault rifles slung over their shoulders. Initially, bolstering local militia with government regulars was enough to deter marauder attacks; but intelligence indicated a buildup across the board, as though some central authority was now co-ordinating their actions. Rumours abounded; the popular conspiracy was it was a covert operation by the Imperials, but even they wouldn’t be politically suicidal enough to slash-and-burn such a crucial UN legacy.
She chuckled to herself. Would the UN still have a legacy in a thousand years? Tippett had inflicted more damage on the world in his one short term than almost anyone else in the previous cycle, and he did it entirely without weapons. Today, the international community was rife with his disciples, leaders content to pretend the previous millennium had never occurred, happy to let their personal squabbles shout out any meaningful agenda. The Tower of Babel was one of her favourite Semitic fables, but for all the heretical reasons: a united humanity on the threshold of transcendence is driven to factionalism by a jealous, tyrannical god clinging to absolute power. How many times had the tragedy repeated itself? How many little gods had struggled to hold back their people? They came so close this time, too... But if there was one characteristic of humanity she could admire, it was that stubborn determination to pick itself up and try again. Babel never mentions that.
She stopped at one of the town’s few streetlights. As she waited for the go-ahead, she withdrew a photograph from her inside coat pocket. It was old, centuries old, the lamination cracked and the picture itself somewhat faded. It wasn’t rare by any means; she knew she could always acquire a new copy from the archives, and it would be in better resolution to boot. But this particular picture was clipped from the paper the day of, 11 June 2166. She wasn’t prone to sentimentality—her kind rarely handled it well—but the photo, and what it represented, held symbolic power. True, it was a snapshot of the interregnum, and those smiles later turned to tears; but they held fast to their mission, each of them, and ultimately they emerged victorious. From a holistic perspective, this was when the nation was founded.
Jianguo Deming. He thought he would die in exile. Instead, he became the Union’s first president. He thought himself too timid, yet beneath his humble public image beat the heart of a tiger. He’d wanted to stay and fight, to defend his office with his own life. Fortunately she talked him out of it; he would have made a lousy soldier, but he proved a statesman without equal, stewarding China through the GUNS War and into the Age of Peace.
Huiqing Da. The exile had not been so kind to him. Four separate attempts were made on his life, and even after the liberation he was hounded by monarchist extremists. He did not resume party politics on his return, but remained a revered civil servant for the rest of his life, chairing the UN Human Rights Committee for eight years straight.
Lan Xiurong. In a weird way, the war had been fortunate for her: occupied with the post-liberation restructuring, she had escaped the fate of other UN delegates when GUNS razed the building, and served as a poster child for rallying support amongst the outraged nations. She remained one of the most iconic and charismatic faces of the government, and at the age of 53, became the Union’s first, and China’s second-ever, female prime minister.
Zixin Ru. The rookie staffer, after dabbling in a dozen departments in mounting capacities, eventually rose to preside over the Pan-Asiatic League in the aftermath of the GUNS War, helping to rebuild the shattered continent after decades of uncountable strife and suffering.
Fred Serviss. The diplomat resigned from his post in 2173 after Oz refused to stand up to the CRF insurrection. When civil war erupted in 2182, he fled to India, eventually obtaining citizenship and remaining there until he died. He signed on with, and for a few years chaired the International Climatological Commission, the body that would eventually develop Revivicación.
Lastly, of course, herself. Everyone else in that photo became legends in their own right, but she was positively mythological. Literally and figuratively, she smirked. Her exit from the global spotlight had been a necessity, and now, centuries later, the world wasn’t sure how much of her saga was fact or fiction. Many believed she never existed; an icon of the organization, a fantastic figurehead. Others thought she was real, but the beneficiary of an exorbitant propaganda campaign, not some supernatural entity. Some confused the timeline and posited her as an expat Demon whose talents were exaggerated by later scholars into the figure known today. Foreigners invoked her name with the same deference as one would address an elder god. It amused her to no end; she liked to think she was much more personable.
At home, however, her identity was an open secret. The cult that had built up around her and her organization was thoroughly tongue-in-cheek. They would expound about her in glowing terms to the tourists that invariably inquired, all the while flashing knowing smiles between themselves. Not to say the reverence wasn’t genuine, far from it; though she was a fairy tale to the rest of the world, the Chinese knew she was still active behind the scenes, the bedrock of the state apparatus, the guardian of the ideal. She was, in many ways, the nation’s founder, and remained its most faithful servant.
The light changed. She replaced the photo and crossed the street, steering down a side road. And now we face our old foe again. Speaking of little gods... Had she any respect for Beijing University under its new management, she might have felt slighted by her glaring absence from Professor Sin’s historical revisionism. Instead, she was strangely satisfied. They were terrified of her; terrified she would come back; terrified she would smite them as she smote their icon all those centuries ago. Perhaps they recognized the irony that they owed their current existence to her, as well: she had advised the president against pursuing military action, although she could barely remember why. Even as they sought to reconstruct a mass-murderer as a martyr, they knew there was one line they dare not cross.
She had to hand it to the Empire, maintaining so self-denunciative a legacy was no small effort. They even purported to have restored the bloodline! She supposed it was possible they found some distant heir: there had never been news that the queen had borne Otto a child, and Liang disassociated herself from him after his arrest; but who was to say how, or with whom, the king spent his leisure time? An illegitimate child for an illegitimate régime, she mused. It did fit with the Empire’s desperate scramble to piece together an identity. Such a fact would be rigorously suppressed, of course; they had already irreparably damaged their international reputation, and now it was merely a question of how deep they chose to dig their grave.
But, for all their posturing, the Imperials were a minor annoyance, a single node in the vast and delicate web of world order. Presently, she was in the middle of a balancing act that spanned continents, employed dozens of nations, and had at stake the very survival of the planet. Regardless of whatever else she thought of Friedrich Hegel, she hoped he was right that the ultimate human sum was positive; as karmic cycles went, they were in the midst of a thoroughly depressing trough. The present political paradox was one of the most curious she had ever witnessed: the old order was the future, and the new order the past. Well. The vanguard has a fresh generation ourselves.
She came upon a local restaurant directly off the sidewalk. Its single door was propped open, and she turned inside without breaking step, halting only when she was off the street. It was a small shop, with barely eight separate tables, well-illuminated by the outdoor light. A local music station played softly through a portable radio. A man behind the counter gave a short, reverent bow; she grinned, nodding in return. She spied her objective at the far end of the room, seated at the corner table, reading the newspaper. The Deputy Director-General, jack-of-all-trades of the civil service, was purported (quite accurately) to have his hands on all the nuts and bolts of the state apparatus. They were quite alike, she and he, both zealously committed to the Federation’s dream, unyielding in the pursuit of that brilliant horizon. He had a similar knack for visibility, and at the moment had chosen to be noticed, his immaculate suit juxtaposing him against the humble store. She made her way over; his face lit up as he caught sight of her, and he quickly but precisely folded up the paper.
“Hi, Mom!”
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Thorvald of Lym
A Little Sketchy
Philanthropy blacklists Russia
14 September 3017
MINSK: In the most high-profile condemnation of the war against Partitionania to date, the Philanthropy corporation has blacklisted the Soviet Union over last month's civilian firebombings. Denouncing the attack against non-combatants as an "unequivocal war crime", the chief executive voted yesterday to implement immediate sanctions against Russia, including revoking standing contracts with the Soviets, blocking future investment from Moscow, and voiding the government's stock in the company.
Philanthropy released a written statement elaborating the decision: "Our aim is to provide countries with comprehensive public relations and humanitarian investment services. While we do not habitually qualify clients based on the perceived ethics of their policies, we cannot in good conscience maintain a partnership with the Soviet Union when its actions so clearly conflict with our mission. Philanthropy can state with confidence that we have made no direct contribution to the Soviet war effort; nevertheless, out of respect for international opinion, and in the interest of preserving the trust held by existing and potential clients, we are severing all ties with the Soviet government."
Suggestions the blacklist may be expanded to the entire Diamond Coalition have been neither confirmed nor denied.
The political consequences have yet to be determined. Leaked candid conversations from key Soviet politicians revealed Moscow had contemplated an invasion of Belarus in a bid to seize control of the company some years before. With Philanthropy taking a side in the conflict at a time when Russian belligerence is steadily escalating, an armed response is a distinct possibility.
The United Allied Forces were quick to support the censure, stating that "the unprecedented Soviet spending abroad in the last two years should not be mistaken for altruism. Russian foreign policy has consistently disregarded international opinion and demonstrated contempt for the sovereignty of its own allies. Given the Soviet Union's inability to establish meaningful bilateral ties through trust and co-operation, its only recourse has been to buy loyalty through extensive propaganda campaigns. [...] Any retaliatory action [taken by Russia against Belarus] will only prove Russia's interest in Philanthropy is for improving its military standing vis-à-vis Partitionania and her supporters."
Russian media has denounced the blacklist as "criminal", "unjustified", and "plain-faced robbery". Moscow has yet to make an official response.
Recently-gained Soviet client states are already expressing reservations over the conditions for investment and diplomatic support from Moscow. Regardless of direct losses incurred by Philanthropy's withdrawal from Russia, the censure is expected to further damage the Soviets' abysmal international reputation.
European Consolidated Press
14 September 3017
MINSK: In the most high-profile condemnation of the war against Partitionania to date, the Philanthropy corporation has blacklisted the Soviet Union over last month's civilian firebombings. Denouncing the attack against non-combatants as an "unequivocal war crime", the chief executive voted yesterday to implement immediate sanctions against Russia, including revoking standing contracts with the Soviets, blocking future investment from Moscow, and voiding the government's stock in the company.
Philanthropy released a written statement elaborating the decision: "Our aim is to provide countries with comprehensive public relations and humanitarian investment services. While we do not habitually qualify clients based on the perceived ethics of their policies, we cannot in good conscience maintain a partnership with the Soviet Union when its actions so clearly conflict with our mission. Philanthropy can state with confidence that we have made no direct contribution to the Soviet war effort; nevertheless, out of respect for international opinion, and in the interest of preserving the trust held by existing and potential clients, we are severing all ties with the Soviet government."
Suggestions the blacklist may be expanded to the entire Diamond Coalition have been neither confirmed nor denied.
The political consequences have yet to be determined. Leaked candid conversations from key Soviet politicians revealed Moscow had contemplated an invasion of Belarus in a bid to seize control of the company some years before. With Philanthropy taking a side in the conflict at a time when Russian belligerence is steadily escalating, an armed response is a distinct possibility.
The United Allied Forces were quick to support the censure, stating that "the unprecedented Soviet spending abroad in the last two years should not be mistaken for altruism. Russian foreign policy has consistently disregarded international opinion and demonstrated contempt for the sovereignty of its own allies. Given the Soviet Union's inability to establish meaningful bilateral ties through trust and co-operation, its only recourse has been to buy loyalty through extensive propaganda campaigns. [...] Any retaliatory action [taken by Russia against Belarus] will only prove Russia's interest in Philanthropy is for improving its military standing vis-à-vis Partitionania and her supporters."
Russian media has denounced the blacklist as "criminal", "unjustified", and "plain-faced robbery". Moscow has yet to make an official response.
Recently-gained Soviet client states are already expressing reservations over the conditions for investment and diplomatic support from Moscow. Regardless of direct losses incurred by Philanthropy's withdrawal from Russia, the censure is expected to further damage the Soviets' abysmal international reputation.
European Consolidated Press
Thorvald of Lym
A Little Sketchy
We are here, because you were there.
The leaking remains of the ill-fated South Atlantic Fleet crept back into Murmansk with the freshly-reconstituted Angolan Navy hot on its heels. The crew barely had time to disembark before marine detachments swarmed the town and Partitionania’s liberation began in earnest. Stalin initially made little of the salient: the Angolan army, even supported by Finno-Polish partisans, would be no match for the fresh divisions being levied from the Russian interior. While the bulk of the Red Army remained concentrated on the Lithuanian stronghold, their generals had learned their lesson and devoted a sizeable contingent to the “liberation” of Finland. When the cock-sure conscripts arrived at the front, however, they were introduced to the Black Steel Brigade.
When Moscow levelled its first threat over Angolan support for the Finno-Poles, Adler took no chances and immediately petitioned her neighbours for a joint defence agreement. Russia’s African incursion galvanized anyone not in the pocket of the Diamond Coalition, and right behind the Angolan expedition sailed a counter-coalition consisting of elements from Takrur, the Swahili Kingdom, its clients, pockets of volunteers, and Soviet dissenters. They were not officially at war—their mandate, like the Anglo-German force a few years earlier, was to provide peacekeeping and humanitarian aid to the region—and their order of engagement was to remain defensive. But the Soviet bloodlust was by now well-known, and they went to Finland expecting to fight.
Sure enough, the Russian commanders, either ignorant or apathetic to the nature of the unit, opened fire. The result was a crushing Russian rout as the numerically superior conscripts faced African professionals supplied with Finno-Polish weapons suited to the theatre. Moscow immediately denounced the Africans’ involvement the same way it had the Anglo-Germans, but by this stage anyone not already sympathetic to the Diamond Coalition simply ignored the protest. Over the next two months, reinforcements streamed in through the Barents Sea and the Finno-Poles reorganized in the north. By the following summer, northern Partitionania was firmly in the hands of the coalition, and plans were underway to drive the Russians out of the south.
Meanwhile, the United Allied Forces, knowing the Soviets would use their western exclaves to stop African passage through European waters, made their first strike. With the bulk of the Russian fleet tied down in the Baltic, the Allies pooled their forces and launched synchronized raids on ports in Ireland and France. Both sides were decimated, but the distraction worked, and the Africans continued to channel troops into Finland. Stalin furiously demanded the Scandinavians do something to break the Allied supply train; Jönköping attempted to protest, particularly given its losses aiding the ground campaign, but Moscow’s threat of stationing a “permanent garrison” in the country indicated it had no real say in how its armed forces were to be prioritized. Reluctantly, a small fleet was dispatched to intercept ships as they rounded Finnmark. Its defeat surprised no-one; seven corvettes were sunk, and the lone cruiser limped back to port.
The Russian colonists were effectively stranded. Content they were unlikely to make bold adventures into the surrounding countryside, Airstrip One, undoubtedly the most cavalier of the Allied members, exploited the temporary stalemate to organize an amphibious invasion of Scandinavia with the aim of easing pressure on the Partitionanian salient. British forces, including a division from Middle England, supported by French paratroopers, began landing along the rugged western coast. Jönköping was taken completely by surprise; despite evenly-matched forces the Scandinavians found themselves disadvantaged, as a third of the army was forced to guard the Partitionanian border under orders from Moscow. Pleas for Russian aid were ignored; some say Moscow underestimated the Allied victories, but as later events would reveal, the KGB was content to let Scandinavia fall so it could annex the country in a counter-invasion.
Had the Russians reinforced their northern client, they may very well have prevented everything that followed. When London realized Jönköping was on its own, the Allies turned their attention back to the Soviet settlements. The British, leasing the Scots fleet while its own recuperated, launched an invasion of Ireland at the same time SUDS moved to retake the French coast. The British offensive suffered heavy casualties as Ireland had been sited for the Soviets’ regional maritime headquarters and so was well-enforced, but ultimately overpowered the garrison and seized control of most of the fleet moored there. SUDS fared better, despite successful arm-wringing that led Luxuria to attempt a counterattack, as it had a large enough army to fight both fronts effectively. The Soviets ostensibly held the strategic advantage, but were undermined by the fact that the Luxurians felt no particular loyalty to their unpopular suzerain, and had even less desire to sacrifice their citizens to defend Russian aggression. Their actual commitment to the fight was lacklustre at best, and after La Rochelle fell they negotiated a secret armistice.
With the elimination of Soviet outposts on the west coast, the Allies were able to devote their attention to the east, and Scandinavia in particular. Reinforcements arrived that pushed the war decidedly in the expedition’s favour, and on March 21 Allied forces entered the capital. The government promptly surrendered, retaining what remained of its armed forces on the condition they be subject to Allied command. With Scandinavia’s capitulation an Atlantic supply line to Partitionania was secured. Even more importantly, Allied forces now had airbases in range of the Russian interior. Soviet strategists, who had predicated victory in Partitionania on a two-prong plan of isolation and attrition, were now confronted with the very real danger of an international coalition fighting on the front lines.
The leaking remains of the ill-fated South Atlantic Fleet crept back into Murmansk with the freshly-reconstituted Angolan Navy hot on its heels. The crew barely had time to disembark before marine detachments swarmed the town and Partitionania’s liberation began in earnest. Stalin initially made little of the salient: the Angolan army, even supported by Finno-Polish partisans, would be no match for the fresh divisions being levied from the Russian interior. While the bulk of the Red Army remained concentrated on the Lithuanian stronghold, their generals had learned their lesson and devoted a sizeable contingent to the “liberation” of Finland. When the cock-sure conscripts arrived at the front, however, they were introduced to the Black Steel Brigade.
When Moscow levelled its first threat over Angolan support for the Finno-Poles, Adler took no chances and immediately petitioned her neighbours for a joint defence agreement. Russia’s African incursion galvanized anyone not in the pocket of the Diamond Coalition, and right behind the Angolan expedition sailed a counter-coalition consisting of elements from Takrur, the Swahili Kingdom, its clients, pockets of volunteers, and Soviet dissenters. They were not officially at war—their mandate, like the Anglo-German force a few years earlier, was to provide peacekeeping and humanitarian aid to the region—and their order of engagement was to remain defensive. But the Soviet bloodlust was by now well-known, and they went to Finland expecting to fight.
Sure enough, the Russian commanders, either ignorant or apathetic to the nature of the unit, opened fire. The result was a crushing Russian rout as the numerically superior conscripts faced African professionals supplied with Finno-Polish weapons suited to the theatre. Moscow immediately denounced the Africans’ involvement the same way it had the Anglo-Germans, but by this stage anyone not already sympathetic to the Diamond Coalition simply ignored the protest. Over the next two months, reinforcements streamed in through the Barents Sea and the Finno-Poles reorganized in the north. By the following summer, northern Partitionania was firmly in the hands of the coalition, and plans were underway to drive the Russians out of the south.
Meanwhile, the United Allied Forces, knowing the Soviets would use their western exclaves to stop African passage through European waters, made their first strike. With the bulk of the Russian fleet tied down in the Baltic, the Allies pooled their forces and launched synchronized raids on ports in Ireland and France. Both sides were decimated, but the distraction worked, and the Africans continued to channel troops into Finland. Stalin furiously demanded the Scandinavians do something to break the Allied supply train; Jönköping attempted to protest, particularly given its losses aiding the ground campaign, but Moscow’s threat of stationing a “permanent garrison” in the country indicated it had no real say in how its armed forces were to be prioritized. Reluctantly, a small fleet was dispatched to intercept ships as they rounded Finnmark. Its defeat surprised no-one; seven corvettes were sunk, and the lone cruiser limped back to port.
The Russian colonists were effectively stranded. Content they were unlikely to make bold adventures into the surrounding countryside, Airstrip One, undoubtedly the most cavalier of the Allied members, exploited the temporary stalemate to organize an amphibious invasion of Scandinavia with the aim of easing pressure on the Partitionanian salient. British forces, including a division from Middle England, supported by French paratroopers, began landing along the rugged western coast. Jönköping was taken completely by surprise; despite evenly-matched forces the Scandinavians found themselves disadvantaged, as a third of the army was forced to guard the Partitionanian border under orders from Moscow. Pleas for Russian aid were ignored; some say Moscow underestimated the Allied victories, but as later events would reveal, the KGB was content to let Scandinavia fall so it could annex the country in a counter-invasion.
Had the Russians reinforced their northern client, they may very well have prevented everything that followed. When London realized Jönköping was on its own, the Allies turned their attention back to the Soviet settlements. The British, leasing the Scots fleet while its own recuperated, launched an invasion of Ireland at the same time SUDS moved to retake the French coast. The British offensive suffered heavy casualties as Ireland had been sited for the Soviets’ regional maritime headquarters and so was well-enforced, but ultimately overpowered the garrison and seized control of most of the fleet moored there. SUDS fared better, despite successful arm-wringing that led Luxuria to attempt a counterattack, as it had a large enough army to fight both fronts effectively. The Soviets ostensibly held the strategic advantage, but were undermined by the fact that the Luxurians felt no particular loyalty to their unpopular suzerain, and had even less desire to sacrifice their citizens to defend Russian aggression. Their actual commitment to the fight was lacklustre at best, and after La Rochelle fell they negotiated a secret armistice.
With the elimination of Soviet outposts on the west coast, the Allies were able to devote their attention to the east, and Scandinavia in particular. Reinforcements arrived that pushed the war decidedly in the expedition’s favour, and on March 21 Allied forces entered the capital. The government promptly surrendered, retaining what remained of its armed forces on the condition they be subject to Allied command. With Scandinavia’s capitulation an Atlantic supply line to Partitionania was secured. Even more importantly, Allied forces now had airbases in range of the Russian interior. Soviet strategists, who had predicated victory in Partitionania on a two-prong plan of isolation and attrition, were now confronted with the very real danger of an international coalition fighting on the front lines.
Last edited:
Tani Coyote
Son of Huehuecoyotl
- Joined
- May 28, 2007
- Messages
- 15,194
Annnnd so the mighty Russian Empire falls.
The dangers of imperial overstretch...
The dangers of imperial overstretch...
christos200
Never tell me the odds
Thorvald, if this helps you write the epiloge, I can now reveal that I was going to invade Manchuria in a surprise invasion to support the rebels.
Thorvald of Lym
A Little Sketchy
That... is actually quite useful.
Oh, they've got some fight left. We're only into 3018 and America isn't involved yet.
Thorvald of Lym
A Little Sketchy
Fire away.
Jehoshua
Catholic
- Joined
- Sep 25, 2009
- Messages
- 7,284
hmmm, Katter would hypothetically be waiting for the collapse of the Russian aligned support foundation for Victoria, and a suitable pretence for invasion (not too hard considering the radicalism of the victorian regime) to bring that wayward province back into line, and finally come around to unifying Australia under a benevolent Katterocracy.
christos200
Never tell me the odds
To make it more interesting, have the Russians to use Nukes against the allies.
Tani Coyote
Son of Huehuecoyotl
- Joined
- May 28, 2007
- Messages
- 15,194
A nonetheless difficult, bloody battle, followed by an equally bloody insurgency.
It ain't all sunshine and roses.
Ailedhoo
wonderer
- Joined
- Mar 19, 2012
- Messages
- 7,809
Would not roses require soil, water and not too much heat to keep alive? And how to deal with the thorns of the rose and the death reaking power of the sun on thee, causing burns?
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