tommy_toon
Emperor
poot, I was deathly ill all night due to a peanut allergy and eatting at a thai restaurant. Not very smart on my part. Oh well, maybe the rebellion will survive.
NES2 V - The Great Game.
- Thread starter das
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Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
Gah! My internet was down yesterday, so I couldn't post the story I'd written. I sincerely hope that you include it in the update, das.
Warman, I already drafted and sent plans for the Balkan Pact armies, before you joined. I'd really appreciate it if you didn't change the plans too much...I'll send them to you.
Warman, I already drafted and sent plans for the Balkan Pact armies, before you joined. I'd really appreciate it if you didn't change the plans too much...I'll send them to you.
Disenfrancised
Beep Beep
Das will take stories up till just before he posts the update, though they'll only be 'Random events' and won't effect the main update.
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
A Field, Kurdistan Province, Persia
General Malik stood in a small tent. Very small in fact, and even though he was sitting in a chair, his head touched the ceiling. Outside, it was pouring.
“What a wet, muddy, disgusting excuse for a province,” he muttered, looking through a magnifying glass at some diagrams on a field map. “I preferred the Empty Quarter.”
“I’m glad you have such high opinions of my homeland, General. Allahu Akbar, and good day to you.”
Malik jumped out of his chair, completely startled by the appearance of the guerilla leader.
“Ah, well, Allahu Akbar to you, Tafari! Of course I was paraphrasing, you know, and all that…”
There was an awkward silence as the tall general and the ragged partisan exchanged a glance.
“No offence taken. Whatever you may think of fair Kurdistan, we appreciate what the Shah has done for us. We aren’t about ready to exchange an Ottoman overlord for a Federate one. As far as Kirkuk, bands of my men stand ready.”
“You have been briefed on the counter-insurgency forces that the Federates have at their disposal. You are putting your men at great risk with this plan of yours. Even if we are victorious, you will be slaughtered.”
“We know. Not a man of my bands is not ready to forfeit his life for Kurdistan, of whom we obey the Shah as its rightful King.”
“Very well. You would have made a fine general, my friend.”
“And you a fine freedom fighter.”
“Oh, I did that once.”
“Then perhaps I will survive…”
“It is of no matter, we will all die eventually. It’s in Allah’s hands now.”
“And may the fires of Mohammed live within you, my comrade.”
“Through arms, we triumph.”
Malik turned back to the desk. He didn’t need to hear a sound to know that the man was gone. At the thought of what those Kurds were going to do, he almost shed a tear.
But not quite. After seeing his own children slaughtered by Turkmeni raiders ten years ago, Malik never cried.
And the rain kept on pouring down.
Haifa, Palestine Province, Persia
A ship pulled into port, with the blue and silver of the Shah’s Crest on it’s pennants. Lowering the gangplank, ten sailors promptly walked off the ship, clearing the crates on the wharf out of the way to make space for the passengers. About fifty people walked off the boat. They were all white, quite pale by Persian standards. Most looked to be of Central, or Northern European descent. They were all nobles, judging by the petticoats and jackets, and most of them looked like they were regretting it by now, especially considering the Middle Eastern sun. Baggages rolled off, Handkerchiefs wiped sweaty brows, and fans were unfolded. The poor people couldn’t have possibly looked more out of place.
During the two-month voyage, the different nationalities of the passengers had made them keep to themselves, but looking at the foreign surroundings about them, any European was suddenly a lifelong friend.
One man, a gray-coated, heavily accented Prussian, tried to make small talk with his neighbor, a Spaniard.
“So…vy are you in Perzhia, my friend?
“The same as all, I suppose…we threw our lots in with the Federates, or their allies…and paid for it. I’ve heard about what happened to the Junkers, so your story must be the same.”
“Actually, I supported ze Empire. But to ze Sturmtruppen storming into Prussia, vone Junker is ze same as another, ja?”
“Si. I had my doubts about the Rebellion, but I supported it, the stupid patriotic fool that I am.”
“It cannot be helpt, my friend.”
“I had some ties with a French businessman, who told me of the others fleeing here. Rather annoying fellow, but useful. Supposedly there’s a large expatriate community.”
“Yes, I hafe heard ze same rumors. Zere vill alvays be a place for me in an ironworks, no matter vere. I suppose zat desire for political freedom made me come here…but I truly vont to see their veapons!”
The Spaniard laughed.
As a sweating, tired Polish inventor and former nobleman tried to haul his family and experiments off the vessel without breaking both, the Europeans already on shore saw the figure of a short, bespectacled Frenchman, hurrying toward them.
“Jesu Maria, there are French here, too? You just can’t get rid of them!”
Now it was the Prussian's turn to laugh, mustache twitching.
“Ja. Zey seem to be everyvere, no?”
And Ignacy hurried to the back of the crowd, just as Emile Grebert turned to meet his guests.
“Ah, all arrived in one peace, have we? Escaped the men of war, and the terrors of the deep? Excellent, excellent! I am Emile Grebert, former (and future, if the Nationalists get their act together) French Ambassador to Persia, Special Liaison and Advisor to the Shah, and Physician extraordinaire. Of course, I am also notoriously humble. Welcome to the fine nation of Persia. As you may have guessed, you have much to learn…”
Teheran, Caspian Province, Persia
Several students huddled over a schematic. They pointed to different sections of the device pictured on the draft paper, each one scribbling notes, observations, or doomsday predictions. They were all geniuses of course, engineers, scientists, inventors. But it’s one thing to dream up a…device, but an entirely different thing altogether to create it.
“No no, the chamber can’t be loaded here! It will destroy the entire main body!”
“Clearly, if you plan on using kerosene.”
“We haven’t refined petroleum into anything more effective yet, and won’t within a decade. So unless Mohammed slips you an epiphany, we need to use kerosene.”
The first scientist grumbled. The whole thing was probably going to blow up under battlefield conditions, anyway.
“How do we even plan to institute a control mechanism?” Pedals attached to a rudder of some sort?”
“This isn’t a ship, Kerfal. No rudders.”
“Well, what do you propose?”
“If only we were able to design some sort of kerosene-based combustion mechanism…the resulting engine could power guns, wagons…anything!”
“This isn’t conceptual physics, this is reality. Let’s get back to the basics, there’s probably a clear solution that we haven’t devised yet.”
“The SPMC* wants our report, and our drafts, tomorrow. They expect us to have a working device within two months, and they expect it to hold up to battlefield conditions! They didn’t put “Must be able to work miracles” in the job description, you know!”
“I know, I know Allasi…we’ve all been feeling the stress lately.”
“You all know that if this works…it’s going to shock the Feds quite a bit.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
“Hmm, what about examining steam power further? If we can make the smallest engine technically possible, it could function as a secondary directional control!”
“If it can be contained effectively…”
“Yes, yes, it might work!”
"A toast, gentlemen. The Federates own the seas, and they try to own the land, but this toast is to us, and to what the FK doesn't control!"
"The air!"
"To the air!"
Shiraz, Shah's Province, Persia
Line, after line, after line, they passed. Over five hundred thousand of them. The best of Persia…and all her peoples, their final offering to the state. To their Shah, and to the very idea, though abstract and debated endlessly, of freedom. It was, as historians would later claim, the last great army of the 19th century. And it was all under the command of one man.
Ardashir.
As he gazed out the windows of the Royal Safavid Palace, he saw them. Marching through the streets. Passing in front of the Ishmael Mosque, rededicated for the man who simultaneously lost Persia to the Zands, and ensured its future survival.
But the Shah turned around, and walked away from the great army. He crossed the room, and stood in front of a small mahogany crib. Inside it was a tiny child. Not yet two years old, it stood. Clearly he knew his father. A small fist unclenched, and grabbed Ardashir’s finger.
He smiled, looking at Persia’s future.
“You know…”
“You know, my son…”
“I would give it all up, every last man who swears allegiance to me, every possession I own, even my life…”
“For you.”
Ishmael V fell asleep. And Ardashir left. He would not return to see his son for a long time.
*Supreme Persian Military Command. Vaguely similar to the Joint Chiefs of Staff in the U.S.A
General Malik stood in a small tent. Very small in fact, and even though he was sitting in a chair, his head touched the ceiling. Outside, it was pouring.
“What a wet, muddy, disgusting excuse for a province,” he muttered, looking through a magnifying glass at some diagrams on a field map. “I preferred the Empty Quarter.”
“I’m glad you have such high opinions of my homeland, General. Allahu Akbar, and good day to you.”
Malik jumped out of his chair, completely startled by the appearance of the guerilla leader.
“Ah, well, Allahu Akbar to you, Tafari! Of course I was paraphrasing, you know, and all that…”
There was an awkward silence as the tall general and the ragged partisan exchanged a glance.
“No offence taken. Whatever you may think of fair Kurdistan, we appreciate what the Shah has done for us. We aren’t about ready to exchange an Ottoman overlord for a Federate one. As far as Kirkuk, bands of my men stand ready.”
“You have been briefed on the counter-insurgency forces that the Federates have at their disposal. You are putting your men at great risk with this plan of yours. Even if we are victorious, you will be slaughtered.”
“We know. Not a man of my bands is not ready to forfeit his life for Kurdistan, of whom we obey the Shah as its rightful King.”
“Very well. You would have made a fine general, my friend.”
“And you a fine freedom fighter.”
“Oh, I did that once.”
“Then perhaps I will survive…”
“It is of no matter, we will all die eventually. It’s in Allah’s hands now.”
“And may the fires of Mohammed live within you, my comrade.”
“Through arms, we triumph.”
Malik turned back to the desk. He didn’t need to hear a sound to know that the man was gone. At the thought of what those Kurds were going to do, he almost shed a tear.
But not quite. After seeing his own children slaughtered by Turkmeni raiders ten years ago, Malik never cried.
And the rain kept on pouring down.
Haifa, Palestine Province, Persia
A ship pulled into port, with the blue and silver of the Shah’s Crest on it’s pennants. Lowering the gangplank, ten sailors promptly walked off the ship, clearing the crates on the wharf out of the way to make space for the passengers. About fifty people walked off the boat. They were all white, quite pale by Persian standards. Most looked to be of Central, or Northern European descent. They were all nobles, judging by the petticoats and jackets, and most of them looked like they were regretting it by now, especially considering the Middle Eastern sun. Baggages rolled off, Handkerchiefs wiped sweaty brows, and fans were unfolded. The poor people couldn’t have possibly looked more out of place.
During the two-month voyage, the different nationalities of the passengers had made them keep to themselves, but looking at the foreign surroundings about them, any European was suddenly a lifelong friend.
One man, a gray-coated, heavily accented Prussian, tried to make small talk with his neighbor, a Spaniard.
“So…vy are you in Perzhia, my friend?
“The same as all, I suppose…we threw our lots in with the Federates, or their allies…and paid for it. I’ve heard about what happened to the Junkers, so your story must be the same.”
“Actually, I supported ze Empire. But to ze Sturmtruppen storming into Prussia, vone Junker is ze same as another, ja?”
“Si. I had my doubts about the Rebellion, but I supported it, the stupid patriotic fool that I am.”
“It cannot be helpt, my friend.”
“I had some ties with a French businessman, who told me of the others fleeing here. Rather annoying fellow, but useful. Supposedly there’s a large expatriate community.”
“Yes, I hafe heard ze same rumors. Zere vill alvays be a place for me in an ironworks, no matter vere. I suppose zat desire for political freedom made me come here…but I truly vont to see their veapons!”
The Spaniard laughed.
As a sweating, tired Polish inventor and former nobleman tried to haul his family and experiments off the vessel without breaking both, the Europeans already on shore saw the figure of a short, bespectacled Frenchman, hurrying toward them.
“Jesu Maria, there are French here, too? You just can’t get rid of them!”
Now it was the Prussian's turn to laugh, mustache twitching.
“Ja. Zey seem to be everyvere, no?”
And Ignacy hurried to the back of the crowd, just as Emile Grebert turned to meet his guests.
“Ah, all arrived in one peace, have we? Escaped the men of war, and the terrors of the deep? Excellent, excellent! I am Emile Grebert, former (and future, if the Nationalists get their act together) French Ambassador to Persia, Special Liaison and Advisor to the Shah, and Physician extraordinaire. Of course, I am also notoriously humble. Welcome to the fine nation of Persia. As you may have guessed, you have much to learn…”
Teheran, Caspian Province, Persia
Several students huddled over a schematic. They pointed to different sections of the device pictured on the draft paper, each one scribbling notes, observations, or doomsday predictions. They were all geniuses of course, engineers, scientists, inventors. But it’s one thing to dream up a…device, but an entirely different thing altogether to create it.
“No no, the chamber can’t be loaded here! It will destroy the entire main body!”
“Clearly, if you plan on using kerosene.”
“We haven’t refined petroleum into anything more effective yet, and won’t within a decade. So unless Mohammed slips you an epiphany, we need to use kerosene.”
The first scientist grumbled. The whole thing was probably going to blow up under battlefield conditions, anyway.
“How do we even plan to institute a control mechanism?” Pedals attached to a rudder of some sort?”
“This isn’t a ship, Kerfal. No rudders.”
“Well, what do you propose?”
“If only we were able to design some sort of kerosene-based combustion mechanism…the resulting engine could power guns, wagons…anything!”
“This isn’t conceptual physics, this is reality. Let’s get back to the basics, there’s probably a clear solution that we haven’t devised yet.”
“The SPMC* wants our report, and our drafts, tomorrow. They expect us to have a working device within two months, and they expect it to hold up to battlefield conditions! They didn’t put “Must be able to work miracles” in the job description, you know!”
“I know, I know Allasi…we’ve all been feeling the stress lately.”
“You all know that if this works…it’s going to shock the Feds quite a bit.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
“Hmm, what about examining steam power further? If we can make the smallest engine technically possible, it could function as a secondary directional control!”
“If it can be contained effectively…”
“Yes, yes, it might work!”
"A toast, gentlemen. The Federates own the seas, and they try to own the land, but this toast is to us, and to what the FK doesn't control!"
"The air!"
"To the air!"
Shiraz, Shah's Province, Persia
Line, after line, after line, they passed. Over five hundred thousand of them. The best of Persia…and all her peoples, their final offering to the state. To their Shah, and to the very idea, though abstract and debated endlessly, of freedom. It was, as historians would later claim, the last great army of the 19th century. And it was all under the command of one man.
Ardashir.
As he gazed out the windows of the Royal Safavid Palace, he saw them. Marching through the streets. Passing in front of the Ishmael Mosque, rededicated for the man who simultaneously lost Persia to the Zands, and ensured its future survival.
But the Shah turned around, and walked away from the great army. He crossed the room, and stood in front of a small mahogany crib. Inside it was a tiny child. Not yet two years old, it stood. Clearly he knew his father. A small fist unclenched, and grabbed Ardashir’s finger.
He smiled, looking at Persia’s future.
“You know…”
“You know, my son…”
“I would give it all up, every last man who swears allegiance to me, every possession I own, even my life…”
“For you.”
Ishmael V fell asleep. And Ardashir left. He would not return to see his son for a long time.
*Supreme Persian Military Command. Vaguely similar to the Joint Chiefs of Staff in the U.S.A
MjM
Deity
Nice story Thy.
Disenfrancised
Beep Beep
Very nice, don't quite get the 'Last great army of the 19th century' bit though, are you proclaming the end of history?
MjM
Deity
Yes. He's going to blow up the world with kerosene! 
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
No, I merely predict a change in military doctrine for the latter half of this century, following this war, that won't support huge masses of troops anymore. To clarify, the Napoleonic-era warfare of pitched battles will be over as soon as the machine gun is invented.
So, there will be fewer Grand Armies, until better offensive weapons are invented in the 20th century.
Thanks MjM.
And yes, I do plan to blow up the world with kerosene, especially if things get ugly.
So, there will be fewer Grand Armies, until better offensive weapons are invented in the 20th century.
Thanks MjM.
And yes, I do plan to blow up the world with kerosene, especially if things get ugly.
Disenfrancised
Beep Beep
Yes there certainly were not any huge armies that clashed OTL after the machine gun was invented 
. If anything we are moving towards an era of industrial attrition and larger conscript armies ala WW1 that will only be broken by communications and transport advances.
. If anything we are moving towards an era of industrial attrition and larger conscript armies ala WW1 that will only be broken by communications and transport advances.
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
True. But we won't see that until the 20th century, hence the term, "The last great army of the 19th century."
Win or lose, the battle in Iraq will likely decide this war, as you all might have guessed already. And it will probably be the last pre-Late Industrial Age clash of massive armies, as dis predicted...sort of.
Win or lose, the battle in Iraq will likely decide this war, as you all might have guessed already. And it will probably be the last pre-Late Industrial Age clash of massive armies, as dis predicted...sort of.
Kozmos
Jew Detective
Scoped rifles>>>>machine guns.
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
Fine fine, forget I ever said it. 
Disenfrancised
Beep Beep
Considering we are having WW1 now, I think there might be another few like it before the centuries out...but anyway enough spam.
Thlayli said:
Okay, time for me to get anally retentive, because I can. Allahuakbar means Allah is great. The normal greeting is Assalamualaikum (Peace be upon you) and the response to that is Waalaikumusalam (Right back at ya).
No one in their right mind would greet you by saying God is great. Even the Inquisitors said "God be with you"
Thlayli said:
Now I'm an engineer so I think I'd know what I'm talking about.
For one, kerosene is already very very refined petroleum. We're talking about the layer of stuff between diesel and petrol (sometimes mixed with some crap called naphta).
For the record, that's the same stuff that powers jet aircraft.
If you used petrol, you'd have even greater pressure and burn too so it's better to use heavier fuels if you fear blowing up.
And if you plan to have a spark ignition engine, it's gonna be an arse to time it (early engines had much trouble with that) while combustion ignition engines need very very strong material to hold it together due to the much higher pressures.
I'm ranting because.. I don't know.. I like ranting over a subject I'm passionate about.
Plus, my 1820s invention I suggested to das was considered "too advanced".. *mumble*
p/S: Nice story though
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
Eh. Well, that was in reference to the fact that diesel or gasoline haven't been successfully refined, yet.
But thanks for the information.
But thanks for the information.
Disenfrancised
Beep Beep
BananaLee said:Plus, my 1820s invention I suggested to das was considered "too advanced".. *mumble*
It would have changed the entire game into something completly different, so I can see where he's coming from. I still think it would have been fun though
.
Kozmos
Jew Detective
Warman17 said:
Machine guns in this century wont be quite mobile to be used by charging conscripts.
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