Talk:The Burning Sands of Tashbaan

The Burning Sands of Tashbaan

Monday, November 31, 2003

Calormen House, Bergen, Emden, Kingdom of Hanover. 9:35 a.m. local time

Another boring day in Calormen House, Bergen, Emden, was just what it took to ensure that its Governor-General would again forswear all work and the other paperwork that went with the job. As was his custom, he started humming the entrance bars of the royal anthem while initialling yet another set of documents, muttered a curse in mid-song, and gave a devilish grin back at the portrait of the new king, Alexander the First, the steadfast and influential former prime minister. The strange thing was that unlike its other counterparts, the Parliament of the Kingdom of Hanover was not the debating club that others thought it was. Discussion in the parliamentary chambers was more businesslike, more civilized, in a sense, more like the sedate after-lunch conversations at the Fire-Breathing Dragon, the gentleman's club off Ellicott Square where all members of government met to smoke a few cigars or drink a few swigs of port away from the public eye.

Parliament was still sitting, and The Right Honourable Sir Christopher Wyndham, Knight Commander of the Most Excellent Order of the Act, Recipient of the Most Excellent Order of Hanover, and Member of Parliament (to give him his grandiose title) was obliged every Wednesday to gavel the session to order and preside while a member harangued the near-empty gallery for over an hour. It was a good thing, too, since it gave him the time to read Order Papers that would be discussed after the weekly sitting of the Royal Council of State, the real governmental entity of the Kingdom.

Mondays and Tuesdays were, however, reserved for business regarding the Empire of Calormen, which meant that his driver would, at King's Cross-, turn left to Constitutional Hill instead of taking a right to Parliament Hill. The nicer thing about Mondays and Tuesdays, was that he was obliged to wear what he called the 'white peacock uniform', the one that symbolized his office as Governor-General.

He was scheduled to have lunch later that day with an obscure Third Secretary from the Royal Pendronian Embassy, to talk over the possibility of his being granted an officer's commission in the Pendronian military. Besides, whispers from the foreign ministry said it would do to improve relations between the two nations. The thought of port over mutton again nauseated him. He really should have a talk with the Catering Committee about that. That thought caused him to dig into his leather briefcase and pore over the papers he'd brought from Milyukovsk, the Imperial Calormani capital. That conference was taking up so much of his time that it was almost becoming his primary occupation.

He pored over the quarterly reports regarding all matters of life in the Empire. Good, they'd struck oil in Tashbaan. That should add a little more cash to His Imperial Majesty's bottom drawer. Goodness knows the Royal Personage needed it, after putting up that vaunted project of his, the Hanoverian information highway.

Oil, was it? He needed to get in touch with the Babkhans immediately. He'd heard that the Dehvaz Oil Company was superb with matters like this. Good thing he had the good sense to appoint Rakesh Maziar Ackbar, also a member of parliament, as the local headman for Tashbaan. He never managed to figure their culture out, though he'd once or twice attended a rite or two in front of that Agiary in Kamalshahr. That high priest of theirs knew how to throw a good party afterwards.

What was this? 'A revolutionary movement is deemed to be brewing within the Tashbaan souk area, and recent intelligence reports give high credence to a possible attack on the Tashbaan oil fields. It is the belief of this office that members of the Novokrantisk cult are behind this, but precise information is not yet available at this time. It is hoped that…'

The Governor-General looked up from the standard blurb and rolled his eyes. To clear his head, he turned on the television. Strangely enough, the Calormani map was displayed, with emphasis on the town of Tashbaan in Lower Muscovy. Probably oil news. Good for the markets. A pity that members of the government were prohibited from speculating a few while in office. In either case…

What on earth? That wasn't the Calormani flag flying from the Tashbaan municipal building. And what was that thick black smoke…?

Wyndham was on the phone to the King before the program gave way to news on a mini-brawl over the Hanoverian-Morovian football match.

Anderson Barracks, Greater Muscovy, Empire of Calormen, 2:53 pm local time

The command from the Governor-General had come out after a heated discussion within the chambers of the Royal Council of State and Imperial Privy Council for Calormen, meeting in joint session. Both councils were still meeting, and reporters would in the meantime find it strange that the Governor-General's personal standard was being lowered at Calormen House, while it normally stayed there until Wednesday mornings, when Speaker Wyndham would don his peruke and robes and leave for the weekly sittings of Parliament.

The only forces available on scene were the 2000-member strong Milyukovsk Hussars and the similarly-sized Imperial Fusiliers. The rest were busy with security duties at the capital.

A state of emergency over the Oblast of Lower Muscovy was quietly proclaimed, in order not to shock the conference delegates meeting in the capital, and the borders of Lower Muscovy were shut from all traffic. The Governor-General himself was arriving in the morning, and was obviously not in a good mood.

In the meantime, the soldiers were busy donning their buff-colored camouflage uniforms, the Hussars in buff berets, and the Fusiliers in camouflage helmets with a red hackle. Communications between Anderson Barracks and the Tashbaan town hall were unsuccessful until a sergeant heard what seemed to be a muttered curse and a guttural laugh, an electronic squeal, then nothing more but static.

An enterprising mediaman from the Intermicronational News Network brought his firm's helicopter to do an overflight of the area. He confirmed that the oil fields were afire, and that there seemed to be chaos in the streets of Tashbaan, with people milling about. When he went closer to take a closer look, he reported several men wearing checkered red turbans open fire at him, leaving bullet holes in the windshield. The helicopter pilot had to later down several shots of Treesian Red before his hands would stop shaking, while being debriefed at the Anderson Barracks.

Later analysis of the tape brought back by the reporter showed that the crowds were cheering the proclamation of a People's Republic of Tashbanistan, and with portraits of the Governor-General and King Alexander being vandalized and burned. It was not yet known where the Khedive of Tashbaan, Rakesh Maziar Ackbar, MP, was. Members of the government did not know if he had gone to Tashbaan or to his Babkhan hometown for the weekend.

As nightfall arrived, the Hussars and Fusiliers kept tight watch, while the desert wind blew swirling sand across their faces.

Royal Hanoverian Embassy, Kamalshahr, Kingdom of Babkha, 8:42 pm local time

The message from the Royal Hanoverian Embassy reached the palace of the King of Kings in Kamalshahr just after evening prayers. Hopefully it wouldn't interrupt his meal of dates and lamb with unleavened bread.

It informed him of recent events to date in Tashbaan, along with the dig that most of the residents there were of Babkhan extraction. The communiqué asked that the Imperial Babkhan military immediately send forces to a staging area at Anderson Barracks on the northern provincial outskirts of Greater Muscovy in Calormen, a stone's throw in military terms from Tashbaan.

The Shah's army could take the road to North Babkha, and cross the mountainous border into the southern part of Lower Muscovy, and from there join an escorting convoy from the local Royal Calormani Mounted Police detachment to the roundabout road to Anderson Barracks.

The lights at the Royal Hanoverian Embassy would stay on all night.

Satrap Jahandar, within Sajin City, North Babkha had just received news of the situation in Tashbaan.

"Oil Fields ablaze" read the Babkhan Gov-net report.

He had just returned from overseeing the military rebuilding of his own oil fire troubles within the province, it had cost the Satrap dearly and almost bankrupted the industry of North Babkha. Everyday Millions of Dollars of Oil went up in flames, adding to the economic and ecological problems the once great province faced. The Glass desert also made it particularly difficult to send the proper machinery to cap the wells, and as such the Kapav Guard had been called in to assist.

After the Treesian/Osmani war, North Babkha had lay in ruins, thousands of former soldiers and mercenaries had travelled across the province seeking employment. Many had come from across the ocean to fight, and with their last pay spent they had no way of returning. Since the war, many of these mercenaries had crossed out of Babkha and into surrounding lands, mostly to seek fortune but in many cases it was not always on the up and up. The province had suffered a grip from organized crime, which in the absence of the normal control, had taken over many cities in the province including Susa and Bir Hesama. Mostly this was due to new rights for the Treesian population of North Babkha, during their suppression, large groups had formed black markets and prospered despite their exclusion from Babkhan society, and now they had filled the void where the government used to stand, causing trouble at home and abroad, taking advantage of international borders and the relatively unprotected Hanover line.

These syndicates had offered the rogue mercenaries pay in exchange for labour, and now as The Satrap thought, perhaps this could be the source of Hanover’s troubles. The criminals had found the weakness in the system, without the oil, there would be no economy, and without the economy the government would loose its power, leaving a void for the crime to take over. The problem was, Hesam had too many problems within his own territory to help, Kamalshahr was quite a distance away, and thus, so was its influence.

Anderson Barracks, Greater Muscovy, Empire of Calormen, 9:17 am local time

The Governor-General's transport arrived at noon, and the Governor-General himself was dressed in a khaki uniform, topped with the expedition hat made famous by the British overlords of Africa.

"What's the situation?" he muttered gruffly to a uniformed orderly.

"We dinna ken say at yet, sahr" the orderly, a lowly lieutenant, answered, with a salute fit for the King himself.

Both entered the command tent, sweating under the slowly rising desert sun.

"No scout reports?" the orderly asked of a sergeant seated by a desk, tweaking a radio.

"Still nothing, sir." The sergeant went back to straining his ears.

"It seems we're on a waiting game here, until something comes from the Palace at Kamalshahr."

Sir Christopher Wyndham, KCOA,OH, MP, sat down and rubbed his forehead.

Didn't those Babkhans know they had to contain the situation before it spread to their borders?

Grand Vizier’s Office, Kamalshahr, Kingdom of Babkha

The Grand Vizier, it must be said, had only recently sabotaged a proposed aid grant of billions of rials to North Babkha not out of spitefulness at having failed to depose the Satrap, with whom he was once more an ally, but rather because he wanted to pocket the vast sums to supplement his otherwise meagre income as a servant of the Crown. Otherwise what else did Ardashir Khan Osmani have? The rents from the estates round his Emirate at Raspur? A pittance. The proceeds of smuggling Treesian Red, a famous liquor drunk by Hanoverians, through the Lighthouse City State and back to Babkha? Nowhere near enough, especially when at today’s prices one has to be seen to stock and keep a respectable harem. The income from Wardenship of the National Trust on the Isle of Yeipes, while, considering the growth in tourism and the promised new line of fermented drinks, it looked promising in the future was not sufficient here and now. The salary of a Báatharzi bureaucrat was off course pathetic and yet to be sure he held several of those posts. As for the military commands they may accrue a little more – but even keeping the gendarmes at half pay and allowing the Fedayeen to extort from the populace only kept a modest slush fund going. Tithes from the Churches were down, the clergy of all the major religions had fled the Emir’s tax collectors. Treesia, the old foe, had been so devastated by the two years of the Emir’s raiding that it could yield no more for his personal treasury. The simple truth was that the Grand Vizier was an extravagant spender, of which most expenditure going on his own decadent wants.

So the Emir had to get his hands on that development aid. Naturally he could not be seen to veto or vote down such a socially just and necessary grant, so the expedient was quite simple. The Grand Vizier tabled an amendment allowing his Office to distribute the aid. From then on it was going to be all too easy. Two billion rials, most of which would disappear as “administrative costs”. As he finished making that announcement the opposition was in uproar, but they did not even hold a fifth of the Majlis. The danger was in his backbenches where sighs of exasperation and subversive mutterings were recorded quite clearly by the concealed microphones of the secret police. As ever the Emir knew how to nullify that threat. Gendarmes in ceremonial dress, but with scimitars drawn, were now fanning out around the opposition benches. As for his own side the Chief Whip was passing out the brown envelopes stuffed with rials, which reminded Behsazi delegates of to whom they owed their obedience.

Off course the loyalty of some is easier to buy than in others. Nonetheless it has to be bought for in an Oligarchy, and that in truth was what Babkha had always been, the key players had to be kept in reasonable comfort. No matter how much the Grand Vizier would siphon off the Shahanshah had to retain his palaces, estates and slush funds, the Satraps had to get their kickbacks. Even the Satrap of North Babkha would receive enough as patronage to keep Sajin City a pleasant abode. The Leader of His Imperial Majesties Loyal Opposition, he too received his due. Though in light of his increasingly excessive use of the words Republic in his speeches the Grand Vizier was having second thoughts about the BLCP’s subsidy. The credibility that having an opposition accrues is only worth so much.

Now North Babkha, there was a problem. It was hardly the Grand Vizier’s fault that the Satrap had granted the Treesian population such undue civil liberties with which they had well since taken liberties. It was no surprise that the Satrapy had collapsed into chaos in the manner that it did. The most dangerous time for a tyranny is when it tries to relax its grip. The Treesians had been brought to North Babkha to toil as slaves, surely the Satrap could not have hoped for them to be grateful now that their tormentors had ceased to use the lash and now treated their chattel as equals. How else could the manumitted plantation workers interpret this except as a sign of weakness? The Treesian Mafia presented a problem, lawless chaos, yet it also represented an opportunity – that of easy profits. Certainly the Treesians had backed the Imperial Force during the North Babkhan War but those contacts had lapsed. Now if they could be renewed the fantastic wealth of a criminal empire could be opened up to the Kamalshahr elite but the mafia needed to be cowed first before they would yield their treasure. But on what pretext could the Grand Vizier send the Imperial Bástán Army north without incurring resistance from the Kapav Guards?

Another situation update from Tashbaan, civil disorder, oil wellheads aflame, Babkhans and other ethnic minorities in danger… it was all sounding strikingly familiar so far. The Hanoverian Ambassadors original request for aid had been met with polite silence. It was the Shahanshah’s mealtime. The Grand Vizier had not even condescended to attend. But now with the other deliberations borne in mind perhaps now was the ideal time to stage an intervention in the north.

The Grand Vizier took up the hotline in his hand and patched in a call to the Royal Hanoverian Embassy. The time was now 7:15PM

Ahura Mazdah, Razjania, Kingdom of Babkha

The sunshine flowed willingly into the grand hall of Ahura Mazdah, the large ancestral home of the Ackbar family who had lived and ruled Razjania-Dehvaz for as long as Rakesh had known. Along its length were sprinkled artifacts and other objects of value - sentimental or otherwise - that were in the possession of the Ackbars. At one end were relics from the United States of Ummah, a state long forgotten, and the Beebland-USS War that hardly registered any more in the minds of anyone. Next to it was the Great Sword of Babak, a gift to the Ackbars from the founder of the Kingdom - Babak Kapav Mehr Himself. Next to it was a signed picture of Abbas Namvari and Rakesh at their first diplomatic conference.On the other side of the hall were the robes worn by Rakesh Ackbar during his short stint as Chief Justice of the Supreme People's Tribunal in the Republica of Baracao. Hanging beside it was the large Persian rug, a gift to the former Kaiseress Jadie of Shireroth. Next to that was a picture of Rakesh, Krasniy and their good friend Aurefiction and beside that was a small yellow object from Archetype the 23rd himself. But past all this, at the end of the hall was a small door that led to a room that conscientiously bare, reflecting the asceticism of the much travelled Rakesh Maziar Ackbar that no one really saw. His lone indulgence is a Persian prayer rug, on top of which sits a mud prayer stone, a Christian rosary and a comb for his flowing graying beard.

This was where Rakesh found refuge from the trials of real life. His titles, his positions - all stopped the door. The last few days had been extremely stressful. The ordeal at Kamalshahr culminated in his losing of the Deputy Grand Viziership, a position he had worked so hard for but had lost so quickly. Rakesh just had to think for the last few day. He had to find himself again despite the constant chaos around him. He sighed to himself again and then looked pleadingly at Heaven. " Some guidance O Father - anything my Lord ... anything at all" Rakesh whispered.

Rakesh slowly stood up and walked to his private office that was next to his prayer room. He was amazed at how the work just piled up over the last few days. Rakesh picked up the first thing he saw, it was his weekly report from the Landsraad. The chamber had been unofficially suspended during an undeclared Thanksgiving holiday. He would have to take a quick trip to the Barony of Alexandretta this week, hopefully he could get an audience with the Kaiser as well. Rakesh's thoughts we interupted with a short knock and the entrance of his personal secretary Tamar. Her face was radiant in glowing grace and beauty - much like the majority of Razjanian women.

"Your Excellency, the Foreign Minisiter of the Republic of Karnali had communicated that he would be in time for dinner. He expressed his enthusiasm to discuss future relationships between Karnali and Babkha with you," Tamar told Rakesh as she briefly looked the folder in her hands.

"Please convey my anticipation to the Minister, Tamar. Is there anything else?" Rakesh asked looking quickly at Tamar's large powerful eyes that temporarily mesmerized Rakesh

"Your liason to Tashbaan surprisingly has not arrived for his weekly meeting with you, the Grand Vizier's Office has not forwarded you the daily briefing, representatives of the Dehvaz Oil Company is seeking an audience with Your Grace sometime today and the Imperial Army Headquarters told me that the daily intelligence report and threat assessment should be on your desk within the hour."

"The work never stops here right Tamar?" chuckled Rakesh. "Just give me a moment to watch the news please"

"Of course" and with that Tamar shut the door.

Rakesh leaned back in his chair. That was most interesting ... interesting indeed. His Tashbaan liason was one of the most responsible men he had ever met, it was totally out of character for him to be late to meet with his Khedive - especially since oil was going to make Tashbaan the greatest place in all of Calormen and would make him more wealthy and powerful than he had ever imagined. Of course on the other hand, for Ardashir or his office not to send him the Daily Briefing was expected, especially after that little "Cabinet Reshuffle" that took place over the weekend. It was plainly obvious that the extremely corrupt Emir of Raspur had become (or was always) the power behind the throne in Babkha. Bribery had become second practice in the Majlis i-Mellat were Behsaz ruled more or less in absentia. Razjania-Dehvaz had been starved off by funds from the Central Government and if it wasn't for private industry, Rakesh's province would have been just as crippled as North Babkha.Rakesh was tired with the corruption. Tired with the inaction - it was time for action. The newly formed Rastakhiz Party between the BLCP and Qermez truly represented the will of the people and was the last best hope for Babkha. Things would get interesting in Kamalshahr soon enough. With those closing thoughts, Rakesh laughed silently to himself as turned on the evening news.

" ... The people of Tashbaan have proclaimed a People's Republic and there is truly absolute chaos and anarchy in the surrounding areas. If you look over there you will see what is most probably burning oil wells - we are not certain. One thing we are sure about is that Hanover, Calormen nor the Khedive of Tashbaan is in control. We have reports that the Kingdom of Babkha, the major military power in the region has been called upon to aid the Kingdom of Hanover but as per this report no official word has come out of the Royal Shahiyar Palace nor the Grand Vizier's Office in Kamalshahr ..."

As if by fate Rakesh's attention was drawn away momentarily by the fax machine in the corner. Rakesh walked as calmly as he could to the machine he picked up the pieces of paper while others dropped to the floor. The first one was from the "Supreme Revolutionary Council of Tashbaan" who was willing to give Rakesh some "major and influential" position in the new state in exchange for his support. Rakesh looked at the second fax only to find it was from several 'loyal' factions calling upon him to return and fight.Another telegram was from a Qermezi agitator who called on Rakesh to denounce the Grand Vizier for his inaction during this time of crisis. More faxes were from His Majesty the King of Hanover and the Governor-General of Calormen.The last fax was from his Imperial Army headquarters requesting orders.

"TAMAR! Get me Kamalshahr, Bergen, Calormen, the Shahanshahthe Grand-Vizier, the King, the Governor-General - ANYONE ANYWHERE! TAMAR!!!!" Rakesh screamed as he ran down the hall. Before he left three faxes went out - one to Tashbaan "I am coming" - one to Kamalshahr and his party headquarters "Go, it is now or never" - and one to Imperial Bastan Headquarters in Dehvaz "Marching orders!"

While communications on the back-channel were going on, the Governor-General was fretting on the command net. Still no word from elements in Tashbaan, or from anywhere else, for that matter. The charge at the Hanoverian Embassy in Kamalshahr said he would forward any word that was forthcoming, and that was that.

"Sahr, the Number Two company of the Fusiliers has been dispatched to create a recon screen of the immediate Tashbaan area. We should have reports within the next couple of hours."

"Good. What of the RCMP guards by the Babkhan border?"

"Still no news, sir."

The GG grumbled at that, and took out a cigar. It seemed things were back to the traditional waiting game.

Until the shots were fired, and contact established with the enemy by Number Two Company of the Fusiliers.

Hesam moved through the offices of Sajin City. The trouble was mounting. With no word from Kamalshar, nor the GV himself, Hesam began to worry. If he returned to Babkhas Capital it would give him the oppertunity to work on some battle plans and organize the entire army, but it would also take him out of proximity of the crisis.

He exhaled the smoke of a newly lit cigarette. The Cabinet had been bribed to stay out of the capital, it was a standard protocol within the Ministries. Something the Grand Vizier would do on occasion to work on his personal problems, it was an understood concept, but this time there was trouble.

Tashbaan had revolted and created a left wing political leadership, headed as Hesam had suspected, by a former mercinary from the NorthBabkhan war. Komruden, a former colonel, who fought Osmani forces on the side of Hesam, and had initiated the mountain explosions that brilliantly crushed the enemy at the time. After the war Komruden was sent to Bir Hesama, in an attempt to regain some sense of order in the rubble, but he was removed under suspicions of corruption.

Since the war, Hesam had attempted a softer approach to politics, Military corruption was considered a captial offense within the forces, and Komruden could have been put to death, but in all fairness he was a war hero, it would have been unsound to martyre him. He was simply asked to leave.

What Hesam or anybody within the government did not know at the time was the extent of the corruption, Komruden had been running Treesian red into Babkha via the northern border and into Bir Hesama. This was then sold on the black market by the treesian populous all the way into Kamalshahr itself. Without a doubt the Treesian red gulped in a quite moment by the GV was from the very same source. From there it was often sent to Lighthouse.

Komruden had made a very tidy profit before leaving, and had invested in Calormen oil before the big discovery. So it was obvious where he set off to after his exile. But the question on Hesams mind was why would Komruden set fire to oil that he owned a part of?

The rial expenditure expected to help rebuild NorthBabkha was not recieved, as per standard proceedure, the grant was passed by the Majili and most of the money itself was siphoned back to the Grand Vizier. This too was standard practice, for it was said that if His Excellency were not comfortable, the kingdom would suffer. The truth of the matter was that Ardashir had not been the same since the war. Upon returning to Kamalshahr, he had become reclusive and was often seen drunk in the palace. So it was no doubt that the kingdom was bound to feel a pinch.

Without the rials coming in, Hesam could not pay for a holding campaign in Tashbaan. And without that, he could not secure the oil. To hesam it was a race. Komruden was not the problem, he could be dispatched of easily enough. The problem was the oil market. NorthBabkhan oil had suffered, it was not at all being exported. If Tashbaan were secured by Hanover or Kamalshar, it would claim the majority market for the region. Driving NorthBabkha into destitution. Hesam needed that oil and he needed it now.

He walked over to his oak desk and pressed a brass button inlaid in the wood. a voice beconed.

"Get me the Guilde Commander, as well has the colonel of the 2nd Kapav Guard Battalion. Tell them to prepair operating procedure 12 and that I want them in my office at 5"

Hesam had ordered the irregulars as well has the Satrapian army to stand-to. He had now planned to spend the remaining funds on this campaign. If he could not have that oil no one could.

after a chime, Hesam pressed a second button to unlock his office door. A slight man, dressed in the court uniforms walked in. Sabar Fered, assistant to the Grand Vizier and regularly for a price, informant to Hesam. The Vizier of defence must have a link to all powers if he is to be sucessful.

Sabar spoke "Your Excellency, I bring news from Kamalshar"

Hesam offered a cigarette to the courtier and continued

"I need to know what the GV has been doing, where he has been, who he has spoken to, is he well? is he ill? tell me" Hesam laid an envelope with 200 rials on the desk and slid it toward Sabar.

"Your excellency, the grand vizier does nothing. He drinks constantly, and paces the palace. He has spent other times at the harem and from that I do not know more. He spoke to a man from Lighthouse, something about a national trust, he also spoke to a man from Hanover, a tudeh. Last night he was drinking with the Arde-Baron of treesia, mostly he spends time with his friends but they do not stay long. 3 nights ago he was yelling and throwing bottles of liquor at the walls. Screaming about money, and corruption. he then walked out of the palace and did not return until the next day locking his doors behind him."

"Well done Sabar, you may stay for two days, afterward I need you to go to Bir Hesama, I want you to speak to the Treesian merchants, say that Komruden sent you, and that the plan is going ahead"

"Yes, ofcourse your excellency. I will be on my way."

Hesam was sending out informants everywhere, the corruption would not be stopped, but if he had a grip on the resources he could atleast control it. He turned to look at the Gov-net screen, when he noticed a flashing read headline scrolling across the bottom portion.

"Tashbaan Leader assasinated - carbomb"

This was troubling, Hesam had placed opperatives close to Komruden only days before, but had not ordered the eventual assasination, this was someone elses work but whos?

The Grand Vizier looked up from his glass of Treesian Red. It was true that he was fond of a good tipple but of late he had become concerned that exaggerated and harmful rumours were being spread by Satrap Jahandar, himself an infamous gastronome, perhaps as revenge for the war, perhaps as revenge for the peace that followed, and one day the Agha Caravanserai had come to the Grand Vizier with news of which malicious toad was bringing these rumours to the Satrap’s ear. Sabar Fered, his own assistant had been regularly flying to North Babkha, and a quick Yemin Zoka background check revealed that he had been receiving bribes over and above those that a member of the Emir’s clique received. The Grand Vizier allowed Sabar one last round trip to Sajin City but today, as the traitor was leaving the palace of the Satrap he was bundled into a car by masked Fedayeen men and his throat was cut from ear to ear. By the time his corpse was found dumped on a street corner the former assistant had been gutted like a pig – his entrails spilled out on the ground beside him. The Grand Vizier’s message was clear; the distances were far, but so was his reach and no one was safe.

The Royal Hanoverian Embassy was by now informed of the Grand Vizier’s “passionate desire to restore peace and the rule of law to fair Tashbaan”. From barracks in Nivardom, once one of many cities renamed Ardashirbad, Molivadia, the divisions of the Imperial Bástán Army rolled out onto the streets and began on the long road to the North. At the same time MIG-29’s of the Imperial Babkhan Army Airforce took to the skies, refuelling mid-flight, and were now establishing a steady routine of combat air patrols over Calormen and Tashbaan. At the Grand Vizier’s specific instruction the fighters also flew fast and low over Susa and Sajin City so that their sonic booms might shatter a few windows, set off a few car alarms and generally intimidate the Treesian crime lords and the Satrap himself.

Next came the came the Grand Vizier’s radio address to the entire nation. Unlike television studios the radio at least has no bright lights for which the Grand Vizier had always been grateful. Indeed being made presentable for television had always been an ordeal. As it happened even the illustrious Shahanshah Babak the Great had told the Grand Vizier, back in his days as a lowly army Sarhang, ‘you my friend have a face for radio’. Today the Emir would speak and it would be in the same manner as always, a text full of rhetorical flourishes and a voice full of hate.

“Doorood. My fellow Babkhans, as you may know I have predicated my entire public life on fighting the evil of Tudehism wherever it may be found. The red cancer, which claws at the vital organs of this nation, is the one true enemy that real Babkhans must unite against. Those who refuse to fight the evil of the ‘International Socialist Militarist Tudeh Tressian and Atteran Conspiracy’ are dogs that deserve a dog’s death. We will fight and die for the Rastakhiz!”

The Radio Rastakhiz producer dutifully inserts the tape ‘Spontaneous Applause No.25’ and lets it play for the customary half and hour. During this interval the Grand Vizier has the time to neck some more Treesian Red from his hipflask.

“Now some of you may recall from the news that the Khedive of Tashbaan is in a state of revolt. Some of you may not be able to find it on the map at the first go. Some of you may not even have been aware of its existence prior to this. That is not important. What is important is that a Peoples Republic has been declared. Declared on our borders, inside our sphere of influence. My fellow Babkhans the Evil Empire of Tudehism is rearing its ugly head again. Remember the battles of late 2001 when we fought at the barricades to prevent the reds entering Kamalshahr? The Battle of Babkha was our Finest Hour! The Tudeh are the legitimate objects of all our hate. All that is wrong in Babkha today is as a consequence of Tudehism. The Tudeh wrecker conspiracy is within us and the Tudeh aggressor is without. If we allow them to draw closer it will be the end for us. We must kill the Tudeh. Kill all Tudeh’s and their ideological fellow travellers…” The Grand Vizier was off script by now and had to bring himself back to his main thrust of his speech.

“My fellow Babkhans while I have all the respect in the world for the Khedive of Tashbaan, Satrap of Razjania-Dehvaz who is also our Foreign Affairs Vizier and the Leader of the Opposition, it is clear to me that the collapse of law and order in Tashbaan can be directly attributed to the Khedive’s lax and morally degenerate bourgeois social policies. The BLCP’s policies caused revolution in Tashbaan. But we are pledged to intervene to save Tashbaan from itself and to help our respected friends and associates the Hanoverians. Our finest divisions are moving north as we speak. Wherever there is revolution we will react for Zurvan commands our holy duty is to strike down the Lie of Ahriman the Tudeh. Let be BLCP learn from this to cease their association with the subversive fellow travellers of the Tudeh. Given a chance they would cause revolution here as well. Behind the bleating liberal hides the murderous Qermez [Farsi for Red]!”

The Grand Vizier’s broadcast was over and the station faded the programme out to the cries of “One God! One Shah! One Babkha!” played from a recording taken at an August 2001 rally of the first Rastakhiz Party (before it was “reclaimed” by reform minded intellectuals). The fade out served as a link to the next programme, live coverage of a Behsaz rally at the Kapav Lions Stadium. There the massed legions of thousands upon thousands of Behsazi black-shirts were bellowing in blood curdling unison “Ardashir Conqueror! Ardashir Saviour! Ardashir Forever!”

Hesam had been looking out of his office window at the time of the fly-by, and caught shards of glass in his face. He turned around, unaffected and spit bloody glass from his mouth across the room. The leader of NorthBabkhan Buisness was laughing. The notorious Mr. Marlboro, a decadent cash-crop tycoon responsible for NorthBabkhas former wealth, Recently however he had been over staying his welcome.

"No bother Winston, The good GV has made a very clear indication of his intent. He has bills to pay and so do I, the race is for the oil"

Marlboro, the boerish skeletal man in the dark suit, stood up, laughing turned around and walked out. On his way out two others passed him into the room. The First, colonel, in dress uniform, baring the gold star of the NorthBabkhan Kapav Guards. The second a dark man, in a blue buisness suit, wearing a small guild pin on his Lapel.

"Good to see you. I trust the forces are under way. Colonel, you will be in command of this campaign, Mr. Fareed, your forces will be under the colonels command. I trust they are reaching the border?"

The Colonel answered:

"Yes you excellency, our forces will be in the Tashbaan within the day, we have already reviewed battle plans."

"Well done gentlemen, I will be sending transponders up the supply caravan, I want every soldier to carry one, I do not want Kamalshar migs [mistakenly] bombing our troops. A Babkhan signal on the radar will ensure that this does not happen. The first priority is clearing the oil fields, I want them cleared and guarded. If any other Babkhan troops attempt to enter, do not let it happen, demand the royal seal, and stall them.

Mr. Fareed, I am sorry for the loss of your friend Komruden, he fought well with us, and he will remain a hero of NorthBabkha dispite the alligations"

The two men left, heading for the northern army setting off across the border. Hesams forces would reach the Tashbaan a week before the Grand Viziers forces, but the problem was, would the GV's forces bother to leave NorthBabkha? it would be virtually undefended, and thus an easier target than the Tashbaan. It was a nessesary risk.

Hesam then recieved news of Sabar, it wasnt suprising. He had been expendible anyways, but it put a serious dent in his anti-corruption initiative. There was one thing that he had said before leaving Sajin that suddenly clicked into place. He had said the GV had recieved a man from Hanover, "a Tudeh". It suddenly made sense, Ardashir had ordered Komrudens death, paving the way for him to enter the Tashbaan.

Since his death, there had been an increase in Treesian demonstrations in North Babkha, petitions for cultural pride, demands for a Treesian territory, Parades for the festival of the dog, and any number of other rallies. All interestingly enough, backed by the crime syndicates. since the previous week, Hesam had sent out yemin zoka tactical teams to attempt to break up the crime. In response, the Treesians had cried discrimination. It had been increasingly difficult to control matters. North Babkha had formerly been a seat of regional power in the Kingdom, second only to the Capital itself. Now its influence was on the edge of defeat or victory through this minor campaign. It would spell disaster or renewal.

Wednesday, December 3, 2003. 8:45 am local time, Day 3 of the Crisis

Post 34, astride The King's Highway, Lower Muscovy, by the Imperial Calormani and Babkhan borders

Superintendent Jonathan Carlyle of the Royal Calormani Mounted Police loved his job, which would seem strange to others of similar occupation. Unlike their border guard counterparts in more stringent regimes, say, that of Babkha, Superintendent Carlyle loved his job not for the pecuniary interest, but because he was a serious student of international relations, and being on border post duty seemed to magnify that academic interest even more.

The border post was simple, in keeping with the fact that the Calormani government was not quite established. A vehicle bar in red stripes, with the words HALT in the King's English and in the squiggly script of the Babkhan language, beside a fluttering standard of the RCMP and the new crest of Alexander the First satisfactorily painted on the side by himself, beside the sign greeting travelers to the Empire of Calormen.

The Babkhan guards on the other side of 'the line', that strip so beloved of international law, were not so disciplined as he would have wanted. While he proudly greeted each sunrise with his outback campaign hat similar to that of his Australian cousins, khaki shirt and pants bloused over boots, his colleagues on the other side seem to have slept in their uniforms and had a little too much to drink even after the sun was over the yardarm. Not even the trumpet call to colors on the Calormani side at the crack of dawn and at noon seemed to be able to rouse them. He'd discussed this several times with Division Sergeant-Major Thomas Vanderhoot, and they'd both agreed that if this was a symbol of the Babkhan state, what a pity indeed it would be. The Calormani detachment of fifty men to guard this main transport artery were inspected daily as if they were off to meet the King himself that very day. Pride in their king and duty, indeed, and showing the flag was all they were all about.

He'd even written a memo to the Governor-General himself about this, which was cordially replied to by the Right Honorable fellow. He had been thanked for bringing this matter to his attention, and given a hint not to needle his colleagues across the line any further, as there was more to them that met the eye.

Superintendent Carlyle on his horse peering at the Sajin City trunk road, and noting with a hint of a frown the expected behavior of the Babkhan border guards. They'd received the radio transmission of a declaration of a state of emergency, and so had closed the border to regular traffic, not that there was much of that. In the past twenty-four hours, all they had was a nomadic fellow on a camel who insisted on passage, but was turned away muttering all sorts of foul curses.

"By jove, sir, that smoke from the burning fields doesn't seem to have stopped." Divisional Sergeant-Major Vanderhoot remarked dryly, facing the opposite side with binoculars. "It's going to be quite a to-do to clean up once we've restored the peace."

"Indeed." The Superintendent replied, clutching his swagger-stick with his right hand. On his order, all fifty of his troops were issued rifles. Two parties of four men each on horseback were patrolling the Calormani side of the line, looking for smugglers and infiltrators, while maintaining periodic radio contact. They'd already confiscated several crates of North Babkhan Tobacco without the requisite customs seal.

There was still no sign of forces from North Babkha. His orders on that had been explicit. Salute them and escort them to Anderson Barracks, to prepare for a march on Tashbaan. From the latest military radio dispatches, it seemed though that the Governor-General himself was going to get himself into quite a pretty bind.

He didn't get his copy of the Calormani Courier, but listening on a transistor radio had given him the intelligence on the latest intents of the Grand Vizier. They'd even seen contrails of the Babkhan fighters.

They'd have to pass through him first, before treading on the sovereign ground of the Empire of Calormen. Perhaps they would agree to have a little chat first.

Outskirts of Tashbaan, Lower Muscovy, Empire of Calormen

Captain Jeremy Costanza of the Prince of Emden's (No. 2) Company of the Imperial Fusiliers had spent a nearly-sleepless night crouching behind a sand berm just outside Tashbaan. From what he'd gathered, there were three ways to enter Tashbaan: through the city gates and along the main King Thomas I avenue, now apparently renamed the Worker's Avenue (or so the banner said) where there were several of those red-checkered-turban chaps lounging about what passed for a checkpoint, at least every five hundred yards.

The other way was through the Souk Gate of the Five Lions River, where barges and other floating craft set their merchandise for sale…but they needed vessels for that.

The third and last was through the air. Highly unlikely, though, since there were more of the red-checkered fellows on the city rooftops. Not all of them would be carrying the ubiquitous assault rifle so beloved of revolutionaries. One of their number, Corporal al-Saud, born of a Babkhan father and a Calormani mother, had entered dressed as an inhabitant from far away who had been called to mourn for a close relative who (as his papers said) had been shot by the forces of The Great Devil and symbol of imperialistic excess. He confirmed that the revolutionaries were well-armed. Political organization was a different thing. He knew that the Supreme Revolutionary Council had taken over the offices of the Khedive at Flagstaff House, and that the RCMP barracks now housed disarmed members of the same unit. Imperial Square (now called Revolutionary's Square), by the souk, had become the gathering place of all firebrands, were symbols of the old authority, including books, pictures, and even uniforms were still being burned. Other intelligence was slow in coming.

Captain Costanza radioed all this by secure circuit to the force headquarters at Anderson Barracks.

Anderson Barracks, Lower Muscovy, Empire of Calormen

Governor-General Wyndham pored over a folder lined with striped-color tape in the richly-appointed officer's mess, which he had requisitioned as his conference center and private office for the interim.

He had requested assistance from nearly everywhere, including the Solomonic Empire of Attera, which had, without doubt, the best intelligence-gathering capability in the region. During the bad old days, it was said that the Atterans knew the contents of a Babkhan Imperial Farnan even before the ink of the Shah's imprimatur had dried. Unfortunately, the Shagadaan was keeping its cards close to its chest, as always.

The Karnali Intelligence Agency had no formal contact with His Hanoverian Majesty's Government, nor did its master, the Republic. He had no information from the Hanoverian intelligence source there, covered as a merchant-banker. So that left Karnali oppositionists or their socialist members out of it. Talk of socialists from that mountaintop nation assassinating kings seemed to have been just that--talk.

Meanwhile, Wyndham cursed fate. With the few forces he had, he did not have enough to secure both the town of Tashbaan and the oil fields. If he failed to secure one, the revolutionaries would flock to the other. He could secure the oil fields first, but he would have to slaughter half the Tashbaan population when he had to move there next, or, he could secure Tashbaan easily then preside over years of extinguishing the oil fires. The first would create a backlash so horrible he could not begin to imagine it. The second could be acceptable, but that would make him so beholden to the Babkhan state that he would bankrupt the Empire just to get the consultants he needed from Babkha. He too knew of the habits of the Grand Vizier, who, it seemed, was too preoccupied with ensuring the continuity of his own rice bowl.

He took out a pen from his pocket, and along with it came a chervontsi, the ancient coin currency of Calormen, which had just been replaced by Talen notes of the Bank of Hanover.

If there was no other choice within the next hour, he would have to flip the coin and give the order to strike.

The public was already demanding action. Just recently he had seen Tashbaani nationals protesting in Ellicott Square. They had been dispersed, somewhat, but if the situation remained unresolved, a similar revolutionary flag may very well be flying from the old Marchmain Palace, while the household division, to the last man, brought the King and Queen to asylum in Varennes.

The little village, cut off from civilisation and usually a week behind in the news had served the moody old Babkhan in his exile quite well. Apart from the dusty locals, Bahram was enjoying the solitude this place offered him, and most importantly, gave him distance from the notorius hitmen of the Grand Vizier. As he strolled through the unpaved roads of Beit El Mir, panick struck him in a cold shudder as distant dust trails crept closer and closer towards this tiny outpost. "Fedayeen!" Gasped Bahram, turning to find himself a suitable hiding spot, Bahrams sudden horror was matched by an ever typical surge of clumsiness, tripping over himself in his comical attempt to run, the old man fell into a mangled mess of rags and grey hair on the side of the road.

Unable to move, perhaps a sprained ankle or something more sinister, Bahram accepted his fate and sat by the side of the road mulling over his fate, perhaps, Ardashir had grown generous in his old age and would simply have him killed there on the side of the road. "Ha!", he proclaimed, yielding to his logic, realising that his fate would most probably be the lamp post he was sitting near, his thoughts turned to wondering wether his dead body would have limbs attached to them or if his eyes would join him in his grave.

To his stunned amazement, the three jeeps, containing about a dozen Fedayeen, easily recognisable with there thick moustaches and, ever the covert warriors, "Komiteh Police" scrawled on the side of there cars, drove straight passed him and stopped by the local council building. "Amazing, what on earth would the Fedayeen be doing here in broad daylight, driving like they run this place? He mulled, "Are we at war with Hanover?". As he questioned to himself the reason behind this amazing cross border raid, he watched with muted silence as a large Fedayeen Commander, a 6 foot giant with broud shoulders and arms the size of a horses leg drag a turbaned little Tashbaani out of the building, throwing the hopelessly mismatched Tashi (as Bahram liked to called them), into a heap infront of his jeep. A small, fearfull crowd had by now gathered, the men and women, all turbaned and mostly poor peasants kept them selves at a respectfull distance from there powerfull neighbours, but watched intently none the less.

From one of the jeeps, a short stocky man emerged, he didnt look like a Fedayeen, nor was he wearing the customary fatigues, yet he did look like someone of importance. With a thick North Babkhan accent, the man, one notorious Farhang Assmani, announced that the King of Kings had ordered the execution of all Tudeh rebels and that the growing revolution of the Peoples Republic of Tashbaan would be crushed. "This man, Amir El Suleyman, is an agent of the Tudeh enemy of the people, the Tudeh enemy of Tashbaan, the Tudeh enemy of Babkha and Hanover, he is a conspirator in this meaningless rebellion and was planning to lead a group of Tudeh from this village to take over the border posts with Babkha". Bahram sat amazed, dumbfounded about this proclomation. "Tudeh rebellion!!" He gasped, how on earth had he managed to land himself in the middle of this he wondered. "Tudeh Rebellion!!" this time he laughed, too bewildered, too amazed to realise the chanting of the hapless peasants "Kill the Tudeh" they chanted over and over.

A sudden thunder, a billow of smoke and what seemed like an eternity ensued, the little Tashbaani lay on his death bed, soaked in a pool of blood, then just as they had so arrogantly entered the town, the Fedayeen drove further into Tashbaan, undoubtedly to take out a few more suspected Tudeh conspirators.

"A Tudeh Rebellion, in this hell hole, what are the chances that Id be caught up in this!" Thought Bahram as he hopped his way to the nearest donkey cart.

"... dashir the Conquerer! Ardashir Savior! Ardashir Forever! That is what echoed through the streets of Kamalshahr at a massive Behsazi rally at the newly built Kapav Lion Stadium. Grand Vizier Ardashir Khan Osmani earlier today announced that the Imperial Babkhan Army would be deploying divisions to aid the Kingdom of Hanover through an international stand against "the tudeh" more commonly known as communist or leftism as a whole. Following the Grand Vizier's radio address violence erupted in the streets of Kamalshahr as Behsazi black shirts ransacked the party headquarters of the newly reformed Rastakhiz Party and the local bases of the BLCP and the Qermez. Clashes between rightist and leftist forces have been reported throughout the capital and it is reported that leaders of the Rastakhiz Party, BLCP and Qermez have found refuge in the Majlis i-Mellat. With no word yet from the Royal Palace it is assumed that the Shahanshah is approving of all decisions. Meanwhile sources inside the Empire of Calormen have reported that infighting within Tashbaan seems to have been silenced while the oil wells continue to burn despite reports that the leader of the Revolution was killed earlier today. Now with us in the studio is Dr. Eide Mubarak an expert on interna ..."

One of the aides in the Command and Control centre silently turned the volume down on the television set as Rakesh sat at his desk in massive underground bunker several miles below the Razjanian metropolis. The bunker was built obviously in the more glorious days of the Kingdom as no expenses were spared; large monitors currently displayed maps of the Empire of Calormen, Tashbaan and the Kingdom of Babkha, other monitors indicated the current deployment of military forces while a state-of-the-art video conferencing centre had been set up in the corner surrounded by television sets turned to all the major news networks and clocks detailing the time in the numerous capitals around the world. Supposedly this bunker was built to withstand numerous direct hits even from the most sophisticated armaments in the Atteran arsenal but gladly that assertion had never been tested.

Rakesh silently rubbed his pounding head. What a time for a migraine. The frankly less than Honourable Grand Vizier had denounced him publicly in the capital earlier today and was now sitting comfortably in his office while chaos erupted in Kamalshahr. Grand Commander Ardashir (or should I call him Saviour) had ordered massive elements of the Imperial Army and Air Force northward to "aid" the Hanoverians and the Empire of Calormen in dealing with the Tashbaan problem. What was more unsettling to Rakesh was that the North Babkhan Kapav Guards (elite regiments despite the recent downturn in North Babkha's economic fortunes) were also on the move northward on a path that according to his best intelligence was not headed for Tashbaan but to the oil fields. Add to this the fact that the "great" Grand Commander would undoubtedly attack the few standing North Babkhan cities while marching to crush the paltry Tudeh forces inside Calormen. Rakesh's head had reason to hurt.

Razjania-Dehvaz was one of the last bastions of credible resistance to the rightist reactionary fascism that coming out of Kamalshahr and was overtaking the provinces. Razjania-Dehvaz due to its abundance of trade and natural resources had survived relatively unscathed in the widespread economic plague that had forced the Kingdom down the path of corruption and disaster. Razjania-Dehvaz, Molivadia, Shahzamin, Norasht and Parestan had formed a solid reformist bloc during the last election cycle but nonetheless the Behsaz were returned to power with a majority almost unknown in the history of Babkhan politics. Now it was time to bring about change in Kamalshahr. The Kingdom of Babkha would not fall into ruin if Rakesh had anything to do about it.

As Rakesh looked up, two of the video-teleconferencing screens blinked on and the faces of Satrap Kuralyov of Norasht appeared along with Atash Rahmani, Satrap of Parestan. Behind both men scenes of chaos and much deliberation could be seen. This was truly a time of trial and tribulation for the Kingdom. "My good friends - you are both undoubtedly watching events unfold in Kamalshahr. The corrupt despot Ardashir Khan Osmani will stop at nothing to destroy any opposition to his leadership. Either we move now or we prepare to choose between exile and certain death. We have prepared much for this day of judgement and I have full confidence in both of you and in our loyal comrades. The time usher in a new golden age of change and reform is now - we must act as soon as possible. Are you with me my Comrades?" pleaded Rakesh as he looked deeply at Kuralyov and Rahmani.

Both men nodded and Kuralyov spoke up, "Yes Rakesh - we will move according to plan. Good luck to you my loyal friend and comrade" and with that Kuralyov and Atash disappeared. The problem in Kamalshahr would be solved on way or the other.

"Satrap? I was told you to inform you we have established a link with the Supreme Revolutionary Council in Tashbaan," Sotvam Hussan whispered to Rakesh. He was so incredibly young thought Rakesh but he must have been trained well at the Razjanian Military Academy.

"Thank You Sotvam," Rakesh replied and nodded silently as the army officer snapped to attention. Rakesh pushed a button and a blurry image riddled with static came up on the video-conference screen. However the man on the screen - the new head of the Supreme Revolutionary Council - was unmistakable. "Rasheed Majeed"

"It is good (static) that you remember me after all this time Khedive Ackbar," a steel almost emotionless voice came from the once Babkhan.

"The revolution is pointless Rasheed. You and I both know that. The Governor-General will attack within a few days, the North Babkhans will take the oil fields soon and by the end of the week the Imperial Army will begin its merciless purge of the city. There is not winning strategy for you."

A strange laugh came from Majeed "Khedive - I know that you don't want the North Babkhans to claim the oil wells or for the (static) Army to crush this Revolution. This is about the voice of the people Khedive Ackbar. The oil is ours - it will not be spent on the Empire of Calormen, the Kingdom of Hanover and definetely not on Babkha. Freedom, Liberty, Democracy - all the things you (static) taught is what we are fighting for here in Tashbaan. Will you (static) us to be crushed under the imperialist fist, Khedive? Do you wants thousands of (static) people to give up their lives? Trust me - Tashbaan will not fall before the roads are (static) deep in our blood. We will fight for independence. The question is - will you support us?"

Silence was all that came from Rakesh.

"You must have figured out by now that fighting has stopped inside Tashbaan. The people is united behind the Supreme (static) Council (SRC). The people are (static) loyal to you. They want you to serve as their leader - to guide (static) to a brighter future. In my hand I have a unanimous (static) by the Council electing you as Chairman of the SRC. But will you come to Tashbaan and fight for your land and people?"

Silence folowed Rasheed's statements. Quietly however Rakesh responded, "I ... I will ... I will come"

"Then Chairma..." the video screen suddenly blacked out and Majeed disappeared.

The room was deathly silent. Everyone looked at Rakesh - waiting for something - something even Rakesh did not know. He looked around the room. They were so loyal, so full of life. They had always proclaimed they would follow Rakesh to the ends of the earth and back. Now it was time to test that statement.

"Please send a communique to the Governor-General. Tell him that I will be travelling to Tashbaan personally to solve this crisis without unnecessary bloodshed. Additionally tell him that ahead of me will be my Asabara Division that will secure Tashbaan and the oil fields. The Governor-General should not attack until all diplomatic ways have been exhausted." before Rakesh could finish his string of orders an aid rushed off to send the communique

"Deploy all forces post haste to Tashbaan. There is a single airfield that can be used if memory serves me correctly. Weapons, personnel - anything we can manage should be sent to protect the citizens of Tashbaan from meaningless destruction. Prepare to deploy units of the Razjanian air defense corps - attack helicopters and warplanes - to Tashbaan. We did not spend millions of rials just to have them sit on our airbase collecting dust. Inform the naval command that they are requested to provide any support if they can" - again another soldier ran across the room to send the orders

"Relay a decree of state of emergency in the province. Open up the weapon bunkers and alert all guard and milita units. Deploy all light infantry forces within the city and move the heavier batallions to intercept and hinder the progress of the Imperial Army. Inform all units to protect our citizens and our infrastructure." - yet again another officer quickly started relaying orders to the troops above

"All right people - we are in here for the long haul. Our mission is not to provoke war - it is the make sure bloodshed does not occur. Let's get to work! LONG LIVE THE SHAH!"

As cheers echoed throughout the bunker - Rakesh turned to his desk and began calling Satrap Hesam Jahandar ... there was much to be discussed.

The Scorpion and the Fox

The first C-130 transports had arrived in Tashbaan carrying strike teams from The Kapav Guard. The teams air dropped and secured the small landing strip just outside the oil fields without a single shot being fired. The sky was dark with smoke and the jump had been nearly blind but the skill of the paratroopers prevailed. After carrying out a reconissance patrol of the immediate area, the commander of the jump company began assembling the communications nessesary to set up a command centre. Hanover was informed of the situation, as was Satrap Hesam.

The Satrap leaned back in his chair, within his office stood the various territorial leaders of North Babkha, Generals and stratigists. They reviewed the briefing from Tashbaan and pondered.

"The full forces are on the way, air control is being delivered and AA missles are being transported Your Excellency" one of the deligates spoke up.

Hesam exhailed, "Continue as planned, I want the Ronin forces to secure the oil fields, back them up with the APC's and what ever else is nessesary. When dealing with locals, be pleasant. I want a simultanious mission of peacekeeping from the 2nd and 3rd company of the guards. House to house searches for weapons. We are not here for government change, we are here to secure the fields and to stop the violence as a secondary objective. You may leave"

As the room emptied, The Gov-net communications alerted. It was Satrap Rakesh.

"Doorood Agha Sahib Hesam, We seem to be in a bit of trouble."

Rakesh's face was stern and tired. He had for along time been expected to accend the GV's position, however, Ardashir seeing him as too much of a threat had removed Rakesh as Deputy GV. Mostly for his leftist political leanings.

Hesam himself had never been much for one side or the other. He had come to Babkha as a refugee from the Soviet Empire. He was first recieved as a military liason to His Majesty Babak the Great, and was extremely loyal to the Grand Shah. A loyalty that was the unbroken acception to a normally "adaptible" political policy.

Rakesh and Hesam had often worked together, Rakesh had defended Hesam during an attempt by Ardashir to purge him. Recently, Rakesh had been discredited for his actions despite his good intentions. The GV wanted it to be clear to everyone, Babkha was his.

"Doorood Agha Sahib Rakesh, yes we do seem to have a situation developing. I assume you have been a busy bee recently. As have I. The Tashbaan oil fields are a day away from being secured. With the Oil secured, it will allow for new plans shall we say. Which brings me to the major detriment of these possibilities. Our Grand Vizier has not been himself recently, with his recent actions against you and I, I have to say I am in doubt of his health. With His Majesty in his pocket already, if he was to gain control of the oil fields, the whole kingdom would be his. We must do what we can to stop this problem."

It was infact true, The Shah had been barely seen for weeks. Upon Hesams last visit to His Majestys palace, The Shah looked almost dead. His face wrinkled and dried, his clothing worn and thread bare. Ardashir made most Royal proclaimations on behalf of the Shah, and it was Ardashir that proclaimed the celebrations of His Majestys birthday. It was a far cry from the vigorous days of Babak.

"Yes Hesam, I believe we must do something. I have recently accepted leadership of Tashbaan from the rebels. They were mostly former members of Qermez and I had taught many of them personally during the cross-rallies of the BLCP and Qermez. This ofcourse puts us at odds as the oil fields are within Tashbaan."

Rakesh relaxed, the game had begun. To be fair, it was Rakesh who had the upper hand. Hesam may control the fields, but Rakesh would control the territory shortly and with the territory would eventually come the oil. Rakesh however was willing to do buisness at 'friend prices' it was the best Hesam could hope for, he had made the first gain, but it would not have holding power without support. He had no choice but to deal.

"Yes it does seem that way. Well under the cercomstances I am willing to compromise. I will ensure that the Rebels in Tashbaan stay in power, the leadership will recieve guard from my best troops, and in addition I will ensure that the territory is secured. However in return I require two benifits from you. North Babkha must not fall under direct control of Kamalshahr. If you could intercept the Army at the border, and insure the security of the province, I would be most greatful. As well I require a deal over production in Tashbaan. If you are willing to co-invest in North Babkhan and Tashbaan oil I will offer 40% of all product revenue. This counts for a majority of Petrolium products for the whole of Micras, it is hardly a small concession. If you agree we can then discuss the future of the Kingdom, as we will then have the resources to do so."

It was all Hesam could offer. It gave Rakesh the upper hand. He would control more territory, and it put North Babkha at risk. Who was to say that Rakesh would not attempt to take North Babkha as well? he was in the position to do so. Hesam had wagered on Rakesh's ever-standing honour that he would not double-cross him. Besides the alternative was worse. If Ardashir were to take North Babkha, Hesam would without a doubt be replaced. He had fallen from the position of prized crony of Ardashir. Once a student to the Grand Vizier he had for whatever reason fallen out of favour. Farhang was in the waiting, A former Aide to Hesam in North Babkha, Farhang had proved his loyalty to the Capital over the Satrap years ago during Hesams trial and near purge. Farhang had become Ardashirs new apprentice and was all too willing to provide loyalty to the GV in exchange for North Babkha.

But now, with so much at stake, the oppertunities to end his long standing problems had arrived. If Rakesh were to agree to Hesams terms, Babkha could be saved from the puppet dictatorship of Ardashir. They could rebuild the provinces, and possibly gain enough backing to ouste Ardashir from office. Hesam did not trust many of Rakesh's allies, but he did trust Rakesh. If things went well perhaps a new GV could be found, but whom? He thought for a moment, and it struck him. Bahram. Bahram had been a good friend to Hesam and Rakesh. He had suffered the fate of those that oppose the current GV and had been exiled. Now as both Satraps were likely to soon suffer the same fate it only seemed natural that The Raskakhiz leader return. But would Rakesh agree to it? Bahram was a member of the new Rastakhiz party but had not been heard of for ages. It would have been next to impossible to find him as he had made a life out of avoiding being discovered. His contact only came one way, occasionally a messenger was sent through other channels with news, Bahrams support of one issue or another, but no one had contacted him in almost a year. Hesam would address the issue with Rakesh. Perhaps some way could be found.

Outside his window, Hesam glared at the Treesian malcontents. While the criminal syndicates were obviously still in power, atleast the Treesian Red had stopped thanks to the work of the RCMP and The Satraps strike teams. On a visit to Calormen, Hesam had once been witness to the RCMP musical ride, a wonderful spectical. The ceremony had been everything he had heard rumour of, the uniforms, the pagantry. However Hesam also made note that behind the ceremonial aspect, these were still highly trained police. He had been told that the RCMP had loaded pistols whether on parade or on less prominant duties. It was also a fact that the same smart looking officers were also stationed in remote towns and were also the premier security and intelligence force for Calormen. It was the very same RCMP officers that were investigating the troubles in Tashbaan as those on horse. Babkha had its equivelent, The Kapav Guards, but it was strictly soldiering, often dawning the ceremonial uniforms for duties at the palace, otherwise the guards were on the front lines of a campaign. A far cry from the precision of the paramilitary RCMP, who used intelligence over force.

Hesam had decided that it was time to speak to Hanover, and find out exactly what it was they wanted.

Treason!

The Shah was pondering the situation walking around the lonely halls of the palace. Ardashir had told him this was the best chance we would ever get to be the main oil supplier in the world. "What's wrong with sacrificing some lives and human rights for the greater good?" What indeed?

The Shah remembered the days when he was a liberal politician known for his liking of human rights and non-violence. It seems that during Ardashir's Grand Viziership all that had gone away. Somehow the GV always managed to persuade him to act against his conscience. And now this. This would be the worst genocide the country had seen for weeks. It's not that the Shah was himself particularly fond of Tudehs. He remembered the days of Babak when they were a real threat to the realm, but nowadays it seemed that they were a scapegoat for everything. Surely things were slipping out of his hands now. Ardashir has grown too power hungry. When Ardashir abdicated and instated Tahmaseb to the throne, Tahmaseb thought that Ardashir would retire and leave administration for saner minds. No such luck. It seems this was just a move for him to blame it all on the Shah claiming that it was the King of Kings who wanted blood and he was only taking orders. An old trick but effective nevertheless. And keeping the Shah sedated during his public appearances helped a lot as well.

There still was one thing Ardashir did not know. Deep in the vaults behind a door that Babak once revealed to Tahmaseb before Ardashir had access to the palace was a room Ardashir did not know about. There was the Shah's most priced possession. The surprise element could of course be effective for just one time meaning the timing had to be precise. And the time wasn't yet at hand. But some day it was certain to come. That would mean freedom from the hands of the evil Grand Vizier and public appearances without the medication that made the Shah babble incoherently about sheep. Some day, he hoped, the time will come to awake Namvari again.

But before that, it was important to stay alive. The Shah loved his people, but Ardashir has made the distance between the people and the sovereign so great that the Shah did worry more for his own life than some of his citizens. But staying alive was the only hope for Babkha. If Ardashir gets all the powers within the Kingdom, it wouldn't take long for the Atterans to begin the "liberation" of Babkha. It would be too much for the people.

Justantinople, Dominion Athenoi, Kingdom of Hanover

8:20 PM 03 December 2003

JUSTANTINOPLE - THE CAPITAL CITY OF DOMINION OF ATHENOI, KINGDOM OF HANOVER -After a three day blackout in Athenoi, the electricity to the Dominion had been revived. The cause of the blackout is unknown and for three days, there has been no news in the Dominion. The lights returned all at once and the city lit up in a spectacular array of holiday lights. The city had been decorated for the Christmas Holiday already and the Viceroy of Athenoi, Prince Justin de Marchmain, the Duke of Guelph believed that the power outage was due to the large amount of Christmas lights in the main cities of the Dominion.

The Great City of Justantinople, a beautiful city was returned to its former glory as the lights came on. The canals were lit up, Marchmain Square was crowded with people who were standing outside the Viceregal Palace. The Dominion's Official Christmas Tree, a 100 foot Calormeni Spruce had been personally sent by the Governor-General of Calormen a few days before the power went out, could be seen in glorious lights of red, blue and gold on the top of the Acropolis in front of the Old Duchy of Athenoi's Ducal Palace.

THE VICEREGAL PALACE - MARCHMAIN SQUARE - JUSTANTINOPLE - DOMINION OF ATHENOI - KINGDOM OF HANOVER

bzzzzzzzzzzt buzzzt... the lights came on in the Palace as the Duke of Guelph sat in the Venetian Sitting Room attempting to call the King of Hanover. No communications had been working in the Dominion for days. There was no news. "Thank God," said the Duke. "Now, I can get back to work instead of worrying about issues such as this, I was supposed to visit a Christmas program at the Duke Justin of Athenoi Elementary School dowtown. Phillip!!! Call the School and see if the show is going to continue, if you please." A young man dressed in a navy blue suit sitting behind a gilded marble top desk looked at the Duke shocked. "As your Royal Highness commands." He picks up the phone and calls the school and begins to talk. -A neo-classical clock on the mantle designed as a Roman chariot with horses and the center of the wheel as the face of the clocked turned to 8:45.

"Phillip! Make it snappy for goodness sake! Don't chit chat!" The Duke's Private Secretary looked very shocked. "Thank you, Goodbye. Sorry, My Prince, please forgive me. I have talked to Madame Herstoniavikos and she says that the show will go on. The children are very excited about your appearance."

"Very well. I am glad to hear that, I am looking forward to seeing this play, sounds very interesting. -Christmas at the O.K. Corall- Santa Clause in a cowboy hat...who would have thought? Anyway, I need to go get a shower and change. Have a gondala waiting on me." "Yes sir."

The Viceroy dressed in a black double breasted suit left with blue shirt and red tie walked out of the green painted room and into the marble hallway. A few minutes later he walked down the Grand Staircase into the Great Hall wearing a black tuxedo with white tie and vest and the light blue sash of the Order of the Act and white gloves. The children's first performance was for the Viceregal Court and Atheni Nobility. The Viceroy was greeted by his PS Phillip and the Viceroy exited the palace. Outside, the weather was quite cold for the Dominion, but it was a beautiful sight to behold. Waiting about 100 yards in front of the palace was a gondala with Royal Footmen attentively waiting in their scarlet coats and powder wigs. The Viceroy slowly walked toward boat and stopped and shook a few hands. The Viceroy then stepped into the gondala and waved a final wave to the onlooking crowd who were cheering at the site of their beloved Duke. The Viceroy is still warmly known as the Duke---the Duke of Athenoi--though he officially became Viceroy after His cousin aquired the Duchy as a member of the Commonwealth of Nations. A few moments later after traveling down the Grand Canal, the Viceroy's Gondala finally reached its destination. The beautiful Four story school building was highly ornamented for the holidays. The pink walls of the school and marble statuary and pediments were glowing in warm white lights. The columns had garland wrapped around them and the building was topped with a rather large Christmas tree. The boat stopped and the Duke was greeted by the School's Principal Monsieur Albert de Villevenue. The Principal bowed and the Duke shook his hand and chatted for a minute and a half. Then, the Duke walked along the stone square up to the open doors of the school. Once inside, he was directly taken by a usher to the Auditorium which was nearly as lavish as that of the Viceregal Palace. It was a three tierred room with marble columns and gilded walls. The seats were covered in velvet and embroidered in gold. The Stage curtains were of the same red velvet and the cieling was painted with a heavenly scene of the sky and cherubs. Once inside this room, the Duke was met with a bounty of wealthy patricians--the Noblility of the Atheni Dominion. The first of these was Madame la Comtesse de Lombardevie- the Patron of the School. The Duke took her gloved hand and kissed it...she was wearing a black velvet dress and a large diamond and sapphire cross necklace as well as a sash of the Order of the Tiger. The black dress is a custom of the Atheni Ducal Court which is still admired. "Madame, it is truly lovely to see you present this evening. I would be delighted if you would accompany me to the Royal Box to watch the play." The Lady blushed "Mon Duc, oui...I will be honored to do so." The Duke and Countess with the Duke's Private Secretary walked up to the Royal Box, a large room covered with red velvet curtains and red velvet gilded armchairs. The back curtains had the Royal Arms embroiderred on them and the front of the box had the royal arms carved into the marble balcony. The Duke and Countess took their seats. Then the Principal of the school appeared on the stage. "Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen, It is our pleasure to welcome His Royal Highness Prince Justin the Viceroy of Athenoi to enjoy the highly anticipated Christmas Play of the Elementary Class. It is our pleasure to perform the debut of the show to the Viceregal Court, Members of the Government and the Aristocrats of the Dominion. Now, CHRISTMAS AT THE O.K. Corral!!!" Everyone in attendance is standing and they begin to clap. They all take their seats and the play begins. The Duke is watching attentively when a Royal Page steps in and gives the Duke a sealed message. "Thank you." The Duke opens the message and reads it to himself. "Dear God." says the Viceroy in a low voice. "Monsieur, qu'est ce c'est? Un probleme?" asks the lovely countess. "Madame, I will not ruin your evening with such news. I will leave it up to you to listen to the news when you return to your villa. I must be going, have a good night,"the Duke replies to the astonished Countess. "Mon Dieu!" the Countess shreiks.

The Duke then walks out of the Royal Box into the hallway. In the hall are several Viceregal Guards dressed in their dark blue dress uniforms with black pants and boots, swords at side and caps in hand. "Let's get out of here!" The Duke walks quickly with Guards surrounding him. "I cannot believe what I have read, how on earth could this have happened?" There is no response from the Guards. "Geez, you people aren't talkative." The Viceroy emerges from the school and sees a waiting Mercedes with SUV's waiting behind and a police escort. In Justantinople, there are no cars allowed on the streets except for emmergencies. "Your Royal Highness." A Guard greets the Duke as he steps into the Mercedes. The cars speed off. Astonished people and photographers stand about in awe.

The Mercedes shreeks to a stop in front of the Viceregal Palace. A Sargeant from the Household Calvary Division opens the door for the Duke and the Duke is escorted into the Palace and up the elevator to His Private Study. Inside are several members of the Atheni Senate as well as high ranking members of the Dominion's Defence Forces. The Duke walks in and takes his seat at his desk pours some Treesian Red from a decanter and takes a drink. "What do we do?" asks the Duke. Several people make suggestions. "I will send a message to the Governor-General asking if he could use assistance from the Dominion. If so, I will send up to 1000 guards to assist the Empire. I do not want this to lead to a war. God Save the King." the Duke hands a message to His Private Secretary Phillip and commands that he go to see the Governor-General and see what the Dominion can do to help. The PS leaves and the door shuts behind him.

Correlation of Forces

Kilometer 65, The King's Highway, Outskirts of Tashbaan

It was crowded inside the command tent, but suitably furnished with the requisite equipment.

"Scarab to Sceptre, over." The radio crackled. A lance corporal picked up the receiver. Scarab was the radio post at theater headquarters, Anderson Barracks.

"Sceptre here. Amplify, over." Another jet swooped across the sky, emitting a sonic boom. The lance corporal muttered a curse as more sand dropped from the ceiling.

"Sceptre, be advised unusual information received in the past few minutes." The lance corporal dutifully noted it down on paper and handed it to the Governor-General, who was seated beside him. Secure communications were top dollar, but the previous Emperor of Calormen had seen fit to prioritize military program spending before handing the reigns over to King James and his heirs. A pity it was not followed up in Parliament. That ought to change soon. A lot of things were to change after this conflict.

"So it would seem that there seems to be some confusion among our Babkhan friends..." Wyndham muttered to his military adjutant, a major from the Hussars with an intelligence billet. Sir Christopher was now wearing the same desert camouflage uniform with a crimson beret, but with a patch of the viceregal arms, kindly designed for him by Anderson King of Arms, a herald who incidentally was a subject of His Serene Majesty the King of Pendronia, instead of the standard regimental crest.

Another jet passed by, and another boom followed in its wake. "That bastard's doing it on purpose," murmured the same lance corporal, who thankfully had chosen to serve in the land forces, thank you very much. Strange for a bunch of supposed allies.

"Sir, there could be another aspect that we're missing here." This one, a captain in the Imperial Fusiliers, was a political science graduate who served as a parliamentary aide in civilian life. Now he was a regimental staff operations officer, who primarily worked in the psy-war department. "It may be possible that there are liberal elements in the Babkhan government that do not like what the Imperial Army is doing. We could be in fact, seeing, the beginnings of a Babkhan civil war."

"Oh come off it, Collins, you know very well that the Shah's got his armed forces wound up tighter in his fist than that Grand Vizier of theirs has on his rials." This came from the Hussar major, the adjutant to the Governor-General.

"Sir, nothing more comes closer to the situation. Consider: there are two centers of gravity, or two objectives, if you will, in this campaign. The first is Tashbaan. The second are our oil fields outside Tashbaan." Captain Collins pointed at the map spread on the table.

"Now, in the past hours intelligence information shows that the Imperial Army is headed northwards. At this time we have not ascertained whether these forces have crossed our borders. The RCMP border station has not given any report.

"This here is the North Babkhan Kapav Regiment. Its line of march appears to be end at Tashbaan. Same with the Asabara Division, though half of it seems to be heading for Tashbaan, the other half for the oil fields.

"Now we know that the Kapavs are raised from North Babkha, and the Asabara from Razjania-Dehvaz. Both their satraps are not in favor with the Emir of Raspur, our friend the Grand Vizier. In fact, yesterday, I take it, we received news that the blackshirted goons of the Grand Vizier raided the opposition party headquarters, as well as offices associated with the socialists, all in keeping with the rhetoric he's been pounding out from Radio Kamalshahr.

"So, the Grand Vizier decides to snuff out the opposition, smoke out who's loyal to him. This crisis gives him a grand opportunity, what?" The Hussar major just had to get his voice in the discussion again.

"But sir, this is a dangerous risk for the Northern Babkhans. We know that deployment of their forces in this manner leaves their territories wide open. The Imperial Army has to pass through them first. Surely their territorials--fedayeen, I think they call them--are wandering through the area right now, with all the armed men under the local satraps out of the picture. That, sir, has got to keep their satraps quaking in their boots." He paused to catch his breath. He had a captive audience.

"Sir, if I were a satrap, I would never keep my boys away from me, much less my territory, no matter what the provocation, or temptation. I might lose my life, and even letting the Emir's boys walk willfully in my territory is sure to reduce my following in the Majlis. Even the perception of weakness is a no-no in their culture." He gestured.

"Who cares about Tashbaan, all afoul with anarchists? Let the Calormani government deal with it. Let their Khedive deal with it. Why should I lift a finger? That's their philosophy, sir."

"It just does not make sense. Why leave yourself naked militarily when the enemy is ready to finger you out for the firing squad? It's got to mean something big. I think it means the Northern Babkhans don't care if their lands or status fall to the Emir, so long as whatever it is their thinking doesn't happen." He coughed in the warm desert air.

"What could that be?" Wyndham asked, standing up.

Captain Collins, looked up, very much concerned.

"I've got the feeling, sir, that the Grand Vizier is trying to make a play for our oil, and that the opposition is trying to get there first."

The silence in the command tent was broken by another radio message.

"Sir, we see air transport landing by the oil fields. Looks like Babkhans, sir."

"We haven't the forces to block them. Get in secure radio contact with my Khedive, Rakesh. Use these precise words: I know about the Grand Vizier's retirement plan. Issue orders to all our forces, deny information to the Babkhans. Camouflage our positions from aerial reconaissance."

Wyndham stepped out of the tent, and gestured to the smart young captain to follow him. He pointed to the sky.

"Captain Collins, those jets are violating the sovereignty of our empire, which our Imperial Majesty has seen fit to vest in my hands. I want a plan for friendly skies." Captain Collins grinned and saluted.

Wyndham gave a grim smile. "Make a play for my oil, now will you...?"

He got into a jeep that drove off away from the command tent, which was now being hastily dismantled. He had to make sure that when he jerked away Operation Magic Carpet, that fat snakecharmer in Kamalshahr would fall on his backside and hopefully break his spine, or at least, keep him in his place.

Thirty minutes later, Kilometer 72, Outskirts of Tashbaan

"Babkhan aircraft, Babkhan aircraft, this is the Imperial Calormani Army. Request you all proceed on bearing 165. Copy acknowledgement, over."

No response, even after five times. Captain Collins smirked.

"Babkhan aircraft, Babkhan aircraft, this is the Imperial Calormani Army. Request you all proceed on bearing 165 immediately. Copy acknowledgement, over. Turn around now or we will fire, over. You are in violation of Calormani airspace."

Still no response. If the Babkhans were interested in playing hardball, so be it.

After ten more minutes of broadcasting the warning, Captain Collins went on the regimental radio net. A kilometer away, a squad of dismounted infantry from the Hussars had set up their surface-to-air missiles in record time.

Three tracking radars were locked on a Mig 29. As the time passed, more and more tracking radars would lock on the Babkhan flight of Migs.

The decision would rest with the Grand Vizier. Governor-General Wyndham was playing for keeps. He had to grin at that. A corporal interrupted his reverie.

"Sir, message from the Viceroy of Athenoi. He's sending us about a battalion of troops. One thousand men Also from what seems to be the Satrap of North Babkha, asking our intentions." The corporal handed the form over and saluted.

"Excellent. Have them assemble at Anderson Barracks with the other troops from Greater Muscovy. As for that Satrap, I don't know what his intentions are. Tell him to stay put. Still no word from Rakesh? Or from our RCMP border post? The clock is ticking on Magic Carpet. We'll have to move soon." Wyndham frowned.

The Cargo plane landed on the airstrip with a thud, and after 5 minutes the back docking door opened. Special operations soldiers secured the area and waited. Hesam walked down the ramp and looked out on the horizon of black smoke. He thought to himself, "this looks more like North Babkha than anywhere else". Hesam had decided to pay a quick visit to the tashbaan oil fields before making any further decisions.

The sky hummed as attack helicopters raced the sky under the thick blanket of smoke. All around the airport there was a buzz of activity as personel fortified the area. Hesam moved into the command centre located within a bunker under the control tower. His office had been prepaired and was ready as a satillite station equivelent to that of Sajin, only without the splendors of the palace.

During the flight Hesam had sent a message to Hanover, stating that he had sent peacekeepers into Tashbaan and the oil fields. He was securing the oil fields and capping them to prevent further loss. Reviewing the facts it made his head swim. Rakesh had accepted the leadership of Tashbaan, Hanover was attempting to end the civil strife and Ardashir was looming. Hesam had made the first move. He had the oil fields under "protection".

Now in the command centre he was ready to begin. This was going to be a grab at Tashbaans expence, it was not going to be clean. There were atleast 4 different groups attempting to gain control, the least of them were the Tashbaani people themselves. Risking war with Hanover was out of the question, but so was betraying Rakesh. Hesam would attempt to act as a moderator, coming up with a common good solution and making a tidy profit as well.

He began working on an idea. Rakesh would lead the Tashbaan, under the condition that he slowly extinguish the rogue nature of the state. Rakesh would then report back to Hanover, as an offical of that government and not Babkha. Hesam would supply the force nessesary to ensure the peace, and invest in the economy to ensure the territory was rebuilt. Hesam had thought over all it was reasonable, but he knew the last point would be the trouble. It seemed nessesary to ask for payment of support through the oil, but to split it between Hanover, Rakesh and himself, well it was hardly worth the effort. So the question was, how do you seperate 2 empires and 1 revolutionary movement from their oil, and have two wealthy Satraps left over?

Then what about a mutual company? if Hanover, Rakesh and Hesam were on the board of a united oil company, they would control the prices, and thus, they would be able to make extreme profits all around. He sent out a memo to Hanover.

Decript con: 1n4n5nn543k4n4n5mp7p67mn6n7

- Kingdom of Hanover, Your Excellency GG of Caloreman. Satrap of NorthBabkha seeks mutual confrence on current situation in Tashbaan. Oil fields secured by my forces. Peacekeepers have been sent to Tashbaan. NOT taking sides. This communication is on behalf of North Babkha. I can not speak for the motives of Kamalshahr forces. For further information contact Satrap Rakesh. Mutual agreement sought.

End: 4n5jn4m6m4m4m6n6n64n3n

Without talks with Hanover and Rakesh nothing more could be done. However, in anticipation of this, Hesam called in engineers to begin work on a pipeline. If he could reach an agreement all the better.

Now to deal with the GV. Hesam would wait in Tashbaan for a day, and then seek an audience with His Majesty. It was time to use his position as Atebeg of the Gate, Protector of the Crown.

Four large ominous Mig-25R, single-seat high-speed reconnaissance plane, awakened from their slumber slowly roared to life and took off in the backdrop of the beautiful Razjanian sunset. These planes were formerly part of the Baracaoan Air Force but had found their way into Razjanian hands after the Republicas downfall (it only so happend that the Satrap of Razjania-Dehvaz had gained a major commission few weeks before the collapse). These graceful birds of prey rose almost effortlessly to 60,000 feet and broke the sound barrier when they reached the Hanoverian border. The pitiful SAM sites of the ground tried to lock on to the Mig-25s but as the aircraft accelerated - Mach 1.8, Mach 2, Mach 2.5, Mach 2.7, Mach 2.9, and finally Mach 3 - there was no way any man-made missile was ever going to hit them. The planes made a quick fly-by over Tashbaan, the Hanoverian forces, the oil fields and as quickly as they appeared - they disappeared back in Babkha.

Rakesh's lack of sleep had finally caught up with him. Almost two days had passed since the "Revolution" had occured. He yawned loudly as his fellow officers chuckled around him; many urged him to take a short nap but he refused - he would not rest until this crisis was solved.

His reconnaissance had showed a troubling situation brewing in Tashbaan. The city proper was heavily guarded, the revolutionaries - mostly demoblized soldiers - had fortified themselves to fight for almost every square inch. The North Babkhan Kapav Guards had secured the the oil fields (or so it seemed) while the few elements of the Asabara Division had been rushed to the defense of Tashbaan. The Hanoverians would be hopelessly outnumbered by the time the Imperial Army made their way to the border but right now they held the tactical upperhand. The Imperial Army was several hours from the Razjania-Dehvaz provincial border and Rakesh had deployed every man he had to stop the Army's spearhead to Hanover - he had to protect not only Razjania-Dehvaz but had to make sure North Babkha did not fall to the Grand Vizier. The odds were against him but he had much weaponry at his fingertips. Rakesh had been able to securely move a good bulk of the former Baracaoan military to his province right before and after the Republica's fall from grace. Tanks, artillery, warplanes, missiles, mortars and machine-guns -- were all ready to be used.

But while the military situation was the last option - Hanover and Babkha seemed to be locked in a battle of chicken. Hanoverian SAM sites had been set up in record time and was locking onto the Imperial Air Force. Time was truly running out. Only to make matters more complicated it seems - Rakesh had just been appointed Prime Minister of Hanover by His Majesty, Alexander I of Hanover. Rakesh's loyalties were being torn a million ways. As no more news had come from the chaotic capital - Rakesh quickly sent communiques to the Governor-General and the Satrap of North Babkha

Quote:

To His Excellency the Governor-General of the Empire of Calormen,

Good tidings and Greetings in the name of His Royal Majesty King Alexander I of Hanover,

I hereby wish to announce that the I will be travelling to Tashbaan later today to take the reigns of power as Chairman of the Supreme Revolutionary Council. While my loyalty rests with his your lordship as Khedive of Tashbaan, desperate times calls for desperate measures. As Chairman I hope that I may be able to broker a truce between all parties and would move generally to bring Tashbaan back into the Empire.

In respect to the oil, it is now general knowledge that the North Babkhans are currently controlling the fields. I will support their occupation under the pretense that the fields be used to benefit all parties involved - the North Babkhans (who are in depserate need of some aid), the Empire and the people of Tashbaan most importantly. Terms of such an economic agreement should be scripted as soon as possible.

It is my sincere hope that any bloodshed can be stopped before it occurs. I will continue to work for the interests of peace and will sanction violence only in the extreme. I advise you to deploy your forces against Tashbaan and her North Babkhan allies but against the pending threat from the South.

My fond regards,

Khedive Rakesh Ackbar, Prime Minister of Hanover

Quote:

To His Lordship Satrap Hesam Jahandar of North Babkha

Salutations in the radiant glory of His Imperial Majesty the Shahanshah,

As per our conversations - I have sanctioned the North Babkhan control of the oil wells in Tashbaan and have also moved my milita forces to protect both our provinces from the threat the Imperial Babkhan Army has suddenly become. While I am hopeful that we may be able to form an agreement that would be beneficial for all parties in Tashbaan, the situation remains bleak in our blessed Kingdom.

The Shah has become a pawn, the Grand Vizier has become nothing short of a dictator as his opposition is summarily liquidated. The Imperial Army will no doubt level our provincial cities to the ground at the Grand Vizier very utterance. Either we act now or await to see our cities burn to the ground. We must not only stop the coming war between the Kingdoms of Hanover and Babkha but also the Civil War that is in the horizon. A change of leadership must occur in Kamalshahr - I am willing to support the rise of our good friend Bahram Gul Khuramdin to the highest political position in the land if I had your support and if we could find him in the areas in and around Tashbaan.

Our times grows short my good Satrap - time is working against us and we must work quickly and decisively.

Long Live the Shah!

Satrap Rakesh Ackbar

Just as Rakesh put his finishing touches on the communique, Sarhang Ali-Dyeb silently handed a slip of paper to the Satrap. "Sir - orders from the Grand Commander!"

Rakesh groaned - what could Ardashir the Terrible be wanting now? As Rakesh opened the folded paper - his stomach dropped and he suddenly felt nauseated.

Quote:

Attention: Sartip Rakesh Maziar Ackbar

Please activate ballistic and cruise missile batteries #8 and #11 outside the city of Dehvaz. Prepare the missiles for immediate launch.

Target: Hanoverian Radar Stations and SAM missile sites

In His Majesty's Service, Grand Commander Ardashir Khan Osmani

Oh @#%$ thought Rakesh as he crumpled the paper in his hands.

Summit talks?

Imperial Fusiliers Regimental Headquarters, outside Tashbaan, Lower Muscovy

Colonel Julius Radcliffe was peering towards Tashbaan with his binoculars in disbelief. Several cargo planes were earlier lazily circling around the oil fields like fruit flies. The communication from the field headquarters several kilometers back said that it was confirmed: the North Babkhan Kapav Guards had secured the area. Perhaps that's what pissed the Governor-General off. None of those turbaned commanders even had the courtesy to inform him of their plans before securing a most important objective. Now that they could present the Hanoverians with a fait accompli, would they deign to relinquish control of the oil fields? Colonel Radcliffe grunted. Probably not. He still did not know whose side they the were on.

He glanced at the intelligence dossier earlier handed to him:

The Tashbaan settlement is a walled city, circular in shape, and situated on nearly flat ground. On its eastern side, running north to south, is the Five Lions River, where barges and other floating craft deposit merchandise and persons through the eastern souk gate. Beyond the souk on entering that gate is the Imperial Square. At the northern side of the square is the joint municipal building and Khedive's palace known as Flagstaff House, while on the southern side of the square is the RCMP barracks, now probably full of disarmed policemen, and beside it, a small agiary of the Babkhan Patriarchate.

On the western side are the city gates, and from there a semi-paved road, King Thomas I Avenue, runs west to east until it hits the Imperial Square. On either side of the avenue are the mud-and-brick dwellings of the local elite, behind which were the smaller hovels of the other residents. That would pose a problem if a running gun battle ensued. Soldiers could easily get lost and be set upon in those crisscrossed alleys.

The oil fields are east of the city, beyond the Five Lions River. A small airstrip for refinery supply is available, but it is uncertain whether the North Babkhan Kapav Guards, which now control the territory, will allow it to be used.

The Prince of Emden's (No. 2) Company was still in its camouflaged position, observing the approaches to the western city gates of Tashbaan. No. 3 and No. 4 Company of the Imperial Fusiliers was attached to G and H Troops of the Milyukovsk Hussars, and were positioned north of the Prince of Emden's Company.

The entire Second Battalion of the Imperial Fusiliers, 576 or so riflemen and other attached units, 800 men in all, were dug in behind them, as was the First Squadron of the Milyukovsk Hussars, with its 80 or so armored personnel carriers, their soldiers waiting inside.

E and F Troops were at the southern portion of Tashbaan, scouting for enemy forces, and making sure no one escaped and headed southward.

The Emperor's (No. 1) Company of the Imperial Fusiliers was at Anderson Barracks, as base security and to help organize the reinforcements from Greater Muscovy, as well as that battalion-strength unit of the Athenoi Viceregal Guards.

"Colonel, Leftenant Jonathan Kessler is here, sir." Radcliffe turned to see the man he had sent for. Good chap, just received his lieutenant's pip. Wearing camouflage battle dress, and the crimson beret of the Fusiliers.

"Excellent, leftenant. I have a little mission for you. Corporal Reynolds is here to take you by jeep and head for the airstrip by our oil fields. Look for their commanding officer. You are to hand him this note. Go ahead, lad, take a look for yourself." Kessler did just that. It was written in both English and Farsi.

"Headquarters, Imperial Fusiliers Regiment.

To the Commander of North Babkhan Forces in the Empire of Calormen.

Sir, I have the honor to present you with Lieutenant Jonathan Kessler, who is to serve as liaison between your forces and ours, and Corporal Porter Reynolds, IFR, his aide. Please grant him the standard courtesy and accomodation in your headquarters, and allow him to communicate with this Command from time to time.

Most Obliged.

Colonel Julius Radcliffe, Imperial Fusiliers Regiment. Commanding."

"Now, leftenant, do make sure that you reach his headquarters and deliver this note. The fate of the Empire may very well rest in your hands."

Kessler pocketed the note, saluted, took his rifle and headed for the staff jeep, with Corporal Reynolds holstering a pistol on his right hip. One never knew when that would come in handy. Reynolds spoke Farsi like a native, having spent some time as clerk to the embassy at Kamalshahr. Hopefully he would not need to draw his weapon.

The desert-colored jeep sped off eastward, the little flag of the Governor-General's coat of arms fluttering from the head of the radio aerial.

"Sergeant, radio the Kapavs on the guard channel that we've got a man coming in. Tell the Guv'nor too that we've accomplished his little request."

The sergeant did so, and Radcliffe was back to examining the desert horizon.

Præsidents Houß, Grøßenburg, Sloblandt, Slobowien

A young Slobovian Army officer sits in the intelligence room of the Hauðhoußen þes Slobowienisches Harres wing of the great Slobovian Presidential palace, surrounded by maps of far-off places, code books, radios, and encryption gear, and wearing a grey uniform with various medals including the coveted Mjolnir Order (awarded only for being wounded while performing gallant acts). The officer takes a drink of coffee just as a message begins to come in from one of Slobovia's spies. As the officers reads the message, coffee sprays out of his mouth and he exclaims "MITSCH" and runs out of the room and down the hall in the direction of the Præsidents Ambacht.

President Þompsohnd sits in his expensively decorated office behind his huge desk, in his big comfortable chair, smoking a cigar and reading about Napoleon. The President is dressed in a black formal uniform, with countless medals and decorations, including a few Mjolnir Orders. The President is comfortable but seems a little worried by the look in his eyes. The officer rushes into the President's Office and shouts "HAILASEN GEI!" as he salutes the President. The President returns the salute and asks "Wo gangþ? (How goes?)." The young officer quickly hands the President the printoff of the spy's report, and Þompsohnd begins to read it...

Quote:

Babkien unð Hanover | Weir | Helle | Ger mande (Babkha and Hanover [stop] War [stop] Hell [stop] Request men)

After reading the message, the President has a very sober look on his face. He calls a prominent Mytschr in the Slobovian Army and requests that he take two divisions for an expeditiary force.

Þompsohnd debates the subject of whether to interven or just observe a few hundred time in his head during the next few hours, knowing full and well that Slobovian pilots would be soon in risk of life and limb.

The Skies over Tashbaan, Lower Muscovy A wing of Slobovian operated MiG 29's comes into presence over Tashbaan a half an hour later. The MiGs show no signs of aggression or hostility, and just take a defensive/observational standpoint. Each and every pilot in the planes are think of their girlfriends, wives, and families, and are prepared to, although they hope they won't, make the trip to Vahalla. The Slobovian Army Air Command is not a green unit, as Slobovia has been invaded so many times in recet history that it is only natural that the pilots gained experience. Slobovia is also an honorable nation when it comes to her friends and allies, and will stand by Babkha if Slobovia's assistance is required, though, what Slobovian intelligence hasn't picked up on, will more than likely hurt it.

Heart of Darkness

The Grand Vizier knew from the very start that none around him could be trusted if they did not owe their position and very lives to him. The delay in the missile launch sequence had convinced Ardashir that the Satrap, dear old Rakesh Ackbar, was now beyond the pale. So sad that the Liberals had missed the last chance to save themselves from being plunged into hellfire alongside the Tudeh and the other adherents of Ahriman. The Satrap had failed the last loyalty test. No matter.

The Grand Vizier was at that moment standing out on the Ivan-e Takht-é Marmar, the Marble Throne Verandah at the rear of the Royal Shahyiar Palace’s West Wing. It was a long walk from the Grand Vizier’s own offices but it was worth it to view the splendour of the Shahanshah’s mirrored, open-fronted audience hall. Its centrepiece was, naturally enough, a magnificent throne dominated by human figures and constructed from 65 pieces of alabaster. Upon that throne sat the dishevelled Shahanshah. Tahmaseb’s head was flopped down on his chest; the face was like that of a man twice his age, wrinkled and of a pallor that was giving way to greyness. Ardashir reflected that it was also worth the walk to see the Shahanshah take his medication. The Shahanshah’s valet, really a Sarlashger in the Komiteh, was administering another injection into Tahmaseb’s left arm. Teymur Bakhtiar looked up from the degraded King of Kings upon hearing the jackbooted echo of the Grand Vizier, all the other security men and appointed royal flunkies backed out of the room at his approach. “Salaam Ardy, I’ll tell you something bavadar. I do wish you wouldn’t keep ordering the Shah to be sedated.” The friendship between the two was such that there was no standing on ceremony, most certainly not for the sake of the Shahanshah. “Doorood Teymur, what’s up with you? Moral qualms?” The Sarlashger, a powerful and hideous presence always, hunched his huge buffalo bull shoulders and bellowed with laughter. He grinned and a perfect set of glistening white teeth twinkled at the Grand Vizier. They were not Teymur’s however, his rotted away long ago, and the replacements had been plucked from the dead, of which there was always plenty these days. “Son of an Atteran! Every time I dope him up I have to find a fresh vein all the while having to make sure that the scaring not be seen in public.” The Grand Vizier airily waved the complaint away. “Your boys should work harder on putting that chemical cocktail into capsule form. Not my problem. Anyway how is he? Far gone? Talking about sheep yet?” “Have a listen for yourself.” To prove the point Teymur tugged the Shahanshah’s head up by the forelock. Tahmaseb’s eyes were showing only the whites, the eyeballs were pointing upwards into the cranium. The Shahanshah was drooling and his gold embroidered white silk shirt was deeply stained with saliva and vomit. Slowly the lips moved and Tahmaseb began to gibber an old nursery rhyme ‘Bah bah Kara Koyunlu have you any wool? … bale sahib, bale sahib… ’ “Far gone. Lets get down to business.”

Sarlashger Teymur Bakhtiar clapped his hands and dozens of terrified Mondesian slaves rushed in from the shadows. The petrified gangs dashed about here and there sometimes slipping on the marble floor only to scuttle off in abject terror under the Grand Vizier’s stare. One bunch of slaves came carrying a mahogany table, others arrived with chairs, and board stands. Another clap from Teymur and the slaves were gone again. Now the Royal Chamberlain’s staff brought in the stationary, pens and paper, along with laptops, telephones and vid-link equipment. A butler wheeled in a trolley laden with refreshments, sherbet, fruit, teas and coffees, and alcohol, and parked it at the end of the mahogany table furthest from the throne. The Grand Vizier, with great delight forgot himself and rushed over to the trolley, the contents of which the butler was still unloading onto the table, and grabbed the 70cl bottle of Glenfiddich scotch for himself. It was nicely chilled to the Grand Vizier’s own exacting standards. While the conference room was being set up the Grand Vizier amused himself now besides the intoxicated Shahanshah. With arrogant playfulness the Grand Vizier heavily patted his sovereign lord on the head. It was a jolt that would have stirred a sedated rhino and it brought Tahmaseb round to consciousness if not actual comprehension. With great effort the Shahanshah raised his head sufficiently to look Ardashir in the eyes. It was a look of puzzlement and fear that was giving way to impotent despair. Unexpectedly Tahmaseb grabbed Ardashir’s arm. This made the Grand Vizier recoil in fright, but only for an instant. Then, though slurred, Tahmaseb began to speak.

“I know you, curse the day of your birth.” The Grand Vizier laughed. “Your Imperial Majesty is tired, perhaps your valet might prepare an infusion that would aid your repast o glorious Shahanshah…” The Shahanshah’s eyes were blood red, full of hate, and focused on his Grand Commander. “Get thee away Zahhak. You will not destroy my Kingdom! You shall not devour my people!” In the great poet Ferdosi’s epic, the ‘Shahnamah’, Zahhak was the first man taught to savour the taste of animal flesh by the demon Ahriman. Zahhak was also king of his lands when Ahriman came to him in the form of a chef and claimed a reward for teaching the delighted king the art of cooking meat. Ahriman kissed Zahhak on both his shoulders, from which two snakes grew. This made Zahhak immortal but to stay alive Zahhak depopulated his kingdom in order to feed the snakes with human brains. Eventually a hero slew the monster. It was a choice and appropriate insult that the Shahanshah had spate out in this rare moment of lucidity. No matter, for as the Grand Vizier well knew there were no heroes in this day and age. His manner then was calm, his voice soothing. “Come now Majesty, the dreamless sleep is almost upon you.” Tahmaseb’s grip of Ardashir loosened and as the Shahanshah lapsed into unconsciousness Ardashir stroked his hair and whispered into his ear. “The dreamless sleep Majesty, from which one day you will never awaken again.”

The Shahanshah slumped over on the throne. As the Grand Vizier pulled himself away he saw that the Generals were assembled and the meeting was about to begin. Ardashir flashed a bright and false smile at them.

“Doorood my brethren! What news do you bring me?”

Treesian Consul’s Office, Kamaltoon, 13:00 4th December 2003

Connla McCulann leant back in his chair. He was reading a newspaper, the Avey Rastakhiz, which had a headline in the swirling Farsi script. McCulann could speak Farsi, and could read it well enough, but his lessons had been in the field, as they said, so he hadn’t had quite the time to learn the phonetics of it, so his writing was often considered offensive to Babkhans who read it. He stuck to writing in English, since no-one would understand him if he spoke Treesian. McCulann was a Treesian, full-blooded, born in Foinsefionn City in the heartlands of Vembria, and had come to Treesia as a soldier in the hilariously pointless Treesian-Osmani war, as they called it here. As if all the papers back home had distinguished between the Shah and Babkha. “Mharaigh an madra gainneamh!” he remembered on the recruitment posters, kill the sand-dog. It seemed ridiculous now, so long ago. He was a different man now.

There was a knock on his door, and McCulann looked up. It was O hUiginn, his aide, and not his secretary. Disappointed, he raised his eyebrows, asking the young man what he wanted without speaking. “Dere’s someone here to see ya, Connla,” O hUiginn said in the typical egalitarianism amongst the bureaucratic classes of Treesia. “Right, Mick, send dem in,” McCulann responded, storing the newspaper in a drawer of his desk. He brought his chair back to the mahogany desk, adjusting his tie and looking every inch the well-to-do Treesian Consul to the Satrap of North Babkha. After a while, a man so tanned as to be almost black, with a sun-bleached mass of hair and beard. Risteard had crammed himself into a suit, in an effort to look respectable. McCulann relaxed instantly. The man was a former soldier, like McCulann himself. “Conas atá tú, a Chonnla?” Risteard asked. “I’m fine, Rist,” McCulann responded, informing his friend that the conversation was to be conducted in English. He was certain that his office was bugged, and if any hint of Treesian was heard, he would have the Babkhans down on his heads demanding what he had been saying.

The hulking Treesian sat at the other side of McCulann’s desk, and grinned. “We’ve got a right mess on our hands, haven’t we?” Risteard said. “I don’t know, Rist, I don’t know,” McCulann said meditatively, “we might have a very lucrative business deal on our hands.” The grave and methodical Consul had disappeared now, and McCulann Suildubh, Blackeyed, the renowned smuggler, was evident. “I’ve got 2,000 crates of Red at the warehouses downtown,” McCulann said, referring to downtown Kamaltoon, where his consulate was. The bearded smuggler nodded, “I’ll have Afas’ men bring them over the causeway, will I?” He referred to the local police force corporal, who had basically ran Kamaltoon before the arrival of the Consul, and was safely in McCulann’s breast pocket. “Have him come and meet me,” said McCulann to his lieutenant. “Right, boss,” Risteard said, and left soon afterwards.

Afas appeared an hour later, in his khaki uniform. For a man so fat, he rarely sweated. He was a native Babkhan, and McCulann assumed he was acclimatised to the natural climate. McCulann himself did not feel comfortable until washing in a bath of ice at the end of the day. “’Ow arr you, my friend?” Afas asked in his accented English. “Fine, fine,” McCulann said, accepting the Babkhan’s double handshake. “I trust Risteard has told you what I want done?” McCulann asked. “Yes, yes, I shall ‘ave a convoy prepared this evening, all Risteard’s men need do is bring the goods to me,” Afas confirmed. “Right,” McCulann nodded, “and I’ll be coming with them.”

Later that day

Having prepared his bag for the trip, McCulann dusted off his facsimile, his contacts in Tashbaan only had a fax, no e-mail or land-line phone, indeed. He scribbled it down in Treesian, so as to protect himself and his associates from the unwanted observer:

Quote:

A chara,

Amarach, tiocfaidh me chugat l’Afas agus a bhfir. Beidh dha mille dearg linn. An bhfuil an spas agaibh den rudai sinn?

Slan go foill, CMcC

(My friend, tomorrow, I’ll come to you with Afas and his men. We’ll have two thousand reds with us. Do you have the space for these things? See you soon, CMcC.)

He assumed that would be enough for his associate, grinded it through the ancient machine, and, after downing another quarter bottle of Treesian Red, went to bed after reading another chapter of that awful piece of thrash, How I Found Orthodoxy. It was an insult to his experience as a soldier.

Belly of the Snake

The Tashbaan Oil Fields

Hesam had recieved a report similar to the one Rakesh had recieved. Silo activation. Ofcourse, The Grand Vizier no longer bothered to consult his cabinet anymore, Hesam being the Vizier of defence, in an other nation would have been the first to know, but these days everything came directly from Ardashir. "How had we let the Kingdom deteriorate so badly?" Hesam thought. No matter, things would be changing shortly. He had sent a communication to the GV stating that the targeting systems were down on the silos since the NorthBabkhan war, and was unable to activate them, it would have to do. Hesam also sent a communication to Satrap Rakesh.

"Doorood Rakesh, I am headed to Kamalshahr, I am going to collect the Shah and bring him to Sajin, he will be safe there and out of the GV's hands. If I do not return, continue the search for Bahram, and maintain the security of North Babkha."

Hesam was walking into the belly of the beast, it was a nessesary risk and one that may prove his death. but he had no choice. As Hesam crossed the airstrip a group of assistants followed close behind, Hesams face was cold, and pensive. He had his mind on things that were now more important than oil, and North Babkha, the Kingdom itself was in danger, and if this problem was not solved it would mean the end of everything. The Pipeline was already in the works, the first line would link it to the refineries in NorthBabkha that were being built with aid money, the second line, if it got that far, would link that line with the Babkhan pipe network, sending oil all the way to Kamalshar, and around the continent. The line itself was highly classified, buried deep so as not to arrouse suspicions. The wells themselves had been almost entirely capped, which was a relieve to the atmosphere and a variety of bank accounts. The politics of Oil are backward. It is not enough to produce the most, that would only drive down the cost. What is nessesary is to own the most and produce the least so that any price can be set.

One thing was for certain, this Hanover "aide' was little more than a spy. He would be kept far away from any of the interior workings of the fields. His cautionary arrival was noted, and dispite his reluctance he had been told to hand over his pistol. If anything did happen it was doubtful that 12 9mm rounds would change a damned thing, but this was all dealt with by the Colonel, not Hesam.

12 hrs later, Kamalshar, Palace of The Shah

The Capital was under a curfew as order of the GV, Hesam and his two guards moved through the empty streets. He could feel the eyes around him, from windows, corners, jeeps. A plethera of Security services were vainly attempting to remain unnoticed. The Yemin Zoka (a unit Hesam had created) was watching him, The Black shirts were watching them, Savak officers were keeping tabs on both. What was troubling was the Komiteh members, you could never see them. They were there, but they were the elite of intelligence, unseen and unheard. The greatest accomplishment of any security group is to never be mentioned, a cruel irony for those that accomplish the highest level of proffessionalism.

Hesam made no attempt to hide himself, that would have been pointless, he and his guard walked briskly from the car and up the shallow stairs of the Palace. Then, half way up two shots rang out. He turned and found his guards dead where they had once stood. Standing alone, with the dim lights of the palace around him, he breathed, lit a cigarette and stood for a moment, looking down the long avenues that stretched out on angles from the Palace. Without saying a word, both Hesam and the thugs had made their intent known. The atmosphere was sharp and cold.

Hesam walked up the remaining stairs and was immediately blocked by a line of Security. Another line marched out to encircle him. After that he was cuffed and taken into the Palace. He had expected this, not exactly the same treatment he had recieved before when an Honour Guard saluted him when he was recieved by His Majesty, but these were different times.

"Doorood Hesam"

Ardashir seldom rose from his table to greet anyone but he stood with empty whiskey bottle in hand to beckon Prisoner Jahandar to the table.

“Comrades you doubtless remember our esteemed friend the Satrap of North Babkha.”

Hesam scowled ignoring the Grand Vizier and his band of racketeers at the table and even though he was handcuffed he made his formal obsequies towards the throne, where upon the slumbering Shah slept, as much as prisoner as he.

“He means to take us for fools, our friend the Satrap.” Ardashir addressed the table, loudly enough for Satrap Hesam to hear all that was said. “He wants us to believe that the scud launchers are inoperative, that the silos are powered down. He wants us to believe that there is not a single missile in all of Northern Babkha capable of being launched in the defence of the Motherland.” Triumphantly Ardashir brandished a wad of papers in the air before slamming it down on the table. “We know differently!” In an instant Sarlashger Teymur Bakhtiar was on his feet applauding. The sycophants around the table representing the army, airforce, fedayeen, secret service, and the Behsaz party, were soon doing likewise. The Emir of Raspur acceded to this standing ovation graciously and then reached for the wine decanter. “We would be in our rights to give him the dogs death promised to all traitors…” The Grand Vizier was on his feet now and looked across to the shackled Satrap with a glint in his eye that was not entirely attributable to too much booze nor, for once, to pure malice. “But we have a mind to be forgiving to our friend the Satrap.” The Arteshbod of the SAVAK service, Nematollah Nassiri, frowned. He would have enjoyed breaking every rebel bone in Hesam’s body. It was him that Ardashir addressed primarily, for Teymur already understood and the rest would follow in any event. “Our friend has done a rare thing” Ardashir continued “he has taken by guile what we would have made ours by force. An hour or two ago I ordered our tanks, which had reached Sajin City to stop short of the gates; not to force the border and not yet to carry on to Tashbaan. Our fighters have also ceased their patrols over Tashbaan and North Babkha. A Slobovian patrol has taken over for the moment. We felt a more neutral airpower overhead might be reassuring to the Hanoverians on the ground. Now none of us want war with Hanover yet both myself and my friend here want the oil of Tashbaan.” Ardashir paused to grin once more. “Hesam has secured the oilfields, he got there first – full marks for that, yet the Kapav Guards do not have the strength to hold the oilfields alone. The Imperial Bástán Army does, yet it requires the assistance of the Kapav Guards to get there. We both want the oil equally badly. It only seems logical that we embark on a venture to obtain an equal share.”

And with that Hesam was beckoned to take a seat at the table.

Outside Sajin City

The ‘Babak’ & ‘Ardashir’ Cushaans, otherwise known as the 1st and 2nd Regiments of the Scheherezade Division, had been down this road before; the road to Sajin City, yet whereas before in October the road over the mountains had been contested yard by bloody yard against the Kapav Guards and the Ronin mercenaries this time there had not even been a single instance of resistance on the part of the North Babkhans. There was no need. It was the onset of the notorious North Babkhan winter where snow would block up the passes until at least March. On the Jebel Mountain tops a sudden and total whiteout meant visibility had been reduced to a few yards and it was only because of the peacetime conditions still prevailing that the snowploughs had been out to clear the remaining 20 km of road to Sajin City. And there the column halted. The soldiers hoped that the horrors of a winter war could be averted.

Deal with The Devil.

Hesam looked at the table. All these men, had at one point been under him, trained by him, and now look where they sat. Hesam knew his every move and gesture was being clinically scrutenized so while he looked blankly at the table, he could still see out of the corner of his eye, The Shah.

One of Ardashir's henchmen had thought it hilarious enough to lay his coat across the Shahs lap. His Majesty sat, occassionally roling his head back and forth. Hesam looked about him, with his cuffed hands he reached into his pocket and removed a cigarette, lit it and holding it in his teeth he sat down.

"Well gents, I appreciate all of your hospitality and ofcourse the lovely bracelets but mind if I remove them for the time being?" the handcuffs were removed by a guard, and Hesam relaxed a bit.

"What an interesting situation to be in, the minute we all find wealth, we end up pointing guns at each others heads. now this seems to be the problem. I have the oil, but I also have an army crossing my land. Not to mention the fact that I seem to be under arrest here. I do not see that I am in much of a position to bargan, but I am not willing to deal until a few demands are met."

The men at the table scoffed, Nassiri of SAVAK had starred at Hesam like a dog about to taste blood, he was sure he would get his chance to ring Hesam through. But Ardashir spoke up,

"And what demands are those?" The Grand Vizier was toying with Hesam, he knew that there was no reason to agree to anything.

"I want 60% of the oil, I had previously offered Rakesh the same, it is the best I will offer, anything more and I may as well die here. I want executive aid for North Babkha, to re-establish its economy and former status, no slush funds, no administrative costs. plain Rials directly to me. Lastly I want the Imperial forces out of North Babkha, I will handle the affairs in Tashbaan on my own, if things become overwhelming, I will ask for aid."

Hesam Starred Ardashir in the eye. His face was cold and harsh. At the begining of this endevour, Hesam had hoped to collect a tidy colonial profit, now it had turned into a battle for soveriegnty. His interest had disappeared.

The Emir's brow furrowed. "My friend, let us be reasonable, against Hanover and the revolutionaries as well as Satrap Rakesh, it is unlikely that you would suceed. Why should we take the risk when so much is at stake! I must insist that imperial forces back this endevour, however i will promise that no forces will be garrisoned within North Babkha. I will leave the resupply to you and as for the 60%, it is yours. I was going to raise oil prices in Kamalshahr in any event. The aid will also be delivered to you directly." What a generious offer? The Emir thought, he assumed Hesam would be most gracious for such curtesy. What he got was a counter proposal.

"have you ever heard of the parable of the Fox and the Scorpion?

It seems a fox was about to cross a river when a scorpion pleaded with the fox to allow him to ride on his back to the other side. The fox exclaimed, 'No, you will sting me!" The Scorpion retorted, "if I sting you, we will both drown" So the fox agreed, and allowed the scorpion on his back. Half way across the river, the scorpion stung the fox. "Why did you sting me?? Now we will both drown!" The Scorpion looked at the fox as his poison entered his blood stream. 'I cannot help it, I am a Scorpion.

So you see Your Excellency, I will not allow you into my land. But, I will make a consession. Allow me to command the forces, and your friend here Rafizadeh, will be my companion. If I deviate from the plan, he will be able to kill me, and assume command in my stead.

"Agreed then" The Emir spoke through his teeth. He did not like it, he had been too generous and he was sure it would go badly.

"But you must swear on the tenents of Orthodoxy, that if you betray me, I will not kill you, but bring you here and let you die over a period of years in the most intense pain anyone has ever felt before. You swear to me this moment Hesam Jahandar"

The Emir jumped the table and gripped Hesam by the throat.

"You swear your loyalty to me this very moment!!!!!"

He released the Satrap and got control of himself. He stopped and turned looking insightfully at the Shah. The Emir walked over to His Majesty, who had become little more than a piece of furniture now, resting his hand on The Shahs head, he turned and looked at Hesam.

"Your Loyalty is required not only for your own health Hesam. There is more at stake than a pond of oil and your broken land. So, what is your answer?"

Hesam kept his composure, "I swear my allegence to His Excellency, The Grand Vizier, Emir of Raspur, Ardashir Khan Osmani"

Hesam had made his deal. it was to be kept within this room. Rakesh would fall to pieces over this, and so would all of his associates. In time he hoped that they would understand. The Emir walked over to Hesam, and grabing him at the wrist with his left hand, He then forced his right hand into Hesam's palm. It was like shaking hands with the devil himself.

Hesam then bowed in submission to The Emir. He caught himself just as he was about to bow to the Shah. He stopped himself and looked at Ardashir. The Emir began to laugh loudly as Hesam excused himself and returned to his waiting motorcade. The towering image of Rafizadehf followed behind him.

Tashbaan, Apparently disused warehouse, 20:15

Killian Ferdia ripped off the fax from the machine, disturbing a column of dust as he did so. Then, turning on his heel, he left the empty hangar. Two armed men sealed the door behind him. It was something, Ferdia felt, to be able to have an entire warehouse just for the use of a fax machine. Made a man feel he had gone somewhere in the world. Ferdia limped slightly, an old war wound. He shared that with his correspondant, the war memories, if not the wound. McCulann had got away scott free, just with a whole batch of psychoses and paranoid tendencies. This fax, now, written in Treesian. As he got into his limousine, Ferdia read aloud in Treesian, knowing that his bodyguards, hulking muscled Tashbaani every one of them, could not understand a word.

His limousine drew up to his house, and, surrounded by his entourage, he walked inside. His butler, an old Calormeni whose name he had never bothered to learn, opened the door for him. “Thank you,” Ferdia nodded. Limping to his office, he sat himself at the desk, and read the fax again. Picking up a phone, he pressed the first speed dial, which was his main contact in Tashbaan. “Doorood, my friend, could you come up to the house?” he said. Receiving an affirmation, he put the phone down.

An hour later, the man arrived. He wore a red-checkered turban, which he removed as soon as he entered Ferdia’s office. One of the bodyguards had followed him to the door, and eyed the man suspiciously until Ferdia motioned for him to close the door. “That thing getting on your nerves, is it?” “You have no idea. But the…Chairman of the Supreme Revolutionary Council of Tashbaan says we should tolerate the Tudeh sensibilities of our minions for the time being,” said Rasheed Majeed. “The Satrap has a new title, like the shark has new teeth,” Ferdia said laughingly. “So what was this business deal you had for me? I take it we are discussing business?” asked Majeed. “Yes, of course, what else?” Ferdia asked, “I have 2,000 casks of Treesian Red arriving in sometime over the next few days.” The Babkhan snorted, “I’m sure you can be a bit more precise than that, smuggler.” “Yes I can, but a bit of suspense will sweeten the eventual plum, and I’m willing to give my boys a bit of leeway on the delivery. You can sympathise, can’t you, having grown up in a bar?” Majeed glared, he did not like to be reminded of his brother’s profession. “2,000 casks, and what will you be wanting for this?” “Guns,” answered Ferdia simply.

Treesian Consulate, Kamaltoon, 22:30

A message clicked through on the fax, and the alarm wired through to McCulann’s room went off. Half-dressed, he ran into his office, waited agonisingly until it finished, and then ran back, screwing his face in agony over the freezing cold tiles of the floor. Safely esconced in bed, he read the fax:

Quote:

McCulann,

I can get 5 guns for every cask of Red you bring. I’ll keep half for my boys, and you can have the other half to appropriate yourself. Promise Afas something, if it’ll keep him from selling you to bandits on the road.

Ferdia.

His brow furrowed in annoyance, why hadn’t he written the message in Treesian? Didn’t he know how unsafe that was? He made a note in his bedside notebook, and then tried to sleep. He had an early start tomorrow morning, best to be rested. It didn’t help that the gun under his pillow was particularly bulky.

Send them in...

JUSTANTINOPLE 8:45 PM December 04 03 The sun has set over Justantinople and the stars can be seen in the dark blue sky. The Christmas lights shine all around but the Dominion's people are standing outside of the Viceregal Palace and other Royal and Public Buildings with signs saying "HELP CALORMEN" "FOR THE COMMONWEALTH". The citizens are clearly in support of sending troops to assist the new Governor-General.

Williamhoff Castle - Justantinople - Dominion of Athenoi - Kingdom of Hanover

Williamhoff Castle is a large medieval castle overlooking the city below. The Viceroy's Personal Standard is billowing over estate.

The Viceroy dressed in a charcoal suit with gold tie looks out of a large window from the castle into the city below. He can see the people everywhere holding candles and portraits of the King and the Governor-General. The Viceroy turns around and walks out of the stone room. In the hallway, the Viceroy is met by his top military advisors, from His Personal Guard to the Colonial Guard. The Colonial Guard General George Kalistios hands the Viceroy a small red folder. The Viceroy opens it and reads the message inside--written on a small piece of hotel stationary - The Imperial Hotel -Tashbaan -

• Your Royal Highness,

I have delivered the message to His Excellency the Governor-General of Calormen. The situation here is very serious and I would advise you to send assistance immediately. I will remain here to see if the Governor-General will speak with me. Your humble servant, Phillip*

"Well, it looks as if your men will be going to Calormen, General." the Viceroy said in a harsh voice as he wadded up the paper and threw it in a large fireplace in the hallway. Then the Viceroy walked off into the hallway and dissappeared around a corner.

"Colonel, get the men ready. I do think that His Royal Highness will have them leave tonight. Have them ready and report back to me." The General said to his subordinate. "Yes General."

A local pub in Justantinople on the Athena Parthenos Canal - THE MINOTAUR- several local men from different backgrounds sit at a bar and watch the television screen as the Viceroy gives an address to the people reiterating "Hanoverian power and loyalty" and "We will work hard to keep the Commonwealth in the hands of its rightful sovereign, the King of Hanover, not the Babkhan Shah." and several "God Bless"s and "God save the King"s At the conclusion of the speech the patrons of the pub gave a standing ovation.

Later that night in St. Petersberg, Athenoi at the airport a group of soldiers dressed in their khaki uniforms and white pith helmets the soldiers of the Colonial Guard get ready to board the cargo plane. There are Hanoverian and Atheni flags everywhere. Before the troops board the plane, Prince Justin dressed in a similiar uniform especially made for the Viceroy, inspects the guard and shakes every hand. He wishes them the best and watches them leave.

The plane vanishes into the night sky and is destined for the Calormeni desert to await the welcoming of the Governor General who will command them.

The Gordian Knot

Hesam was not pleased; he was back in Sajin with an army that was for now, under his command. Thousands of troops, masses of tanks, APC's, Attack Helicopters, Artillery, missles, jets, everything. And yet he was not pleased. The reason he was not pleased was standing behind him in a dark corner, it was His assassin ready at a moments notice to kill Hesam if he deviated from the plan. It was extremely uncomfortable. For now, the forces were moving past the mountains but were not crossing the border. They would stay and wait if and only if needed. Hesam like everyone else did not want a war. He had sent the field engineers to assist with the pipeline construction and some additional peacekeepers. If he was able to get the oil back to Kamalshahr everything would run smoothly.

The way to stop this was to convince Rakesh that Hesam was still working in the interests of the Kingdom, without ending up dead. But how? All of his communications were monitored by the assasin, and he could not make a move without being watched by the devil's harald that was constantly at the ready to shoot Hesam through the forehead.

To make matters worse, Hesam now had to deal with Slobovia, Athenoi, and some mutterings from Cranda. Vultures, he thought. It was difficult enough attempting to prevent catastrophy within Babkha itself, but with more and more unnessesary intervention it would be impossible.

The last thing Hesam needed was some small nation or territory with more brovado than brains coming in and demanding Babkha turn over the Oil. That would mean Hesam would have to send in the Imperial forces, and while Babkha would win, it would turn a close ally into an enemy. Forcing Rakesh to choose his loyalty, forcing Hesam to choose between The Emir or death, and forcing a Babkhan civil war which Hesam would have to supress. The whole situation was a time bomb, one false move would mean the destruction of peace for the entire continent. The time had come to get things moving. Hesam began to write a communication to Rakesh, as he sat down, his warden moved to look over his shoulder, and was immediately on his mobile back to The Emir, transcribing exactly what Hesam was writting.

"Vizier Rakesh, I am now in command of the Imperial Forces. I have instructions from the Emir that the oil fields must be secured at all costs. Please remove your Provincial forces from North Babkha. I now have instructions for a theatre of operations. The Imperial Forces will maintain security and peace within the oil fields. And will be known as Operation X-Ray. Your Provincial Forces are to move into the city proper and restore peace. That theatre will be known as Operation Zulu. Your orders include the removal of violence and the establishment of dialogue within Tashbaan. As you are currently both Chairman of Tashbaanistan and a Hanoverian, it is expected that you will be ideal to find a solution. And while you and I may have recently had disagreements, I have been given orders that you must comply. Let us not have another problem over Gandhi."

Hesam had hoped that Rakesh would get the subtle point of his last comment. To the Emir, it would look as though Hesam were forcing Rakesh to comply or face his wrath, as Rakesh had done due to his actions in the previous weeks. But to Rakesh it would mean something totally different. It was a risk, but it was nessesary.

"Please forward the following message to all Hanover forces, do not attempt to enter Tashbaan, the area has been secured and is begining peacekeeping opperations. A pipeline is being constructed to continue the continental oil network, this is in accordance with previous plans from Hanover to utilise the newly found oil"

If Hanover allowed Hesam to handle this, everyone would benifit. What he was unable to say was that the pipeline went into Babkha as its connection point. That would mean that for all intents and purposes the oil would be Babkhan. This was far from what Hesam wanted. His original plan was an international company chaired by Babkha and Hanover, they would set the prices and profit equally, this was what the negotiations were supposed to be about. Unfortuntely Hesam was forced to break these negotiations due to the greed of The Emir.

Once Hesam recieved a response, he had been instructed to begin an oil deal with Tashbaanistan. Which coincidentally was chaired by Rakesh. In essence, The Emir was demanding that Rakesh give legal rights to Babkha for the oil. If not, Rakesh would most likely be exiled, killed or worst. With Rakesh out of the way, Ardashir would simply sponsor a new rebellion in Tashbaan, one that was willing to deal.

Hesam sent the message, he looked at the man behind him. Without any sort of response Hesam turned again. He knew Hanover was a fairly new nation. Its military although efficient was still young. Its training, docrine, command structure, and fighting style were all based on that of Morovia. It was a good military, but it would not stand up against the entire forces of Babkha. Hesam wanted to avoid this at all costs. And now Hesam thought about his own nation. Babkha, what could be done? He could attempt to kill the Emirs man, and bring the forces to Kamalshar, but that would be foolish as His Majesty would most certainly die. The matrix of the thought tumbled in Hesams mind. Was it just to sacrifice a King for the common good of the Kingdom? Was it right to sacrifice a good man to remove a bad one? If Ardashir stayed in power, certainly thousands would die until he was eventually overthrown or dead himself. But if he were removed now, it would be signing The Shahs death sentence. The Shah leashed to Ardashir in the same manner that Hesam was. Unwilling puppets of the GV's power. There was only one way to solve the problem, Rakesh. Rakesh would have to find a way.

Hesam decided to take a walk through the Walled Gardens of Sajin, and think in relative peace.

Mexican Standoff

Kilometer 72, Outskirts of Tashbaan, Lower Muscovy

"Well, isn't this a pretty fix we've found ourselves in!" Governor-General Wyndham muttered under his breath, after taking the communiques from the signals sergeant. He'd been boldly outmaneuvered by those Babkhan satraps.

It reminded him of a Mexican standoff, where all parties had their guns poked at each other. One or two could probably escape and survive with heavy wounds, while the rest bled to death. Wyndham shook his head. No, no one could win if things continued, and all sides could still lose.

"Do you realize how this will look in the papers? I can see the headlines in the Calormani Courier now: 'Guv'nor agrees to hand over Oil to Babkha; Control of Tashbaan Seals the Deal.'" Wyndham hurled the messages on the table. "This will undoubtedly weaken the King, and cast further suspicion on the newly-appointed Prime Minister. We would only accomplish the transfer of the revolt from Tashbaan to Bergen!"

"Sir, the only mediamen we have are in Anderson Barracks, a long ways off, after that helicopter shooting incident . We control the information, and well, we can pretty much tell the world what really happened..." Captain Collins, the parliamentary aide and psychological-warfare officer looked up musingly.

"What are you talking about? Are you planning a cover-up, a conspiracy? Those things always get out. I'm not having that blow up in my face while I sit as Governor-General." Wyndham sat down. Captain Collins was quietly pacing around the command tent.

"The facts of the matter are these, sir: There was a revolt in Tashbaan. Our Calormani forces moved in to quell the rebellion, and you, sir, requested help from the Babkhans. Satrap Hesam Jahandar was good enough to coordinate with our office that he would immediately move to secure the oil fields from further damage and infiltration from the anarchists. Our Khedive, Rakesh, pleaded that he be allowed to initially negotiate a truce. It appears he was successful. The revolutionaries have decided to stand down. His Majesty Alexander the First decides to reward him with the position of Prime Minister.

"Unfortunately, we will later arrange to publicly hang the ringleaders for treason against the Crown. It matters not who is selected, provided that public outrage over this incident is whetted by the presentation of a punishment. If Khedive Ackbar cannot select a few sacrificial goats, I am sure the Imperial Babkhan Government should be able to rustle up a few criminals whose death sentences are pending, anyway, just mix up their names and cover their faces. We can even do this in the Imperial Square in Tashbaan. Then a quiet general amnesty for treasonous crimes. A few looters will be arrested, and maybe to teach them a lesson, handed over to the Babkhan authorities. That should make a good deterrent.

"There will be no awkward questions in Parliament. Your Right Honorable self and Prime Minister Ackbar will see to that. In fact, a defence bill should be able to pass once the threat of this occuring once more strikes the MPs. That could be the initial agenda of the new Government. Perhaps even mutual training pacts can be agreed to."

"Hmm..." Wyndham considered all this. "We cannot allow the creation of a republican form of government within the Empire. That would be a conundrum. The words 'revolutionary' or other similar inflammatory terms cannot be used. A token Calormani force has to be allowed to enter and raise the Royal Standard once more at Flagstaff House in Tashbaan, for public and media consumption."

"Absolutely, sir. With your permission, let me begin the initial work." Captain Collins saluted, and grabbed a sergeant sitting by a radio.

Word of this would be relayed to the Satrap of North Babkha via the Lieutenant of the Imperial Fusiliers dispatched earlier. That Corporal aide of his could later translate it into Farsi if they still didn't understand.

Governor-General Wyndham stepped outside to gaze at the expanse of the desert.

He took a deep breath. This could work. He called for an orderly and started dictating more orders. Obvious talks for political and economic settlement would have to take place somewhere, and Tashbaan seemed the likely place. Good. The token force of Calormani troops raises the Standard at Flagstaff House, and all parties meet inside.

Wyndham got into a jeep driven by a gruff sergeant and escorted by a squad of soldiers. He'd head for the forward-most unit, the Prince of Emden's Company of the Imperial Fusiliers, and from that position, decide what to do next. Would there be a victory parade at the end of all this? How would that Grand Vizier react to all this?

That was when the messages from the recent developments started arriving.

"From the Satrap of North Babkha, sir." The orderly handed the message form over.

Do not attempt to enter Tashbaan, the area has been secured and is begining peacekeeping opperations. A pipeline is being constructed to continue the continental oil network, this is in accordance with previous plans from Hanover to utilise the newly found oil.

"Who is that bandit to tell me what to do in my own fief? What utter cheek!" Wyndham nearly erupted into apoplexy.

"Also, the Colonial Guard from the Dominion has arrived in Anderson Barracks, sir. Battalion strength, as may be recalled." The orderly saluted.

"Excellent. Have the Emperor's (No. 1) Company of the Imperial Fusiliers escort them here to our forward base camp. I want a plan to execute Magic Carpet once I flip my finger. If that bastard tries anything smart..." the Governor-General's voice trailed off.

"Contact the Khedive. I'll wait for this meeting to take place. Any news from that leftenant we detailed as liaison?"

"None, sir." The orderly fetched a glass of Treesian red.

What the devil was going on?

The Lt. had recieved the message via secure fax in his out of the way converted quarters. He had not been around much and was generally kept out of the way, orders from the Colonel. Regardless it was passed up. The young officer was not being slighted for any other reason than the fact that it was politically unsound to have an officer from outside Babkhas command snooping around and sending back information. Ofcourse all his lines were tapped and he was being watched more than a worldcup final in Treesia. The memo and briefing that the leutenant had given the Colonel was more of a formality, the memo was shredded and nothing came of it. It wasn't nessesary, Hesam had recieved it a full 5 minutes before it was fully printed out of the fax machine. Again, all the Officer's lines were tapped.

Hesam pondered, this was not good. Hanover had been willing to go along with his first plan, it was infact almost ready to go. If it werent for the Grand Vizier, this issue would have been defused by now. Instead of being calm every nation in the region was now stuck in a cold war. Babkha was holding together barely, Hanover had its people running to the sound of war sirens, Slobovia was fufilling its friendship with Babkha, and all the while the original cause had died away. The Tashbaanis had done their thing, declaired their republic and the violence had fizzled down to a stalemate.

He began to wonder, who was it that instigated this rebellion in the first place? Intelligence reports had confirmed the weapons were from Treesian criminals in NorthBabkha, as were the supposed leaders. But where did the Tashbaanis get the funds and organization to achieve their little coup? The oil had been discovered, it was true but its not as if it was being refined or even produced yet. Previous to the oil discovery, Tashbaan was a small backwater territory no one cared a damn for. It was a seat for "those that do not want to be found" and little else. It was implied Ardashir had ordered the death of Komruden but not for certain. Hesam reviewed the facts again.

The person who had the most to gain from this was...... Rakesh? RAKESH! it seemed unlikely but it fit the bill perfectly, Rakesh had the funds, he would have been the first to know about the oil and he held regional positions in both nations! it was brilliant, he funded the rebels, they revolted and demanded him to be their leader! Such a position put him in a perfect place to decide the fate of the oil fields and knowing he would also be the natural choice as a mediator, he could only gain in reputation! perhaps it wasnt Ardashir who killed Komruden after all.

"Good God" he thought. "Never would have though Rakesh had it in him"

So then what went wrong? Hesam realized it was he himself that caused the initial trouble. Rakesh would have never expected the crippled North Babkha to be able to mobilize a sizable force. And then when Hesam got to the oil first, it meant that Rakesh would have to share the profit.

This was not a bad plan, in Babkhan culture this was considered the zenith of accomplishment. Using intelligence to achieve your means in a generally underhanded fashon, whether it be setting up a coup while in the elite of the Royal Court, or uncaging vermin in your competition's shop in the Bazaar. This was a badge to be worn proudly! There was no negative connentations to "Rakesh the Good". Infact it made him all the better, knowing him he would most likely have invested some of the loot from the oil into North Babkha and Hanover anyways!

"Well done Rakesh!" Hesam thought, well done indeed. Unfortunetly there was more at stake now.

Hesam was going to play along to his fullest extent. He made arrangements for the transfere of 7 prisoners. They were North Babkhan but to the general public of Hanover the difference would not be noticed. They were costumed in the boerish red checkered turbans that were now an icon of the rebellion. No self respecting Babkhan would ever wear such a thing even in the lowest casts. This was something found more regularly in the amusement park "World Pavillion" on the Isle of Yiepes than ever in Babkha. But they were done up none the less. The 7 were packed aboard a transport to be shipped directly to the airstrip closest to the Anderson Barracks. Before the plane left, Hesam relayed a message through the Kapav colonel to send to Hanover who was aboard the plane and why.

Things were looking up, but now there was a final problem. Once the rebel "leaders" were hung for treason, there would be little use for all of the Babkhan troops in the area. It was possible that he could keep a few on, but it would start to look suspicious if half the Imperial forces were patrolling a 100 km area of Hanover. Hanover would want its land back. Hesam thought and he found the solution. The Pipeline would continue to be built and at the same time the summit would be started. A survey team of geologists, engineers and oilmen were dispatched to the fields to begin testing and construction. Another host of messages was sent out to Hanover and to Rakesh. Inviting the Governor General and The Satrap to meet in person. But where? It had been suggested that the Anderson Barracks could be used, it was not neutral territory but it would suffice.

In a short time Hesam would be sitting in a room full of the players of this Great Game. No doubt they would wonder why he was being constantly followed by this man with a pistol in his jacket, Hesam would simply say he was a bodyguard. Apperances are everything to a Babkhan. It was simply incorrect to involved Hanover in matters involving Babkha. How horrible it would sound:

"Yes Your Excellency, I realize you would like Babkhan troops to leave your soil, but this man behind me has orders to shoot me in the face and spray my blood across the room right here and now if I even say I will consider it. Why you ask? Well its all due to our psychotic Emir who has drugged our Sovereign into a stupor and now controls the Kingdom through a network of spies and thugs, purging and killing at will and going to deadly lengths to gain control of the oil in your land"

Yes it didnt sound all that tasteful when he thought about it. It would be doubtful that the Governor General would be able to finish his meal if that were brought up, the poor chap was having enough trouble dealing with the situation as it is. Best to let Hanover believe that Hesam was a villian, it was simply more polite.

From here, Hesam now had to continue his train of thought in regards to Kamalshahr. The shah, The GV, Rakesh, Himself, and the alusive Bahram. All these factors had to be considered. The immediate issue was that Hanover would no longer be under the threat of war. If all went well this international coldwar would be reduced to an internal Babkhan problem.

Desolate Desert

A Random Stretch of Desert, Lower Muscovy The midnight silence of a desolate stretch of desert in Lower Muscovy is suddenly broken by the sound of four C-130J-30 Hercules transports.

Out of the first plane jumps 64 Slobovian Army Special Forces paratroops. Once all of them have landed, they come together in a pre-determined location, having their combat gear with them.

Out of the second plane is dropped two Saxon Armoured Personnel Carriers, one bulldozer, enough food and water to last 128 men a week, and enough fuel to last for the three vehicles for a week. As soon as everything from the second plane is on the ground, 24 of the paratroops get in the Saxons and patrol the perimeter, and the remaining 40 paratroops stay with and protect the bulldozer and supplies.

Out of the third plane is dropped tents, camoflauge tents and prefabricated runway sections. The paratroops guard the prefabricated runway sections as well as the other supplies, and begin to put up the tents.

About a half an hour before dawn 64 engineers parachute to the site and by dawn they've begun construction of the airstrip.

At around 10 AM, the engineers having completed 1/4 of the runway in the short hours they've been working, the paratroops notice a dustcloud on the horizon. On of the Saxons is sent to investigate, and what it finds makes its commander exclaim "DAMNIT!" A platoon of the Tashbaani rebels, who it was beleived they had given, is moving in the direction of the base under construction. The Saxon falls back and calls in for air support from the MiG 29s.

The column of Tashbaani rebels attack the secret Slobovian base that's under construction, however, the Slobovian paratroops, with their superb training, are able to hold back the Tashbaanis with only 10 Slobovians wounded and one brave paratrooper killed while courageously defending the engineers. The paratroops have wounded 10 and killed 5 of the rebels by the time the MiG 29 comes in, and the MiG finishes the rest off. The 10 wounded rebels are taken as prisoners, and the engineers have 3/4 of the runway completed by dusk.

A little after dusk a C-130J lands on the unfinished runway, inaugurating the first of 27 flights to the new airstrip in that night and the next day. It drops off troops and supplies, and takes the wounded Slobovians, the dead Slobovian, and the Tashbaani prisoners, then makes a rocket-assisted take off.

The Mytschr in charge of the expeditiary force also arrived on that C-130J. As he looks around his unit's new base he comments "it's a pity no one outside of Slobovia's Army knows we're here...they would be so uneased." He then retires to his HQ tent, and composes a letter to the family of the dead soldier.

Road outside Kamaltoon, 08:00 5th December

The convoy started out from Kamaltoon that morning. McCulann had left O hUiginn in charge at the Consulate, although in recent times, especially with the civil rights attributation, there had been less and less calls at the office. Not if his Treesian Mafia friends could help it, anyway. A fractious community was harder to control, after all. Occasionally, Ferdia sent requests for passports, but McCulann assumed they were for his Babkhan and Tashbaani operatives.

He sat in the jeep next to Afas, his leg on his knee, tapping the windowsill. Afas was reading the map, tracing their route through the mountains. “You see, offendi, this is the way, through the pass there.” McCulann nodded absently. “You’re sure there won’t be any bandits there?” Afas shrugged. “We have a tank with us, Connla, do you know any bandits with anti-tank weapons?” McCulann shook his head. Well, not in Babkha. In the Augeniels back home, it was a different matter. They had their own airforce last he had heard.

The convoy had twenty trucks, each manned by five men, one a driver, and four with machine guns. There was indeed a tank, an old decommissioned Tigerbat Treesian model, with the hull-mounted cannon and cupola machine gun. Afas had a magnum, and McCulann had brought his old pistol from his soldiering days, still with the kill-marks on its polished surface. He remembered each of those man, and their dying faces still brought a smile to his face.

11:00 Mountain Pass

McCulann was woken by the sound of the tank being hit by a LAW. He didn’t know what it was then, of course, he just heard a fairly massive explosion and the sound of jabbering Babkhan voices and, further off, the shouts of ambushers. For a few moments, he lay as he had been asleep, with his mouth half-open, trailing saliva on the dust-covered windows. He spat irritably, attempted to clean his tongue of dirt, and then, properly awake, leapt out of the jeep, pistol brandished. There were around a hundred men up in the steep slopes surrounding them. The plume of smoke which had trailed from the LAW still hung on the air, and McCulann traced its path back to behind a boulder.

Afas took command immediately, his bulk transformed to the mass of muscle which it concealed. He yelled in Farsi to his men, and McCulann listened with a mix of apprehension and amusement. “Who was keeping watch?? Idiots! How could you not notice a force that size!!” shrieked Afas, gesticulating at the hills around them, where more and more camouflaged men were appearing. Their excuse was not satisfactory, apparently, as it was only the restraining he underwent at the hands of his subordinates that prevented him caving in one man’s head with his pistol butt. Even so, he was not happy. And neither was McCulann. He’d have to give up some of the convoy now, and Ferdia wouldn’t be pleased. The Treesian smuggler was not a man to displease very often, if you could help it.

A group of three men, two holding machine guns, the one in the centre armed with a pistol, sallied down the hill to meet them. “Doorood, travellers,” said the man in the centre in Farsi. “Doorood,” Afas and McCulann said grudgingly. “I am Kia Mansoor. Where are you going, please?” “A little town beyond the mountains, perhaps you do not know it, Youness?” Afas said smoothly. “No, I do not, and you are not,” Mansoor said methodically, as if he had been ready to dismiss whatever they had first said. “Where are you really going?” Afas kept silent, and the two men by Mansoor readied their guns. McCulann stepped in, holding his hands out. “Please,” he said, trying to put as much of his Treesian accent into his usually-accentless Farsi as possible, “we are on our way to Calormen, to start an alcohol distributary. My friend here, Major Arash, agreed to give us an escort. For good reason, it seems.” Mansoor looked at McCulann, “You are Treesian?” “Yes, sahib.” “I know some good Treesians. Tell me, we here little of Calormen in these mountains, but is there not some trouble there recently?” Of course, McCulann guessed, he knew where they were going and what they were likely to do there, he was just testing the longevity of their alibi.

11:00 Tashbaan, The Tisroc

Killian Ferdia entered the Tisroc with only one bodyguard. The Tisroc was a well-to-do pub in the eastern quarter of Tashbaan, able to stay in business because the owner, one Ulromar, had cleverly decided to give the “soldiers of the revolution” free drinks for as long as they liked. It had worked, the Tisroc had not been pulled down like many others. The Tisroc was also one of the few pubs in Tashbaan that rented out rooms, and the biggest and grandest of these rooms was where Ferdia was headed right that moment.

He entered, and met a low-lying blanket of the semi-narcotic Babkhan tobacco smoke. He coughed, and bent down, grimacing at the acrid taste of the stuff. There were his associates, who called them “ex-patriated patriots”. The Treesian Mafia. There was Lu MacIoclann, whose racket was gambling dens and call girls. He was bouncing a laughing Tashbaani girl on his lap, his hand firmly planted between her legs. In the corner sat Oisin Beag, one of the biggest men Ferdia had ever met, in an incongruous contrast with his childhood nickname. He nodded at Ferdia, and put more tobacco in his pipe. It was he who was flooding the room with the smoke, him and the last occupant of the room, whose stare had greeted Ferdia as soon as he entered the room. The last was Seanin Og Gorm MacPhearsaigh, who did not look away from Ferdia as he refilled the bowl of his pipe. “Sun bless, earth keep, Killian,” MacIoclann said laughingly. He seemed to be enjoying himself, but then he always did. The girl, who would be called half-dressed at best in any other society, smiled widely at Ferdia, her eyes suggestive. MacIoclann, seeing this, grew angry, removing his hand from between her legs, chivvying her off his lap and, with a slap on the rump, hurrying her out the door. She brushed Ferdia as she passed though. He made a note to check the contents of his pockets later. That was MacIoclann’s weakness, women, and jealousy over them.

He sat down at the table, and the other three settled themselves down for business too. MacPhearsaigh, as usual, would be the ceann, or boss of the meeting, but Ferdia was the one with the proposition to bring, so he would speak first. The intricacies of the Mafia procedure might seem overly subtle, but they were needed if one was not to end up with a bullet in one’s thick skull. “A chairde ciuin,” Ferdia intoned in the usual greeting to other Mafiosos, for who wanted friends that were not quiet?, and continued in Treesian, “I have a deal to bring to you, that it why I am here, after all, and you three too. My associate, the Consul in Kamaltoon, is bringing 2,000 casks of Treesian Red over the causeway to Tashbaan. I have called this meeting, through our honoured friend t-Usual MacPhearsaigh, of course, to tell you of this, so I might not be accused of trying to steal anyone’s business, or muscling in on anyone’s special expertise. T-Uasal O Chathasaigh, I know, considered the importation of Red his business, but he is not here, is he?” The other three snorted. They knew where O Chathasaigh was, he was at the bottom of the river Tash, sleeping with the crocodiles. “We all know Red is up for grabs, Ferdia,” said MacIoclann, as usual all business without a filly on his lap, “but the question you’re asking us is how much we want, isn’t it.” Oisin Beag leant forward, “The guns trade is going well, I assume you will want me to trade you some in exchange?” Ferdia nodded. MacPhearsaigh shifted in his seat, “I claim my percentage as ceann, I will supply your barracks with meat for the next two months for free in exchange.” Ferdia acknowledged this too, surprised at this unusual generosity by the ceann. MacIoclann grinned, “The gambling and the girls is going grand. I’ll just take the usual two percent.” This too, was accepted. Ferdia smiled then. “If that’s all, then, friends, I’ll see you soon, I hope. Slan go foill, aris.” Then he stood up, and half-limped to the door.

Majlis-i-Mellat 5-12-03

Zurvan, in his infinite mercy, had been good to Ardashir Khan Osmani of late for Zurvan, with immeasurable grace, had delivered the Kingdom into his hands. The pogrom against the Tudeh had been extremely thorough; the opposition parties had been cowed, their offices ransacked and their activists swept into the basement prisons of the Fedayeen wherein they would ‘disappear’ at a pace consistent with the continuing need for discretion, or at least a discretion of sorts. The Majlis representatives of the opposition had remained untouched. There was no need to go after them, they understood at whose sufferance it was that they remained at their seats. When the Grand Vizier returned to the chamber on the Friday morning it was to a rapturous reception accorded to him by those who depended upon him for their wealth and for their lives. A few, the rogue satraps, were absent in their provinces at the onset of the crisis. A couple more had attempted to flee into Vipia but the loyal Satrap there, Benazir Malik, had had them ignominiously slaughtered. They were flayed, head to toe, in front of a vast crowd that had gathered in the Daledan Souk. The remainder were all accounted for, present and in the company of black shirted minders.

After the Majlis-i-Mellat had accorded the Grand Vizier the now obligatory spontaneous ovation, and after the applause carried on for forty minutes, a custom of arresting the first person to stop clapping the Grand Vizier, Ardashir began to address the chamber.

“Doorood Agha Sahib Speaker, doorood agha sahibs. My friends, fellow delegates, I am touched by the depth and sincerity of the esteem that you hold me in. Let me assure you that I hold all of you close to my heart and further more I beseech you to be in no doubt that you in this august establishment are never far from my thoughts.”

That was a good touch the Emir thought, the delegates all looked rattled. Ardashir had learned from wiretaps that one BLCP delegate had said that ‘I always tremble at the summons to the Grand Vizier’s Office, I never know if he is going to greet me with a glass of scotch or a revolver.’

“My brave bavadar’s, I know that some among you have been concerned at His Imperial Majesty’s pallor. Rest easy friends, the great Pedar of the nation is in perfect health and good spirits and he is greatly moved by the news that the people are so easily concerned whenever the Shahanshah falls pray to such a common malady as a mild influenza, or so his physicians say, for in truth he has never looked better to me.

All too true the Grand Vizier thought. There was never a better-looking Shahanshah to an ambitious Grand Vizier than one who was greying and drug addled.

“My fellow Babkhans the War against Terror and Tudehism is advancing at a steady pace. Already a terrorist conspiracy, organised by Tudeh exiles in Arkania, to bomb this very Majlis has been uncovered and quashed.”

All lies off course, but with no independent media to speak off who was to know?

“Furthermore, Khuneh Polis raids on the abodes of known terror suspects uncovered conclusive documentary evidence of links between the Tudeh terror cells and the supporters of the opposition parties.” Ardashir glared at the Qermezi delegates who were fidgeting awkwardly in their green leather seats.

“Though we sought, out of respect to the Leader of the Opposition, to be discrete about this discovery once news of it got out to a rally of Behsazi patriots in the Kapav Lions Stadium there was no holding them back and much regrettable violence occurred thereafter which even the law enforcement agencies of this great Kingdom were unable to restrain.”

Nothing was further from the truth. The Gendarmes remained in barracks the entire night and the Komiteh and Fedayeen had been instrumental in organising the violence. No mention also for the Grand Vizier’s inflammatory speech on Radio Rastakhiz where he had let slip an exhortation to ‘kill the Tudeh’. All recordings of that programme had been helpfully consigned to the memory hole that leads to the incinerators.

“His Imperial Majesties Government sincerely regrets the breakdown of law and order in the capital that occurred on the night of the 2nd of December. However order was quickly restored beginning with the arrival of Royal Gendarmes to defend the Majlis-i-Mellat from Tudeh terror attacks that might have been launched against the navel of democracy during the disorder.”

Hogswash. The Qermez and Liberal delegates had fled into the Majlis on that night and barricaded themselves in to avoid the fury of the blackshirts. Fearing what they might plot in that assembly the Grand Vizier had sent a battalion of Gendarmes to break into the Majlis and place the deputies inside under their protection. As the Grand Vizier spoke the janitor and some repairmen were still trying to place the chambers giant bronze door back onto the hinges from which it had been blown by a shaped charge. The opposition members were still showing evident signs of nervous exhaustion.

“With order restored His Imperial Majesties Government appeals to Kamalshahr and the country as a whole to return to business as usual. Anyone who has fled into the countryside may return without fear of retribution, we remain beholden to the rule of law. Turning to overseas affairs now. Our fraternal aid to our friends in the North…

There was a wry laugh from the Behsaz backbenches. Ardashir nodded to them and smiled.

“…Our friends in the north has brought the City of Tashbaan back to the negotiating tables with its imperial benefactors the Hanoverians and has allowed them to hang the Tudeh instigators of the revolt. Furthermore the speedy action undertaken by this administration has ensured that significant oil revenues have been secured against use by the Tudeh to fund terrorism inside Babkha. In gratitude for the role the Satrap of North Babkha has played in this success His Imperial Majesty asks the Majlis-i-Mellat to vote another grant of aid to impoverished North Babkha, and who are we to refuse the will of the Shahanshah?”

There were a few surprised faces in the room. Conventional wisdom was that Satrap Jahandar and Ardashir were bitterest foes after a messy conflict between Imperial and Satrapian troops back in October. Off course none were foolish enough to openly question this. The Grand Vizier had said his piece and the Speaker now threw open the debate, such as it was, to the floor. A particularly luckless Qermezi delegate had been picked upon by the Komiteh to play the role of Leader of the Opposition in the absence of Rakesh. Reluctantly he rose to his feet to stutter out his allotted lines.

“Does my…Ri-i-ight Honourable Friend a-agree wi-ith me that…er… His deft handling of the current crisis clearly demonstrates why he is the only Babkhan alive today to lead this Kingdom to its allotted destiny as the world hegemonic power?”

This naturally enough sparked off another round of premeditated applause. Ardashir tried to feign surprise and humility at the Qermezi’s words but halfway through the 40 minutes of adulation his face lapsed back into its usual Machiavellian countenance.

‘It was true’ he thought, ‘I am the only Babkhan who can hold this nation together. ‘My will and my wallet provides for the survival of this community.’ However his countenance for once dropped into deepest despair for deep down he knew from the priests of the Agiary of Kamalshahr the names of the two who were destined to overthrow him, indeed his dreams were haunted by them. They were the twin torments of his soul. The Mobads had shown, these two could not be bought, could not be killed, and they were coming to cleanse the Kingdom, Khuramdin and Namvari. The priests had told him one other thing. To survive their cleansing the Emir had to summon to Kamalshahr the one they called Mansoor.

The Grand Vizier fled the building in a blind panic. The blackshirts had to draw their scimitars to prevent uproar. Once outside among the blue-tiled domes of Kamalshahr the mighty Emir, Grand Vizier of the greatest kingdom on the planet, flung himself down into the gutter and reached into his inner pocket for his hipflask.

The same apparently disused warehouse, Tashbaan, Evening

Ferdia’s warehouse had been changed for the fateful meeting. The fax machine had been transported to another location, as Ferdia still had to preserve his personal status, and a massive table had been put in its place, with the special poker-style hang-down light which had been fitted as soon as Ferdia thought the meeting up. Ferdia stood around, watching his men, some Tashbaani, some Babkhan, most Treesians, talk idly.

Many of them were second generation Treesian-Babkhans, speaking the inexplicable amalgamation of Farsi and Treesian, which first-generations like Ferdia and his associates disparagingly called Treesi. They were a strange combination. They were fervent participants in the festival games, at the social weekends, where songs from the “old country” where tearfully sung, but when they thought of home, they thought of Kamaltoon, or Sajin, or even the Treesian towns on the outskirts of the Glass Desert. It was all Ferdia could do to keep them working so far from Babkha, and even then he had to constantly rotate duties, lest their influential parents back in Babkha kick up fuss. Ferdia did not want fuss. If there’s one thing more powerful and frightening than a mobster who has gleaned power for themselves, it’s a respectable person who has had power gleaned for them. Ferdia hated people like that, and did his best to please them so they’d stay out of his way.

There was a sound of tires on gravel outside, and two of the boys ran over to open the bay doors. Three of the other members of the meeting, surrounded by their entourages, stepped into the warehouse. MacIoclann was there, who was a purist, and only employed Treesians, and banned them from speaking Treesi. And Oisin Beag, who only had his brother, Oisin Mor, who had grown into a much shorter and slimmer man than his brother, was there too, dressed in a long leather jacket to protect himself against the desert cold. And MacPhearsaigh, with his courtiers, some almost on an equal standing with Ferdia, though he could regard them with contempt for serving another above themselves. Such was the etiquette of the new order in Babkha.

They did not seat themselves either, they were waiting for the guest of honour, as it were. A little later, another car pulled up outside, and when the bay doors opened, it was Rasheed Majeed at the entrance, with his three bodyguards. In the dark for a moment he did not notice the score or so other men in the warehouse apart from the four in the pool of light by the table, and then it was too late. The bay door was quickly closed, and the three men with Majeed were disowned of their weapons by Ferdia’s men. Majeed stood alone and helpless by himself.

The four sat down then, leaving an empty seat for the Babkhan, which he reluctantly took. “Now,” said MacPhearsaigh, speaking in English. “Now, Mister Majeed, we are, as you know through your dealing with t-Uasal Ferdia,” Ferdia nodded at this acknowledgement, “a union of businessmen. We are honorable businessmen, and have no desire to hurt or ‘embarrass’ anyone. Do you understand?” Majeed, suspicious now, nodded slowly. “Now then,” MacPhearsaigh continued. “We understand that you are second-in-command to the Chairman of the Supreme Revolutionary Council of Tashbaan, one Rakesh Ackbar.” “Satrap Ackbar,” intoned Majeed. “Yes, whatever,” said MacPhearsaigh, clasping his hands in front of him, a gesture Ferdia had learned to recognise as a danger signal.

“We, Mister Majeed, have come to regard the Satrap as an…inconvenience to our organisation. We feel that you would be a much more suitable Chairman for the Supreme Revolutionary Council. Doubtless more inspiring and more inspired. We have, in fact, found that the Satrap is a capitalist swine, who holds a foreign title of nobility and consorts with arms dealers and gangsters.” “But…but…you are…” splutted Majeed. “Regardless,” said MacPhearsaigh, waving a beringed hand, “we feel Satrap Ackbar’s behaviour to be deplorable, and request that you, who are surely a right-thinking revolutionary, remove him for all our sakes and place yourself as head of the Revolutionaries in Tashbaan. I trust you will do so in a fairly public place, and proclaim on doing so that the Satrap is an oil-guzzling counter-revolutionary who consorts with Babkhan imperialists. Do we make our…ah…request quite clear?”

Majeed’s eyes bulged for a moment, then he cleared his throat. “And what if I refuse?” This was where MacIoclann came to shine. “Well, we have your first-born son…Balty, is it? Named after your brother, how touching. We have him in our safekeeping, and if you do not comply with us and swear total loyalty to us and the orders, hah, requests, we give you, then we will start cutting off fingers. And later toes. And then ears, and then noses, and then, after the eyeballs, a couple of arms and legs may go amiss.” MacIoclann could be a ruthless bastard sometimes, Ferdia thought.

"How do I know you're not bluffing?" asked Majeed irritably, and a little desperately. Ferdia forced himself to grin, as did MacIoclann, and the other two managed thin smiles, though Oisin Beag was showing the affects of nausea. From out of his breast pocket, Ferdia produced a string bag. He undid the strings and shook it out onto the table. There rolled there a finger, tanned as a Babkhan. On the finger was tatooed the number “1”. Majeed cried out in terror, and made a grab for the finger. MacIoclann was too quick, though, and snatched it up. Sheltering it in his palm, he stroked it absently, each touch sending twitches across Majeed’s face. “Now,” said MacIoclann, “imagine if this were your son’s real finger.” And Majeed jumped visibly. “Your son is safe, in our care,” MacPhearsaigh cut in. “And he will remain so until you fulfil your pledge to us.”

“But…I haven’t made a pledge,” said Majeed. MacPhearsaigh smiled brightly. “Haven’t you?” he said chirpily. “Might as well get to it, so…”

Later

Majeed had left, having taken with him a pledge to assassinate Satrap Rakesh Ackbar and assume leadership of the Supreme Council of Tashbaan, to be signed, sealed and delivered to Ferdia’s house in the next few days. Ferdia turned to MacIoclann. “How many of the boy’s fingers have you taken off?” he asked the man. “Just the one,” MacIoclann said. “Why did you tell him it wasn’t his kid’s? Surely that would put the wind up him a bit.” “Yeah, but he knows it’s a real finger, so we’re actually capable of doing it, plus we can just send this one to him when he agrees, to let him know we mean business. Everyone’s a winner.” “Except his kid,” Oisin Beag chipped in. MacIoclann shrugged, “He shouldn’t have been walking home from school, there are dangerous men around,” he said.

Anderson Barracks, Lower Muscovy

Wyndham's body clock was so screwed up he didn't know what time it was. His watch said it was mid-morning, but his body felt like it was the year 1492. He shook his head to clear the fog.

The sarhang from the North Babkhan forces had relayed his message and done well. When Wyndham returned at the barracks, all the prisoners were trussed up and their heads covered, while being watched by several soldiers from the Colonial Guards, whose forward deployment with the remaining Fusiliers had been rescinded in time.

The base was prepared for the arrival of delegates to the parley. The richly appointed base officer's mess seemed to be the logical meeting area. Colonial Guards from Athenoi handled the ceremonial functions, while the remaining Company of Imperial Fusiliers handled security.

Wyndham was inside, downing the nth drink he'd had in so many days. He tried to recall what the Satrap had been saying over the scratchy radio.

Strange politics, one of the reasons he never understood Babkhan culture, but that was that. Hopefully his special request had been followed. Maybe he could help turn the tide--discreetly, of course.

Shah Babak International Airport, Kamalshahr, Kingdom of Babkha, 9:54 p.m. local time.

James Stafford met the fellow arriving on the red-eye flight at the airport with the ambassador's personal wheels, a sleek black limousine from the Bergen Motor Works, imported through the diplomatic privilege to replace the aging Jaguar which was now under the proud ownership of a Babkhan customs official who had facilitated the transfer.

Stafford was the Cultural Attache and Second Secretary at His Hanoverian Majesty's Embassy, and carried the credentials to prove it. It was unfortunate that the Babkhan public in general did not appreciate the Emden String Quartet, but that was not his primary concern.

"Damnation, Jock, I see you're doing quite well in the world!" exclaimed a tall man in a black pinstripe suit with a red tie who had exited the Arrivals lounge, clutching a brown leather briefcase stamped with a crown and the royal cipher of King Alexander the First, that was also handcuffed to his left wrist.

Jock Stafford laughed and extended his hand. "Welcome to the desert. You, my boy, are too crafty to be playing diplomatic messenger." The other fellow shook it and entered the back seat of the car. His name was Ian Larkin, and was accredited to the embassy as the newly-appointed commercial attache.

"To the embassy," Stafford ordered the driver, and the flags of the Kingdom of Hanover on both sides of the hood fluttered as the car picked up speed. He flipped out a pocket shaver, activated it, and set it upon the seat. It would drive the SAVAK listeners crazy trying to hear above the buzzing din. Even if this was a diplomatic car and technically inviolable, Jock knew that the great game continues even if the players and scenery change from time to time. "This is a bit of bad business we're mixed up in, quite different from sitting on a desk in the Protocol Office."

"Indeed, indeed." Larkin took the proffered key, removed the handcuffs, and extracted some papers from the diplomatic bag he was carrying on his lap. "Here's mail from Anne--who says hello, by the way--and the latest copy of the Calormani Courier," He took out a folder bordered with striped red tape. "...and this little dossier, is what I am about." Jock opened it to see a picture of a man seated at a bar.

"That's Connla McCulann, Consul of Treesia for Satrap Hesam's domains. The picture was taken at the Bard's Bagpipes, during one of their festivals. As you know, our beleaguered Imperial Governor-General also happens to wear the Treesian hat of Councillor and supervisor of sorts of their Palatinate of Tallandor. A bit busy, but that's international relations for you. Not exactly my forte, you know, as I'm often the unlucky fellow who's sent packing to put off political brushfires." Larkin massaged his aching wrists.

"We know he's a bit of a rake, helps smuggle in that tipple that's become the bane and boon of Babkhan life. He's probably the only reason why their local economy up north hasn't collapsed yet. Our boys at the station in Tallandor hear talk that he's become somewhat of a big man next to our friend Satrap Hesam Jehandar." Ian Larkin resealed the diplomatic bag, set it aside, and peered towards the rear-view mirror. Good, no tails as of yet.

"There's also been talk within the United Baronies that these fellows could be forming some sort of a provisional paramilitary to avenge the failed Cause. You know how hot those Treesians are after that little crusade they had to 'liberate' Babkha. That's the main reason why I was plucked out of that cushy billet in Tallandor, doing nothing but play the piano and down all the orange beer I could swill." Larkin shrugged.

"Is that so?" Stafford said with a hint of amusement. "I was under the impression that being Cultural Attache in the Emerald Green Isles was that much torture. The locals here have a name for it: Genius or Gheeness Beer, as the locals pronounce it, and the desert worm who created it must have been as dumb as an ox, and probably deserved whatever torture chamber he was eventually thrown in. Horrible stuff, never touched it again." Jock managed to add an involuntary shudder. "So, I take it your mission here is to save that one bad poet?"

Larkin frowned. "Well, yes, I suppose so, in a manner of speaking. If they fail at this little adventure, they and their compatriots won't be singing drinking songs at the local clinker, that's for sure. Knowing the antipathy between the Babkhans and our Treesian cousins, the losing end could end up discovering new definitions for Dante's circles of hell."

Ten minutes later, a fax from the Royal Hanoverian Embassy would arrive at the Treesian consulate in North Babkha, asking the consul in plain English if he'd like to have a quick drink with a friend from Tallandor, who would like the consul's opinion on a prized tipple from Tallandor called Drogheda Grog. It would surely make quite a blast in the Babkhan market, but the sales agent needed the consul's opinion on how exactly to distribute it to ensure maximum promotional effect.Larkin would be at the doorstep of the consulate by mid-morning on the morrow, funnily enough, in a green jacket and hat. It was common knowledge that Leprechauns usually had enviable treasures hidden somewhere. Larkin could very well be bringing something that the Treesians would find suitable to their taste. He was thinking that the Babkhans, on the other hand, could find it bitter once they had a whiff of it.

Hopefully he could reach them in time.

Rakesh leaned back in his leather chair. The Babkhans had pulled back and war had been averted - or so it seems. Everything had gone perfectly according to plan - he was now in control over the largest oil find in recent times. With the glories and riches of Tashbaan, his presitge and power would grow exponentially. But his loyalty was now split so many ways that he was having trouble keeping together. The last thing he wanted to do was to defend himself from charges of treason. But it was all working out so well. The only thing left on his agenda was to topple Fuhrer Ardashir Khan and release his beloved Kingdom from the tyrant's iron fist. To do that he must find the beloved Bahram Gul Khuramdin who was somewhere in the vicinity of Tashbaan and see how loyal Vizier Hesam Jahandar was to his cause or if he had become nothing but another pawn of Tyrant Ardashir.

Rakesh looked around the room - he was in Tashbaan in the room where he has once met with leaders of the community as Khedive of Tashbaan. Now it was serving as the meeting place of the Supreme Revolutionary Council of Tashbaan. Rakesh quickly snapped back to attention as Rasheed Majeed, Vice-Chairman of the Council, started to speak.

"Comrades! The Revolution may have been won at home but the oil fields are in the control of the Imperialist scum, the Slobovians and Krandans are reportedly in the area and the Hanoverians are just waiting to reclaim our citadel for the Kingdom. The people have spoken and they have supported us - we will not be subservient to any Monarch anymore! The Chairman has provided us with weapons and supplies while we have thousands who are ready to die for our cause - it is time to liberate Hanover and institute the a Republic!" yelled Vice Chairman Majeed as he banged his fist on the mahogany table.

The Commissar of Defense, Rajiv Danghi, a veteran Tashbaan militaman interjected, "Vice Chairman I must say that our principal task is to defend the metropolis from attack. We may be self-sufficient in most ways but if our industrial and agricultural areas are hit - we will not last long in any fight. We must negotiate with the Imperilists my friend! We must secure all that we have fought for or we will lose everything. You are right, the revolution must not die - but it cannot be completed in one day."

"No you are mistaken Rajiv," Thumbi Vijayant, who owned the impresive arm manufacturing plants and was serving as Commissar of Internal Affairs, replied. "When I walk down our streets I see that life in our city has gone back to normal. Looting has stopped and people are going about their business. What is even better is that the people support us. They support what we have done. Over the last few months the money we have made from the oil has changed the face of Tashbaan - we are modernizing and industrializing. How can we let all this slip from our fingers? The oil is now in the hands of those who have done many of us wrong - the Babkhans. The Chairman supposedly trusts the man who is running the "peacekeeping" force and we rely on that? Blind faith and trust? Let us secure the oil fields for ourselves and then negotiate from place of strength!"

All eyes turned to the Rakesh, Chairman of the Council. It was hard enough for Rakesh to convince his colleagues to go away from openly preaching Communism and worldwide revolution. He had stopped the anarchy that resulted during the first days of the Revolution and guided their strategy since he had taken over. He would have to again preach restraint and patience. "My Comrades and friends. We had planned this Revolution for many months now. I supported you with monetary assistance, weapons and training. I know how much all this means for you. But there shall be no unnecessary bloodshed and wasting of our resources. I plan on meeting the Governor-General and the Babkhan very soo ..."

"COMMISSARS! CHAIRMAN! SLOBOVIANS IN THE AIR!" a frightened soldier yelled as he burst into the meeting.

Rakesh calmly pushed a button on the table and a map of Tashbaan appeared in the center. It showed ships in the air above Tashbaan. The radar signatures of the planes made several of them seem to be large cargo planes and a few MiGs - most probably -29s. The Commissar of Defense had already activated all SAM sites. "Are we sure they are on an offensive missision?" asked Rakesh

"Data shows that the MiGs have been conditioned for air-to-ground attack, they do pose a threat. They have not responded to any attempts to hail them" the Commissar of Defense stated. His eyes glowed - he loved the exhilaration of battle. "What are your orders Chairman?"

Rakesh did not want to start an international incident but he had to seem strong and confident in such times. "Fire at the MiGs only"

"Yessir!" replied the Defense Commissar and the orders were relayed.

Outside near the outskirts of the city SA-17 SAMs were launched in quick succession - rocketing from the ground at mind-boggling speeds. The Slobovian pilot was obviously very competent and had tried to evade the missiles. But the Baracaoans (the SAMs were originally theirs) had paid good money for their weapons and within seconds the Slobovian plane burst into flames. But Rakesh as he looked at the tactical map saw that something else was wrong. "Rajiv, what are those red dots by the oil wells and the pipeline? Babkhans? Slobovians?"

"I am not sure Mr. Chairman let me check" replied the Defense Commissar as he looked at the read outs. "Those are elements of the Tashbaani Defense Corps - 33rd Platoon under Khalid Mubarak. 54 troops are attacking Babkhan positions!"

"Order them back!" screamed Rakesh

"I can't sir - they are keeping radio silence." Rajiv said in an uncharacteristic monotone voice

Rakesh slumped into his chair - what an incident this would cause he thought. What an incident ...

Outside near the oil wells Khalid Mubarak had decided that even if his superiors would not attack the imperialist bastards - he would. Taking his most loyal men, he attacked those who were constructing the pipeline that would sapp his country's oil and make the capitalist pigs and tyrants fatter and richer. In a brilliant show of force mortars, anti-tank missiles and RPGs were employed against a much larger and well armed foe. It was a suicide mission nonetheless but that pipeline had to be destroyed. Khalid's heaviest weaponry were old Javelin anti-tank missiles and TOW missiles that was acquired recently by the Tashbaan milita days before the Revolution. Martyrdom was the only thing that reverbrated through Khalid's mind as he aimed the TOW missile at the pipeline. Machine gun fire had been non-stop as the Babkhans advanced against their positions. Khalid launched his TOW missile just to see his men at his left and right fire Javelin missiles. Faster than lightning the missiles struck home - destroying the pipeline at several places. Khalid reloaded his launcher as Mortar shells exploded around him and shrapnel hit his leg. "AIM at the pumping complex - if we cannot have the oil NO ONE CAN!" and with that Khalid launched another missile, but before he could see whether his projectile had hit the target, severals bullets hit him squarely on his chest. The pain was unbearable as his uniform became soaked in his own blood. He picked up his head as the last ounces of life drained from him to see the pumping complex destroyed obilerated. Despite the blood in his mouth, Khalid whispered "Long Live the Revolution" and then gently closed his eyes in death, peaceful death.

Two hours later, a report was handed to the Supreme Revolutionary Council describing the more or less vigilante strike against the Babkhan pipeline, or what was left of it. The 33rds suicidal run at the pumping complex had inspired other brigades to launch their own strikes at various locations of the pipeline. The damage had caused a delay of at least two weeks to the completion of the pipeline project. But what was more disturbing was that Ibrahaim Mubarak, Khalid Mubarak's older brother and leader of the 5th brigade had declared the formation of the Tashbaan Expeditionary Force (TEF) whose sole mission was to reclaim the oil region and all other areas that "rightfully belonged to the Free Republic of Tasbaan." Rakesh could not stop the formation of the TEF or he would risk losing the support of the Defence Corps. Now he was awaiting a Babkhan, Hanoverian and/or Slobovian counterattack. After Rakesh read through the report he spoke up, "The attacks were most unfortunate and has unnecessarily antagonized the Babkhans. I recommend we take all steps necessary to prepare Tashbaan for an attack at any time and make it known that I will no longer tolerate such unordered attacks. In a spirit of goodwill and cooperation I will visit the Governor-General and all other parties to work out an agreement for a ceasefire and truce. I will broker a deal somehow to guarantee our Revolution while I hope you my comrades will be able to defend Tashbaan until I return." Rakesh got up and shook hands with his Commissars. Finally he turned his Vice Chairman, "I trust you Rasheed. Your heart is in the right place. Make sure there is a Tashbaan to return to" and with that he kissed Rasheed on both checks and left the hall.

Outside Rakesh turned to his Babkhan aides. "What news of Razjania-Dehvaz and our friends in Kamalshahr"

"Not good Satrap, not good at all. The Imperial Army is at the backdoor of your province and Ardashir has only tightened his control over Kamalshahr and he has the Vizier of Defence in his back pocket sources say. Ardashir has brainwashed his mindless followers while our representatives in the Majlis i-Mellat are in constant fear for their lives and our party members are mostly in jail. The situation is bleak," Sarhang Parakamanil sternly and solemnly said.

"The Fuhrer must be stopped someway ... anyway. He has bankrupted the Kingdom, broken the spirit of our people, silenced our Shah and destroyed our liberal and republican institutions. I will not stand by and let this happen to my people. Razjania-Dehvaz is the last successful province in the Kingdom and we account for almost half of the Kingdoms GDP. It is time to fight for what we believe in. Send a message to friendly Satraps, our leftists allies, our contacts in the military and intelligence and the Royal Shahyiar Palace - Razjania-Dehvaz is about to become to new seat of Babkhan governance." and with that last command Rakehs marched away. The time of trial of tribulation was only about to start

Fion Sullvian held his cap on with one hand while trying to get ahold of the reports in his lap from flying away. He had been grabbed by a monitoring serget assigned to the oilman to ensure nothing tricky happened. Fion was a Babkhan, a Treesian-Babkhan, and geologist by trade. He had been sent with a team to the oil fields to ensure the construction went through.

He was in the middle of printing out his report when the first strike hit. Hussled into a jeep he was now in a small convoy heading for the airstrip, and while looking behind him he could see the full force of The Ronin Mercenaries from NorthBabkha vaporizing the rebels. The construction was gone, the pumping station that was only days into being built was rubble and the pipeline lay in a thousand pieces across the area. The cranes that had been erected to build the line had nearly fallen on the office tent that Fion worked in. Now it no longer mattered, with the reports in his hand he had only to think of how close he had come to death.

Hesam had once again landed in Tashbaan, near the Anderson Barracks. His looming angel of death as attentive as always. He had been billeted to a series of rooms within the barracks, enough space for him and his staff to set up shop. As he walked down the hallway to the makeshift conference centre he could already hear the shouting of the various delegates.

"Are you mad?? The entire Babkhan force is at the border! This means the death of us all!" a voice shouted above the usual static sound of voices.

Hesam walked in to see a representative of Hanover looming over a deligate from the Tashbaani republic. But when he entered the room looked toward him silently. As usual, the entering conversation began with a round of greetings in all the respective languages. The Governor General of Carlorman, The Slobovian rep, Rakesh, and a rep from Tashbaan all sat at the table, aids and staff were also present in minimal numbers. Hesam pulled out a chair and sat down.

"This gentlemen behind me is a necessary security precaution, he IS armed but do not worry his prejudice in targets leaves all of you quite safe. I have been informed of the strike on my troops. In most circles this is considered an act of war and I will be forced to react. Imperial forces will be entering Tashbaan within the day to squelch this problem. As for the oil fields they will also be secured until the situation has been disarmed."

The Governor General stood up, "Satrap Jahandar! this is an infringement of Calormans sovereignty! I demand an explanation at once!"

The Slobovian delegate answered immediately "Slobovia considers this an act of war on our nation, we stand behind The Kingdom of Babkha’s policy on this matter and will be offering a full expeditionary force to assist."

Everyone was fighting to be heard, The Tashbaani were screaming with gestured hands slamming on the table, talks of independence and demands of self governance. All the while Rakesh simply sat. Silent, and unblinking he starred at Hesam with hate in his eyes. Then he stood and the room looked, they could feel the shift in the air, that this was now going to give them a glance at the internal workings of Satrapian power.

"Hesam Jahandar, you are little more than a puppet of the Grand Vizier. You did not even have the decency to alert me; instead you went running to Kamalshahr and bowed at The Emir without any remorse or care for the good of the Kingdom or regional peace. You, "satrap" Jahandar, are an enemy of Babkha. You will remove your forces immediately and allow this problem to be dealt with between Hanover and Tashbaan!"

The killer behind Hesam twitched, he was becoming agitated that Hesam was going to default. The rest of the room glared. They had misinterpreted the slight movement as a threat on them. The Governor General had pressed a button on his mobile phone, and minutes later a strike team moved into position.

"Was this how Babkhans work diplomacy? Common thugs! Threatening delegates at peace accords! What animals!" The Governor General thought.

The Tashbaani scowled, Rakesh however did not even twitch.

"Vizier Rakesh, I have no such intentions to remove Babkha’s forces. You attacked your own countrymen, an act that cannot be justified. You will return to Kamalshahr and face charges of high treason, if you do not comply, you will be charged in absentia and acquired later for sentencing. "

This was not what Hesam wanted. Even if he had believed in what he was forced to say(which he didn’t), this was not the place. But it was necessary to gain control of the situation. It was a tense situation, the strike team had moved into the room. They were dressed in Business suits but the shroud behind their right ears, and the bulge under their jackets gave away far too much. This was not good, Hesam considered the situation. There was a good chance that at least five state funerals were going to be happening simultaneously in 4 nations that would all be at war within a day.

Hesam felt that blasted COM device on his belt again. It had been ringing all day from that oil team he sent out. They fall under one attack and feel it necessary to bother me. He thought it would be amusing to check. Slowly he went for his belt...

Immediately the man behind him drew his pistol. a 9mm Beretta, enough firepower to blow through Hesam’s head and hit the wall, it was backed up against his scull and he could hear the click of the safety.

The strike team drew their weapons, but not expecting Hesam's supposed bodyguard to be aiming at his own man, they pointed hesitantly at the gunner. Everyone inhailed with shock, what the hell was going on here????

"Relax, everyone just relax" sweat dripped from Hesam's brow, he had almost bought it.

"I am checking my pager, its on my belt, I will remove it slowly for everyone to see"

Hesam brought his hand out from under his jacket, a email/cellphone device was produced, no chances to be taken the guns were still drawn. He looked at the screen, 12 new messages. In addition to Mr. Sullivan, the Kapav Colonel had left two messages also. Hesam read the first one.

Quote:

Your Excellency, The fields have been attacked, the contruction has been destroyed. I have unprecidented information on the oil fields.

The air was thick with tention, Hesam read onward:

Quote:

The Oil is packed in the silt of the terrain, which means it will require additional processing. However, this oil is only a minor problem as it accounts for less than 1% of the total amount. The remaining oil is packed in clay. There is currently no known technology available to seperate the oil, thus rendering the fields useless for production. I have a full report confirming this, I will be arriving in at the Anderson Barracks at 1100hrs

Hesam could not believe his eyes. The Oil was useless. IT WAS USELESS! It was 1200hrs already, the geologist was most likely down the hall waiting. This was too much. Hesam slowly lay the pager on the table and the guns were lowered.

"Well. It seems there has been a rather interesting development. Go ahead, read it for yourselves."

The deligates passed the pager around between them, some shaking their heads.

'Its a trick! he is trying to decive us!" The Tashbaani yelled.

The Governor General of Calormen spoke up, "I suggest a recess, he will return in 15 minutes". The Strike team stayed, but the deligates filed out of the room. Hesam returned to the office and found Fion standing, waiting. His only comment "I'm Sorry Your Excellency" Hesam smerked, it was the best news he had heard for a week. He had copies of the report passed on to the delegates when they returned. Fion spoke as a guest expert and explained the problem. Hesam however, was not present. He had not returned to the summit, but instead was on a plane back to Sajin, laughing to himself quitely. "It had all been for nothing" Upon return he contacted The Emir, who had also read the report. Babkhan forces were removed back into Babkha, back to their garrisons. The Imperial Forces would stay in North Babkha under Hesam command until the Grand Vizier thought of what to do next. The Slobovians returned home, confused as everyone else. And the Hanoverians and Tashbaani continued their talks in relative peace.

Hesam and Rakesh however, had different problems. The Emir was still in power, and most likely furious over the recent events. Rakesh still had to deal with Tashbaans independence, but Hesam had hoped that the stunt he pulled in the summit would be enough to show him what had happened. The Assasin had pulled his gun in Tashbaan and aimed it at Hesams head. The Grand Viziers cover had been blown, Rakesh would now know why Hesam had seemingly double crossed him, or atleast he hoped Rakesh would know.

Hesam now had to concentrate on how to get the GV's man away from him. With him out of the way, Hesam would have Babkha’s full force at his desposal. He and Rakesh could restore the peace in Babkha. All that stood in the way was one man with one gun.

The Emir read the report. He put it down. He poured another glass of Treesian Red from the wine decanter. He picked the report up. He read it again. It did not make sense. “Are you sure they mean a bomb Nassiri?” Nematollah Nassiri wore the tie-less white shirt and grey suit customary of all the Babkhan bureaucracy and it would have been easy for the Emir to forget that Nassiri was a Arteshbod of the SAVAK, if it wasn’t for the lean angular and hate filled look on the mans face. “There was a lot of interference it is true that played havoc with the listening equipment but we have got quite proficient at screening out electrical noise over the years.” The Emir sat at his desk in the southeast wing of the Royal Shahyiar Palace. His desk was a magnificent moarraq, or marquetry, table of walnut, cypress, and pine with bronze and gold inlays of Zoroastrian religious motifs. From his window the Emir could see the building site where the new Grand Vizier’s palace was being constructed. Once completed this tower of granite, marble, steel, gold and glass, would dominate the Majlis-i-Mellat building, cast its shadow over the Supreme Court, and even rival the Shahyiar Palace itself for dominance of the Kamalshahr skyline.

The Emir remained sceptical of the argument presented thus far, even though it was the finest torturer and eavesdropper in the entire Kingdom who put it to him. “Nassiri, can we be sure of this? I mean I have read this transcript of yours and it seems just as likely to me that this Drogheda Grog is nothing more sinister than some new liquor. I mean in all truth Treesian Red is a relatively new arrival on the market, it too arrived through Treesian smuggling gangs and yet it has done us no harm.” ‘Has he looked in a mirror lately?’ Nassiri wondered. Far from being harmless Treesian Red had sapped the strength and intellect of the Grand Vizier and countless thousands like him since its arrival in the country.         “Your Excellency I refer you to the sixth page of the transcript where Larkin says of the Drogheda Grog ‘It would surely make quite a blast in the Babkhan market’.”

The Emir rolled his eyes and turned his head towards the door that lead towards the palace harem. Quite clearly the Grand Vizier’s mind was wandering. Nassiri raised his pitch a decibel to attract the attention of his Lord whose mind had been caught by a combination women and the abuse of substances nearly as potent as those being fed into the Shahanshah, snares of Satan both he thought. “If you compare that with the remark on page one… towards the bottom sahib… ‘There's also been [inaudible] that these fellows could be forming some sort of a provisional paramilitary to avenge the failed Cause. You know how hot those Treesians are after that little crusade...’” It was always a gamble to mention the Treesian Crusade to the Emir, or as he was then His Imperial Majesty Ardashir Khan Osmani Shahanshah of the Kingdom of Babkha. It had been the inevitable retaliation for Ardashir’s raids on Treesia and in the mountains of North Babkha he was scarcely able to quit the battlefield alive from one of the most humiliating defeats in Babkhan history, the first recorded on home soil in a millennia. The multinational army that had invaded Babkha in the spring of 2002 had disintegrated in the North Babkhan valleys as they advanced towards the interior. A Mondesian division had been caught in a ravine and massacred by Mujahedin from Razjania-Dehvaz while the Treesian infantry had dissolved into a tangled knot of men huddled down on hills and mountains ready to be dispatched by the Imperial Babkhan Army that had arrived from Kamalshahr to serve as executioner. So confident had Shah Ardashir been of victory that he had flown out to be at the head of his army as it rolled into battle. But as the tanks proceeded to sweep up the valley crushing the Treesians on the lower foothills a Molotov cocktail thrown by a despairing Treesian crippled the Shah’s Kapav MBT. And as his crew dragged Ardashir from the burning tank a Treesian Bren Machine-Gunner riddled his right arm with bullets as they tried to escape. By rights Ardashir should have been dead but somehow he recovered from the burns and loss of blood but he had been horribly disfigured – most notably the withered right arm – and deep down inside something had died for he was never the same again. At first he tried to cope by converting to the Treesian religion, pleading with the gods of his victims for salvation, but then slowly that search for redemption withered and died, along with so much else in the Kingdom leaving the habitual sadism and drunkenness that characterised the depraved monster that Nassiri was now addressing.

Nassiri’s gamble had however paid off for the Emir darkest suspicions about the Treesians in the North were never far from his minds these days, as a consequence the Emir weakly deferred to the SAVAK operative. “Well, you know best, I’m sure.” Nassiri’s eyes shone like those of a hawk but his face was passive and emotionless. “I am grateful for His Excellencies confidence in my abilities.” The Emir took another sip of Treesian Red before opening a draw to his table and producing a small bottle of cocaine droplets. Pulling back each eyelid in turn Ardashir proceeded to take the bottles dipper and drop a small dose of the cocaine solution into each eye. The Grand Vizier shook his head and blinked. His vision was now blurred and his mind muddled. “Nassiri? Nassiri are you still there?” In truth the SAVAK General was trying to discretely slip away to leave the Emir to his medication. The security services had helped Ardashir reach power as his reliance upon them allowed them to construct their secret state. Now leading members of SAVAK and the Komiteh had begun to regard Ardashir, with all his sadism and self-indulgence, his Fedayeen fanatics and his Behsazi hotheads, as a liability to their primary aim of feathering their own nests. Over the preceding six months Komiteh Sarlashger Teymur Bakhtiar, the operative assigned to poison the Shahanshah, had been steadily hooking the Grand Vizier onto a veritable smorgasbord of addictive substances. In the interim this was producing erratic behaviour, such as the descent into overt despotism, the mistreatment of his friends, the attack on Sajin City and the Tashbaan adventure. In the long run it would mean less tears and questions on the day of Ardashir’s inevitable assassination. Unwillingly then Nassiri turned to address the Emir. “Still here and at your command Excellency.” The Emir still could not see Nassiri but his mind was racing too fast. “Nassiri, when you go to North Babkha to hunt down the Smugglers you also find the one they call Mansoor. He is the only one, the only one who can save us from the revenge of Bahram and Abbas Namvari. The priests do not lie. They see all Nassiri; they see the future as clearly as we see daylight. Bring Mansoor to us.” Nassiri pondered but for a moment. The name Mansoor rung a bell. The Emir’s incoherent request might well serve a purpose. “Your Excellency I shall diligently search as you require.” ‘Yes Mansoor the brigand’ Nassiri thought. ‘Who better to murder the Grand Vizier and the Shahanshah?’ And with that the duplicitous SAVAK General was away again.

For a good three to four hours the Grand Vizier was alone in his office, contemplating his dreams and nightmares. The next to call upon him was a dapper gentleman of the Royal Gendarmes special intelligence directorate, the Yemin Zoka. Agha Sahib Roozbeh Peyman was pushing fifty, tall and thin, with black hair that was yet to grey. His eyes were hazel and bright looking. He was a contrast to Nassiri the thug for Peyman’s grey suit was of the finest wool with a broad white pinstripe, certainly it wasn’t cheap, more the attire of a successful gentlemen working at the Kamalshahr Bazaardex. In fact the keen intellect of Agha Sahib Peyman had allowed him to make a killing on the stock markets. Using a perceptiveness that would have led the unwary to conclude that he was guilty of insider trading Agha Sahib Peyman had managed to sell all his shares on the very eve of the 2001 stock market crash and thus while Babkha languished in the midst of a recession he had become a multi-millionaire. Yet that was never enough to dissuade him from his first love, the Great Game. Be it against foreigners or the more keenly fought struggle with his rivals the SAVAK and the Komiteh. Peyman was in truth ahead of all the games and as a consequence was on as friendly terms with the Fedayeen as he was with the tattered remnants of the opposition. Thus it was to Peyman that Rafizadeh had dispatched a hurried encrypted email detailing the surprising outcome of the Tashbaan Summit. “Doorood Agha Sahib Peyman. Know that we are unaccustomedly tired today. I hope that what you have to say is of great import.” Peyman strode up to the Grand Vizier, still sunk into his chair, and shook him by the hand with a firmness and warmth that few attempted these days. “Indeed your excellency the news I have from Sajin City changes everything…”

Rakesh looked around at his personal staff in their temporary office in the makeshift conference building and then at the "report" that said 99% of the oil in the Tashbaan fields were completely useless. Rakesh put the report down and let out a loud laugh the resonated throughout the small room and all the people in the room had stopped talking and looked at Rakesh waiting for some explanation. He gave it to them: "My friends! Do you really think I did not know everything that this report stated? Do you think I would have wasted my money, my time, my effort, my prestige and my honour on a worthless oil field? No, I would not. First foremost the divide between the two types of oil is not 1:99 but more realistically 20:80. Do you really think that some Babkhan geologist could undertake a full survey in a few short days while I conducted a survey with the best minds in the field for six months! Finally and most importantly - the reason the Governor-General wanted the Dehvaz Oil Company to manage the oil fields was that I informed him our researchers had figured at a way to deal with the oil ridden clay. The oil fields are still priceless my friends!" As Rakesh finished the room broke out in joy and laughter. Rakesh looked at a young aide in the corner - "Please forward OUR Geological Feasibility Study to the Governor-General - His Eyes Only. Make sure the Babkhans or anyone else DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT find about this. I will not have other people meddle in my or Tashbaan's affairs any longer.

Just as Rakesh finished his videophone went off and Muhad Johani his attache in Razjania appeared. "News from the capital Satrap!"

"Well let me have it" Rakesh replied cooly. He did not know his world was about to be turned around.

Treesian Consulate, Kamaltoon, 10:15, 6th December

O hUiginn, yawning, padded into the Consul’s office. He lived at the Consulate, as McCulann did, his bedroom had no windows, unlike McCulann, and he often rose very late if he had no alarm clock on. He found that a fax had arrived last night. Must have been while he was out at that party in the old Mondesian Embassy. That had been a fun night, ridiculing the old Mondesian Ambassador’s taste in vibrating sofas and throwing the expired food products at the third secs from other embassies. He had returned late, and hadn’t bothered to check for messages. Sleepily, he ripped the fax off the machine, and read it cursorily. After catching some whiff of innuendo, he re-read it, then read it again. “@#%$,” he swore. Rushing to his room, he got into his suit, and rushed to the bathroom, combed his hair and brushed his teeth while still trying to get the damned tie clip in. Larkin, Larkin, where had he heard the name before? From the embassy in Tallandor! And what was his message? O hUiginn was not as steeped in criminal activities as his superior, but he too had been a soldier, though only a lowly saighduir, and he knew the references to explosives when he heard them. “Oh shite oh shite oh shite,” he murmured fervently under his breath, as he paced the office floor. What would he do? What could he do? The Consul was gone, and this wasn’t even his area of expertise, and he was a criminal mastermind! What was O hUiginn meant to do, who had been appointed to his position as an afterthought?

After about ten minutes of fevered thought, he sat down at McCulann’s desk and dragged the phone over to himself. He would need to ring in some favours. He produced, from his suit pocket, his phone book, and turned to the section labelled “Specialities”. A couple of men, and women indeed, owed him for saving their lives or not mentioning to the relevant authorities or for giving the go-ahead and one time or another, and O hUiginn intended to make full use of them. After all, rights or not, Babkha was always the enemy, weren’t they?

Mansoor’s Camp, 10:15, 6th December

The bandit camp started early in the morning. McCulann had heard the noise of men clanging pots and their women nattering at them in Farsi since about dawn. He would have gone outside and told them to shut up if it hadn’t been for the two men stood outside his tent to guard Mansoor’s “guests”, who had quite business-like airs about them, and kalishnakovs.

Mansoor had had them up all night, drinking the gut-rotting Treesian Red, which, out in open air and not in the dull seclusion of his office, made McCulann drunker, sicker and generally more disgusted with himself. He knew what was in there, he’d read a report from the Chancellor of the Exterior about “the vitriolic mixture of red Brugean wine, Barbary gin, Skerrian uisge and Eyepopper Ale is so detrimental to the human liver and digestive system that many of our doctors theorise a man could be poisoned with it more thoroughly than with some weaker poisons.” That had been a while ago, before the Council gave up trying to stop Treesian Red exportation. McCulann, who had been firmly entrenched in it all since the beginning, had screwed up the report after reading it anyway. Fools.

Now McCulann had a splitting hangover, and by the groans from the mound of flesh in the tent with him, Afas did too. The Babkhan officer had drunk more than either him or Mansoor, and would be paying for it now. McCulann was ashamed of himself, he had never considered himself a man of excess, but now, in this camp of bandits, where he could easily be ordered executed next thing he knew, he looked back at his life and saw very little that would be worth saving. He was an atheist, and thus cut off from most of the Treesian community, both here and at home. He had become a soldier, left his family back in Vembria, and stayed in a country over the other side of the world rather than to return to them. He was a traitor to his government, had made a living out of being a traitor to his government, and had consorted with criminals, had helped criminals become a major force in the new Treesian community.

That was the drink talking, he knew that. He’d never been sorry for anything in his life, it was against his own personal dogma to be sorry for his actions. Why start now, just because he was feeling sorry for himself? Pathetic, give yourself strength, man!

At that moment, the flap of the tent drew aside, and his guards motioned for him to come out. He moved to wake Afas up, but they shook their heads, and motioned him out again. This is it, he thought, I’m going to be shot. They’re sparing Afas because he’s a Babkhan. Shoot the Treesian dog… It was always the same, @#%$ Babkhans!

Instead, he was taken to Mansoor’s tent, where the bandit chieftain was waiting for him, sitting cross-legged on a cushion, sipping from a bowl of some soup, which McCulann could smell the whiff of Treesian Red off. On seeing him, Mansoor smiled thinly, his beard only slightly dripped with the alcoholic soup. “Doorood, my friend,” he said, “it is a very nice morning, is it not?” “Yes, sahib,” McCulann responded respectfully. “Come now,” Mansoor responded sardonically, “you cannot expect me to believe that that fat idiot is in charge of this expedition? You are, Consul McCulann, and you are on your way to Tashbaan with that liquor. This Satrapy functions on your smuggling, do you seriously think that I would not know it? Half my men worked for you or your cronies at one time or another!” McCulann sighed deeply. He was given away, so. “What are you going to do with us?” he asked. Mansoor looked into McCulann’s eyes, “I am not a freedom fighter, Consul. I am at best a vigilante, I am a criminal, my head has a price of 3,000 Rials for any of my men who wish to betray me. I am a bandit, my name is known to Babkhan intelligence. I am a hunted man, whose location is known to all but the dim-witted. But I am also the safest man in Babkha. I am a man surrounded by crooks and robbers, who would die rather than risk my wrath. Zurvan protects us all.” McCulann’s eyebrows raised, and Mansoor laughed. “No, I am not fedayeen, rather the opposite. I do not think Zurvan approves of me very much, but he is still watching us, protecting us from the dragon Artakhshatra, that Grand Vizier in Kamalshahr, a snake if ever there was one. He controls the Shah like a marionette, drugging him as he sees fit. I have my sources, you see, Consul, just like you. For instance, my sources tell me that the Grand Vizier has sent his chief of intelligence, Nassiri, to bring me to him, though I know not why. That is why I am releasing you. I believe that the thorn you represent in the side of the establishment will distract them enough not to kill me, for I think they will take me wherever they want me.” McCulann nodded. “Your convoy has been made ready, and your men are all safe. Wake your corpulent friend and be gone before midday,” Mansoor said. The Treesian Consul nodded once more, and rose from his seated position. “Good luck, my friend,” they both said at the same time. And McCulann departed.

Mansoor was alone then, able to meditate properly. The brew he had taken would allow him to commune with Zurvan. That, and not the diabolical use of spies, was how he had known of the Babkhan spymaster’s coming. And he had known he must be taken. It was Zurvan’s will, after all.

Killian Ferdia’s House, Shasta Avenue, Tashbaan

Majeed signed the pledge, and pushed it angrily across the table. “There, it is done!” he almost shouted, about to grab his red-checkered turban and go. “Are you sure you wish to leave?” Ferdia asked. “We could have a glass of Ramonian brandy, from the old distillery at Valencia, or some Treesian Red, if you prefer the proletarian tang.” He snorted then, Majeed and his superior were about as communist as he, Killian Ferdia, was Ard-Baron. “No, I would not,” Majeed snapped, and turned on his heel, and was gone.

“He wasn’t happy, was he?” said MacIoclann as he entered from the room adjoining Ferdia’s office. “No,” said the smuggler, “but we have his signature now. Will you send him the kid’s finger?” “Do I have to? I’ve gotten quite attached to it!” the other grinned, producing the grisly item from his breast pocket, wrapped in tissue paper. “How can you keep that thing on you all the time?” Ferdia asked, shifting away from MacIoclann and the finger. “No more disgusting or smelly than many things I’ve had about my person over the years, Killian,” the gangster responded, re-wrapping the finger. Ferdia didn’t ask.

So it was done, Majeed had pledged to assassinate Rakesh with a pistol, which Oisin Beag had procured. He would shoot the Chairman at their next meeting, and his son would be released to him, slightly mutilated but not that much more worse for wear. And then, if all went well, he would become the Chairman of the Supreme Revolutionary Council and, hopefully, the ruler of Tashbaan. And he had pledged loyalty to them, hadn’t he! Ferdia permitted himself an evil grin.

At that moment, MacPhearsaigh entered, waving a report in his hands. “Have you read this?” the ceann asked. Ferdia shook his head, not needing the formality of before. This was his house; even the ceann was an equal in another man’s house. “Read it, so,” MacPhearsaigh said, throwing it onto Ferdia’s desk.

Ferdia read it, then looked up at MacPhearsaigh in horror. “The oil is worthless??” he said incredulously. “It would seem so,” said MacPhearsaigh. “Who takes care of the oil these days?” MacIoclann asked, after he had read it too. “Well, it used to be Cuigoir Flaicheartha, but he died in that firefight with Mungo MacCeanna’s boys, and then it went to Aonghus Toreaigh, who is…” They looked at each other, “Oisin Beag’s uncle.” It all fell into place. “This Sullivan boy,” said MacIoclann, flicking the report. “Is he one of the Sullivans from New Susa?” MacPhearsaigh and Ferdia thought for a moment, then nodded, “Must be,” Ferdia said. “Yes, because the Sullivans are from Koroch, and their second son had blond hair, and went to the Treesian College and studied geology,” MacPhearsaigh agreed. “And,” continued MacIoclann, “the father, Ciaran, owns a cutlery factory in New Susa. And I know he makes a few products for Oisin Beag on the side, guns and similar.” The other two nodded.

It all seemed to be very much connected…

“Worthless? Explain to me, why is this worthless?” The Grand Vizier had sobered up in a hurry. The news from the north was horrendous beyond words. The supposedly vast reserve of oil under Tashbaan was in fact, according to an email from Rafizadeh, the Fedayeen sent to watch over the ‘loyalty’ of Satrap Hesam Jahandar, nothing but a layer of oily clay sludge. “Your Excellency, I am no expert on the oil industry – though I have invested from time to time – but I do believe it is due to the cost of extracting the crude from the sediment that the Tashbaan oilfields are an unrealisable asset to who so ever possesses them.” The Grand Vizier was now sitting cross-legged on a sable fur laid out in the far corner of his office, a fragrant harem girl laid there beside him with her head on his lap. With his good left arm the Emir was stroking her shoulder length jet-black hair, it usually worked to calm him down, which was just as well as far as those who had to deal with his mood sings and drug addiction were concerned. Roozbeh Peyman had manoeuvred himself into the seat at the table vacated by the Grand Vizier. Peyman had known Ardashir since his earliest days as a provincial clod from the Satrapy of Zjandaria, had given him a job in the Imperial Quartermaster’s Office, and had seen him work his way the provincial and national hierarchies. Unfortunately he had lost control of his pupil and protégée after the distasteful incident with the Treesians. Roozbeh had organised the rescue mission that sprung him from the Treesian gaols where the Ard-Baron had been holding him and it was to the Agha Sahibs dismay that Ataxerxes, as he was then known, had gone on to declare war on Treesia on behalf of the Kingdom. That had brought Ardashir to the attention of Shah Babak and much of the nightmare that befell the Kingdom could be attributable to Ardashir ingratiating himself to Babak as an indispensable military advisor and eventually as his heir. However in spite of seeing Ardashir become a warlord, a tyrant, and ultimately a tool of others Roozbeh had remained true to his wayward friend. Indeed when the time came to effect the Grand Vizier’s retirement the Agha Sahib had determined to do his utmost to save his friend’s life, especially from the vipers that had coiled themselves around him. The time was coming for a very Babkhan coup, both to save Ardashir from himself and to avert the ever-present threat of civil war. When the time came Roozbeh was going to remove Ardashir back to the place of his birth, the Zjandarian steppes, and there – who knows – a good woman and a certain amount of therapy might allow Ardashir to become a productive member of the community. Until that time Ardashir had to be sheltered from realising that the news about the oilfields was more than likely a fraud and at the same time a way had to be found to prevent the forces of resistance on the periphery of the Kingdom striking down the Shahanshah and his Grand Vizier, both drugged and deluded men, and instead to direct them against the faceless enemy – the secret state that had choked away the spirit of democracy and poisoned the minds of men. But this was still a risky business this, Ardashir was still dangerous… especially to his friends. “Your Excellency, with all respect to Rafizadeh he has been blundering about like an idiot – by his own admission he did pull a gun on the Satrap Jahandar at a excruciatingly sensitive moment in the discussions with our enemies. His judgement may not be entirely sound, that makes him a prime conduit for misinformation.” Ardashir was more interested in the girl and Peyman decided that it was probably time to take his leave. “Your Excellency with your permission I’ll investigate these reports using my own contacts… you’ll do as well not to rely on Nassiri, he only ever thinks with his fists.” Ardashir impatiently waved the Agha Sahib away, the girl resting on his lap was giggling away as Roozbeh left the office and closed the door behind him.

Once back in his own office Roozbeh dashed off an email to Rafizadeh

Quote:

Doorood

If you hold the life of your leader dear you will not impede the activities of Satrap Jahandar in any way.

You must trust me that his life is in danger and in order to save it you must disobey his own orders.

It will be a conflict of loyalties but please discuss this with Satrap Jahandar. I and many other people have the best interests of the Grand Vizier and the Kingdom as a whole at heart when I ask you to do this.

Royal Hanoverian Embassy, Kamalshahr, Kingdom of Babkha, 9:23 am

“…Our friends in the north has brought the City of Tashbaan back to the negotiating tables with its imperial benefactors the Hanoverians and has allowed them to hang the Tudeh instigators of the revolt. Furthermore the speedy action undertaken by this administration has ensured that significant oil revenues have been secured against use by the Tudeh to fund terrorism inside Babkha. In gratitude for the role the Satrap of North Babkha has played in this success His Imperial Majesty asks the Majlis-i-Mellat to vote another grant of aid to impoverished North Babkha, and who are we to refuse the will of the Shahanshah?

James Stafford, Cultural Attaché and Second Secretary to the Embassy, among other things, was reading a translated transcript of the Grand Vizier's speech to the Majlis. He knew that most of the time the Grand Vizier was blowing copious smoke, but on there were times when a rare admission of significant information would prove his effort of reading his drivel worthwhile.

He stepped outside the chancery building to rest his eyes and get the local feel of things, and knowing full well how touchy the Babkhans were at a time like this, he'd confined himself to staying just beside the embassy guard post, technically still within Hanoverian soil. He saw that the standard minders were still there, glaring at the Hanoverian flag, and trying to look inconspicuous but failing horribly. Stafford knew that covert internal-security forces of totalitarian regimes usually lacked subtlety when undergoing surveillance of a subject.

He pulled out a prized Baracaoan cigar (a pity that their country had gone to the dogs, though they made fine products) cut off the end, and lit it, staring at the street, which was nearly devoid of a living thing. He was sure that the Emir's prisons had more than enough space to accommodate most of the population if need be. The Kingdom had a lot of surplus unhabitable property, and there were numerous places where one could disappear a body if need be.

What a mess this was all turning out to be. An internal problem of the Empire had soon involved the Kingdom of Babkha, the Dominion of Athenoi, and even the King's backyard, Bergen, of all places, not to mention the Slobovians who (as the latest intelligence dispatch said) had apparently spelled the Babkhans in watching the Calormani skies, and had even introduced troops on Calormani soil, an apparent act of war .

Demonstrations in Ellicott Square. Now all Hanoverians were convinced that a Babkhan was lurking around every corner, ready to run into them and steal their valuables on the pretext of helping them get up. In today's edition of the Calormani Courier was a report that the Imperial Babkhan Embassy in Bergen was being mobbed by Hanoverians, some of whom had intended to keep vigil until peace had returned. Of course, Hanoverian authorities had to arrest some who were preventing Embassy vehicles from coming and going, as guaranteed by international law.

Jock Stafford had finished the cigar, and was tempted to throw it at one of the scruffy-looking Embassy minders outside, just to spite him, but thought better of it. Things were somewhat cooling down, and surely the Governor-General would not need another issue to inflame the situation.

Stafford nodded to the embassy sentry and returned to the chancery. He had a lot of paperwork to do.

The Treesian Consulate

Ian Larkin, dressed as a leprechaun, arrived at the appointed time, bringing with him several casks of Drogheda Rum, with the words TALLANDOR PRODUCE stamped prominently on it.

He made himself at home, and entered, looking for that Consul. He had a little gift to give him. After drinking several quarts or so of the prime drink, he'd hand over the 24 or so bottles of rum, which were not drinkable at all. They contained a gray malleable substance. Larkin was careful not to include the detonators with the shipment--he carried that in a separate bag.

They would make quite a blast in whatever market the consul would designate.

Larkin went to the office, looking for any Treesian fellow. Seeing one, he greeted him with a cheery "Top o' the morning, to you, guv'nor! Larkin's the name, Ian Larkin, late of Tallandor."

Anderson Barracks, Lower Muscovy

After that meeting, the Governor-General had decided to take a warm shower in the base commander's quarters. That part done, he emerged a new man, dressed in his Governor-General's white peacock uniform.

He read once more the new information that came in, and cursed several times.

Lower Muscovy was going to hell in a handbasket. He had an idea, and summoned an orderly.

Ten minutes later, all Hanoverian forces in theater were surprised to hear an officer reading out a new decree from the Governor-General: Lower Muscovy was no more. The area of Anderson Barracks was absorbed into Greater Muscovy, and the rest of the barren desert of Lower Muscovy was declared to be the Qumar Free State, under the plenipotentiary leadership and government of one Rakesh Maziar Ackbar, MP, who would retain his title as Khedive of Tashbaan, and Bey of Qumar. Qumar would be separate from the Empire, though its inhabitants were still to have fealty to the King.

Wyndham grinned. Those feuding rag-heads could kill each other for all he cared. That mess would now fall under the purview of the Prime Minister.

Within the hour, all forces under his command were at Anderson Barracks. Nearly to a man, they headed for the Sergeant's Mess, where the Governor-General was to become the toast of the night. At that time, though, alcohol was locked up tight. The soldiers would have their first warm buffet meal in days, with much singing of regimental songs, and toasts to the King in mild champagne.

Meetings would still continue in the Base Commander's Conference Room, but Wyndham doubted that would happen after news of this.

SAJIN CITY

Walking through the Gardens at Sajin was the one escape Hesam had from the hell outside. Even with Rafizadeh following him everywhere, at least here he could pretend to forget. It seemed that The Emir had taken the oil problem well. After all Hesam was still alive and that had been decent news, it meant his plan was working unexpectedly well.

The funds from Kamalshahr had arrived as well, and with this the capping of his own oil fields had begun. Within the week oil production in North Babkha was expected to be at 30%, enough to begin market level selling again. The Tobacco industry had been a mixed problem. Besides the fact that North Babkhan Tobacco had been given a subsidy in Baracao to produce the famous cigars, it was not a full market as the products were generally a novelty more than a stable and that is where the real money is. The plantations in North Babkha had been wiped out after the war. Thick ash had decimated the crops leaving withered un-sellable produce So even with the cigar division, it was a loosing industry for at least another season. The Salt mines continued as always, and had very little expense for upkeep. Slave labour had always allowed that particular industry to maintain its profits, but it was an interior economic source, and with no money in Babkha, there was little demand for salt.

Hesam was content though, he got what he wanted. Enough cash to rebuild the oilfields and he did still have the entire Imperial force under his command so he had little to complain about. His potential power had all the time in the world and all he needed was reason. Rakesh had obviously become self-interested. And although he saw the trouble with the Grand Vizier, he was now too caught up in the politics of other nations to have a true reason to be involved.

Hesam needed to find some way of saving the Shah, but he was too busy tending to his own troubles to worry about it at the moment. And then out of nowhere, a voice

"Agha Sahib..."

Hesam turned around. It was Rafizadeh. For the first time since his arrival the man was speaking to him.

"Agha Sahib, I have a message from Yemin-Zoka"

Hesam winced, he was sure that this meant his death sentence.

"Sahib Paymen of the Yemin-Zoka has instructed me to give you this report"

Hesam took the paper with disbelief and read:

"Doorood

If you hold the life of your leader dear you will not impede the activities of Satrap Jahandar in any way.

You must trust me that his life is in danger and in order to save it you must disobey his own orders.

It will be a conflict of loyalties but please discuss this with Satrap Jahandar. I and many other people have the best interests of the Grand Vizier and the Kingdom as a whole at heart when I ask you to do this. "

He laughed to himself, Paymen had been one of Hesam's first recruits in the unit when he first created it. Malkom Khan had opposed it admantly at the time, but when intelligence from Paymen (among the best of the Intelligence Officers) began pouring in, Malkoms opinion changed dramatically.

"So does this mean you are no longer on standby to kill me where I stand?" Hesam smirked.

This was going to be interesting. He had a champion it seemed, but there were still others who would oppose him. It just so happened that Paymen asked first and that he, unlike Nassiri, was in command of Rafizadeh.

"Well we shall begin preparations then I suppose. But I must first finish my time in the Orange Gardens"

And with that, Hesam and Rafizadeh confided in the gardens, bringing up the political games of Kamalshahr that Hesam had long been a member of until recent times.

"Much has changed Your Excellency, it will be good to see things the way they once were"

The Treesian Consulate, 9:30am

Turlough Meade turned at the hearty greeting, not knowing what he expected. When he saw a man of middling height, with a cheery grin, a green floppy stovepipe, a pipe, a false red beard, white and green striped knickerbockers, and buckled black shoes, he went to the nearest “Security” button, and pressed it. He knew his country’s laws, and by the Act of Species Seperation, it was illegal for any human to imitate a member of any other species on Treesian soil, with special emphasis given to leprechauns, who were an unfortunate relic of a time when all the Treesian emigrants were also the proponents of a peculiar and extremely short-lived fashion.

Burly security personnel materialised in the corridors, making a beeline for the leprechaun, and manhandling him professionally. With very little time for plea or protest, he was being held aloft by five gorrila-like suit-wearing men. It was perfect, the synchronisity of it, Meade doubted the miscreant even had time to know where he was. Then O hUiginn showed up and ruined everything.

“What on Tirlar’s going on here?” the sub-consul asked, stepping into the hall. “We have an impersonator, sir,” said one of the gorillas, who Turlough thought was from Fabon originally. “Well, put him down and let’s have a look at him, you know that the commanding officer of a consulate has precedence on who gets put in the brig. We have too many drunks and thieves in there anyway, and poor Madam Grincheux. I’m not sure that wearing a fox-fur is impersonation. But Ambassador Grincheux did so insist…” O hUiginn trailed off at this point, and clicked his fingers. “Release him.” Larkin was plopped back on his knees. “Mr. Larkin, I presume?” O hUiginn said. When the other nodded questioningly, he said “I rustled up some intel photos of you from your time in Tallandor. The beard does not do you justice. Come along, then, let’s sample your fine brew.” Turlough Meade watched them go, venom in his glance. Ruining his fun like that… Then he sighed and went back to photocopying passports.

O hUiginn led Larkin to his office, where there were three other people waiting. One was a woman, and there were two men. “These are my friends, who would also care to sample your new grog,” O hUiginn said, his face straight the whole time. “They are Scamall,” he motioned to the woman, “and Madra and Cu. Not their real names, of course, but in businesses of our sort, one must be wary of whom you tell your name to.” At that moment, some of the consulate flunkies brought in the casks of Drogheda Grog on a platform that looked to be specially designed for the purpose. “Thank you,” said O hUiginn curtly, and the two flunkies bowed and left.

O hUiginn’s three associates, immediately upon the door being closed, opened the crates with a crowbar that Madra had apparently conjured out of thin air, and were carefully lifting the full bottles of Grog out and placing them on the ground. Eventually, Scamall gave a psychotic-sounding giggle, producing the bottles full of the grey stuff. “I thought this stuff was just a legend,” she crooned, cradling it in her arms like a baby. Cu and Madra were equally exultant. “There’s enough here to shatter the Glass Desert!” Cu exclaimed. “And still enough left over to take out a chunk of downtown Kamalshahr!” Madra supplemented. “Very nice,” O hUiginn said, reaching in his desk drawer and taking out a bottle opener. “Let’s have some of your Grog to celebrate, eh Larkin?”

They had downed about ten of the bottles between them, and O hUiginn was fairly tipsy, so he wasn’t certain whether it was a rock or a bird, possibly sun-addled, that hit the quadruple-glazed windows of his office. Then he became aware of the shouting. “Whatsh all that damned…shouting, outside??” he mumbled, staggering up to take a look.

By Eoin Dornan

Treesian Consulate, Kamaltoon - Later that Day

Nematollah Nassiri stepped onto the tarmac at Kamaltoon Regional Airport; he had arrived in Sajin City the night before but deigned not to meet the rogue Satrap, whose fables of foxes and scorpions put Nassiri in a mind to expect an army revolt in the north at anytime now. Instead Nassiri had resolved to keep to his remit of smashing the bomb plot and recruiting the brigand Mansoor who was to murder the Royal Household and the Grand Vizier, Nassiri chuckled at the prospect of making the Grand Vizier’s prophecy rebound so spectacularly. To that end he slept and ate sparingly at the local Fedayeen safe house before returning to Sajin Airport to board the ‘Hind’ gunship that would take him to Kamaltoon Regional Airport.

At the airports main terminal a delegation of the local SAVAK and Komiteh operatives, a motley array of badly shaven men all dressed in either grey polyester suits or khaki military fatigues. In a convoy of five 4x4’s, all emblazoned with the KOMTIEH POLIS logo that compelled locals to avert their gaze at their passing, Nassiri was swept into town, once an architectural jewel of the Kingdom but now a sad testament to administrative neglect and civil disorder; the city was littered with crumbling structures, many at least 200 years old, against which sand had piled up and on top of these dunes stakes of wood had been driven into the ground to prop up walls that were manifestly on the point of toppling over. The edifice of almost every other building Nassiri saw had been left pockmarked and scared by the innumerable bullet holes that were testament to the endemic gang warfare that had gripped the city before it became a de facto Treesian enclave. In no time at all the SAVAK Arteshbod had arrived at the fortified Gendarmes barracks-cum-police station that was the lawful governments only enclave in the city.

Before setting out from Kamalshahr Nassiri had made some preparations for his mission. The Shahanshah in his current lethargic stupor had been in no position to keep an eye on who was using the Seal of the Rastakhiz, the seal that approved all executive orders in the Kingdom. Accordingly Nassiri had been able to draft an order withdrawing a million rials from the vaults of the Central Bank of Babkha, and had then done so without protest from the dutiful grovelling clerk who, perhaps on account of SAVAK’s reputation, saw nothing amiss with agents of the secret police stuffing a million rial notes into several holdalls and jumping into a BMW which sped away to the airport.

Now that Nassiri had arrived in Kamaltoon he was able to set the plan he had prepared for into motion. It was a rather dingy office, the Gendarme Sotvam’s, but with a flash of the cool million inside the holdalls the Gendarmes, then the Fedayeen area chief, then the headmen of the local Babkhan community, the city Mullah, and finally the militant student leaders, were all transported in their minds eye to more salubrious surroundings. Their cooperation with the plan had been bought and they had rushed away to gather their supporters together in the meydun a shahr, the city square. Nassiri then assembled an assault squad of gendarmes and fedayeen in the barracks courtyard. Nassiri had deduced that incriminating evidence on the bomb plotters could be found in the Treesian Consulate. An official police search would spark a diplomatic incident, perhaps even war. But a break in that occurred under the cover of a civil disturbance, an attack by a mob on the consulate, could be mitigated by the hanging of a few anti-social elements, the very same to whom the money had been shown a few hours earlier.

From the square a crowd of nearly a thousand set off for the Treesian Consulate just a little way down the road. The Mullah, in his black and white turban, led the way while piously reciting verses from the Holy Quran. With him came the mustazafin, the perpetually angry slum dwellers dressed in shabby clothes and recognisable from their stubbles and shaved heads, shouting ‘Allahu Ackbar – Ardashir rachbar! God is Great, Ardashir is our leader!’ As far as Nassiri was concerned the crowd was wrong on both counts but they would serve their purpose. In among the fanatics and the disposed lurked a goodly number of thugs and gangsters passing out an assortment of pistols, knives, grenades and Molotov cocktails amongst the crowd. Nassiri and the twenty or so members of the assault team were all dressed as mustazafin and were mingling in amongst the crowd.

The crowd swarmed towards the entrance of the Treesian Consulate. A few unarmed hotheads in the front row gathered up rocks and hurled them at the Consulate guards, a rather confused pair of men in green ceremonials. Their first thought it seemed had simply been to duck back inside their hut and ride out the stoning, which by all accounts was something of a ritual in these parts. Then, it seemed at the prompting of someone shouting from inside the consulate, they scrambled back out of their hut just long enough to put the outer gate shut, which was presumably then barred from inside. For five or ten minutes the crowd was happy to stand off, pelting the cowering guards in their hut and making a game of breaking the glass in all the windows of the Consulate. Finally there was an order barked in Treesian from one of the upper windows and the two petrified men ran once more out of their hut, this time armed with sub-machine guns. A burst was fired into the air, to no effect. Another burst, this time into the crowd, and some of the protestors fell. If this procedure usually quelled a disturbance the Treesians had miscalculated this time. The crowd did not recoil, instead it replied with a hearty roar of revenge and the mob surged towards the front gate. Another burst brought down a few more but the mob, screaming ‘margh bar Treesi death to the Treesians’, poured on over them. By now some of the armed mustazafin were in a position to fire themselves and the distinctive thin crack of pistol fire reverberated above the shouting and screaming. It was chaotic but the guards fell possibly to a shooter in the mob but more likely to a sniper Nassiri had had the presence of mind to install on a rooftop across the way before the assault began. Regardless the two men were mobbed, stripped naked, mutilated and dragged away down the street. By now armed men, probably desperate consular staff, were at the windows with an assortment of pistols, hunting rifles and blunderbusses of their own. In the crowd some broke for cover, others fired back with the weapons that had been distributed among them, and the remainder were content to throw rocks. One of the rioters attempted to lob a grenade through one of the first floor windows; it instead bounced off the wall into the crowd and killed a great swathe of civilians. It was clumsy but it got the crowds blood up even higher – they were convinced the grenade had been thrown from inside the Consulate and this gave Nassiri the pretext to open up with the weaponry that his team had brought along, an assortment of assault rifles, rocket-propelled grenades and plastic explosives. Under covering fire from the crowd, now sheltering in shop fronts and behind parked vehicles or up against the walls of the Consulate itself a gendarme dashed forward and placed a 15-pound shaped charge against the outer gate, which duly blew the gates off their hinges. After the smoke cleared some hotheads from the mob were allowed to charge right on in, they were mowed down. Next the gendarme who blew the gates threw a grenade into the courtyard; there was an explosion and then silence. Then three fedayeen rushed the gap, no resistance. The mob gave up a roar of hatred and swarmed into the compound. Nassiri and the rest of the assault team came in with them. Inside was chaos, with the breech made the riot was in full swing already fires were breaking out and captured papers were being thrown into the air or torn to shreds by the jubilant mob. All too late Nassiri realised the shortcomings of enlisting the mob. They were more than likely to destroy the precious evidence he was searching for. Armed with an Uzi, Nassiri shot off the lock to the first door he came across. From the equipment he instantly recognised it as the cipher room. Inside there were three cowering men. None of them were Larkin, who Nassiri still hoped to acquire alive inside the building, so he had no hesitation riddling them with bullets. Having posted a guard on the cipher room Nassiri and the rest of the assault team began to climb the stairs.

O hUiginn’s Office, Third Floor

“Utas’ blood! What in the name of Ifreann is happening out there?!” yelled O hUiginn, looking at the window, at the milling psychotic crowd and the death and destruction. “Forget out there,” said Madra, pointing downwards, to where the office window had a view of the front door. Where several of the invaders had just entered, stepping over the ruined bodies of the Consulate guards. “Gods!” cried the sub-Consul. Then his eyes moved to the casks with “Product of Tallandor” stamped on them. “Well, that’s about as good a way to cause a diplomatic crisis if I ever saw one,” he said, pointing. “What are we going to do with them?” he asked.

They stood motionless for a while, listening to the sounds of violent Farsi being spoken very loudly. O hUiginn could hear an authoritative voice commanding, “Search every room! Find the bomb!” He rounded on Larkin “How do they know about the bomb??” he yelled. Larkin looked shocked, and didn’t answer. O hUiginn thought quickly. Then he knew, he knew what he must do, for the good of his job. “Stay here, all of you,” he said to them, trying to look as honest as he possibly could. Then he quickly left the room, and padded down the hallway. At one stage, where the corridor opened out to a wall on one side and a railing on the other which overlooked the front hall, he looked down. The hall was chaos, and luckily no-one was looking up his way, as he was certain he would have been shot. Anyway, he could execute his plan from this height. He moved further down the corridor, and found the door to the old, and still used by the flunkies, servant’s stairway. He opened the door, cleverly hidden behind a portrait, and looked down. It was empty, no shouts reverberated through it.

Grand, thought O hUiginn. Wary now that he thought his plan would work, he moved cautiously back to the office, and re-entered. “I can get you out,” he said to the other four. Scamall, Madra and Cu moved immediately, starting to pack the explosives into the casks. “No,” O hUiginn said, “leave the casks. Bring the explosives, we’ll need them.” At his motion, Cu tossed him one of the bottles full of the grey stuff. “You have a detonator?” the sub-Consul asked Larkin. The Hanoverian nodded, his green stovepipe flopping as he did so. He had ripped his false beard apart in agitation, and was looking a bit of a shambles. “I think we’ll need to get you some other clothes, my friend,” O hUiginn said sardonically. Then, to the others. “Bring as much bottles as you can carry. Scamall, do you think you could make one of these into a grenade?” The female terrorist toyed with her red hair for a moment, as if weighing up a choice which O hUiginn knew was instinctive to a psychopath like herself. “Well,” she said, “I could, but then I wouldn’t be able to test my new ones.” She produced from some delicate area on her clothing a string of grenades, the sort you saw in black market raids. O hUiginn swallowed. “Right, then,” he said, “this is what I want you to do…”

Two minutes later, the group broke from O hUiginn’s office. Cu split left while the others went right, watching the near stairs, while the others headed to the place where the corridor overlooked the front hall. After checking that no invaders had yet reached those stairs, he turned back and followed the others, who were crouched just before the crucial spot. O hUiginn counted to trí on his fingers, and then the carefully-laid plan of two minutes came into action. Scamall lobbed one of her grenades over the railing, where it bounced on the tiles of the front hall for a few moments, giving the guards and hostage staff just enough time to duck for cover before it burst with a shattering force that almost knocked them off their honkers even on the third floor, and they were off. O hUiginn wrenched open the portrait, behind which lay the staircase. They scrambled downwards, and Cu shut it behind them just as the shouts of alarm and “There’s someone up there!” went up.

O hUiginn tripped once or twice, and he heard the others cursing behind him as they fumbled in the darkness, but eventually they were at the bottom, just as they heard voices at the top, far-off sounding. “Is there a door here?” “Shoot through it!” The sounds of a machine gun sawing through canvas were heard above, and the stairway was lightened. They made their way out quickly.

The group emerged outside the Consulate, around the back. The guards had long since fled, and there was only the wire fence to get past. And then they would be free.

Sajin City, Satrap’s Palace

Oisin Beag, dressed in his best suit, and flanked by his brother, Oisin Mor, strode up the steps of the Palace. He had been let through the gates by some of the murderous looking Sajin Security, big fellows armed with massive scimitars, not ceremonial, Oisin was sure. That had been after the equally murderous two-hour drive across the Glass Desert Highway, really just a paved section of the unnatural phenomenon, under which you could still feel and hear the tension of the glass. The Glass Desert hummed. Oisin Beag had had to turn the radio on to shut out the humming, and sitting through two hours of chattering Farsi had been torture, especially with the interposed glam rock hits in between.

Now he was at the Palace, and glad to be. As soon as he passed the first gate, it seemed to be quieter, more peaceful and definitely cooler than the City outside, the City which had grown around the Satrap’s domain. A city of cars and camels and gonbads and rabid clerics, who seemingly could pick Treesians out of a crowd, denouncing him and his brother as criminals, thieves, liars, bastards, murderers and traitors. It didn’t especially help that he and his brother were all those things either.

They were shown into a reception area, where a young woman dressed in a typical secretarial outfit, which draped down quite gracefully from the boxy shoulders and ended quite abruptly slightly below the tops of the thighs. “Sirs, do you have an appointment with the Satrap?” she asked in English. “No, we don’t,” answered Oisin Beag in Farsi. “Well I’m afraid the Satrap is walking in the Orange Gardens at the moment, and he will be indisposed thusly for some time,” she answered, unruffled. “Well, then we’ll wait,” Oisin Beag said, motioning for his brother to sit on one of the floor cushions with him.

And so they did, for hours. At some stage early on, the secretary girl had offered them drinks, but they had refused, thinking this some Babkhan ploy to test the capacity of their bladder. She had apparently taken this to mean they abstained from drink altogether, and had not come back. Now they were sweltering. The coolness of Sajin Palace had reverted to heat, and Oisin Beag’s face, still of Treesian pallor, ran with sweat. Eventually the secretary returned, saying “The Satrap will see you now, in the Brocade Elephant sitting room.” They lifted themselves wearily to their feet, and followed her.

Hesam was reviewing the latest problems. Riots in Kamaltoon, Smuggling in New Susa, Nassiri was off in Sajin somewhere and now, Tashbaan was independent. It could be of some value though, it was under Rakesh, and if things went well, The Land would be under Babkha protection, and with it, and perhaps Hesam could find a way to industrialize those oil fields. Hesam had kept some visitors waiting for hours. He had taken that time to do some quick research on them, who they were, what they were doing, who their associates were. Across the report key words kept peaking: Tashbaan, North Babkha, Treesia, Oil, weapons. It sounded as if there was some opportunity to this.

Hesam walked slowly into the room, The light from the Gardens was visible through the ornate columns that led there from the salon.

"Doorood, I don’t believe I know any of you? Mind if I ask your names and affiliations?"

"Oisin Beag, Regional Business with a specialty in weapons and oil, this is my brother, he works with me"

Hesam looked at them, he knew where this was going.

"Ah Mr. Oisin, I assume you and your 'buisness' had a lot to do with the recent events in Tashbaan. You know, you almost cost me thousands of lives including my own as well as millions of Rials. I should have you shot by my friend here."

Rafizadeh stepped forward and eyed the Treesians. HE knew who they were. To him they were the cause of the trouble all over Babkha.

"But fortuntely I am a man of thought, not foolish attacks, so I will overlook your insidious nature. What have you come for?"

"We require assistance for our ventures in Tashbaan, we need support." Oisin, shifted in his seat, this was extremely uncomfortable.

"And what have you to offer me in return?" If it was what Hesam was hoping, this was probably the final solution to the oil problem.

"We are after the oilfields, they may not be of much value now, but we are sure that their value will increase in time. As well, Tashbaan is currently the main consumer of our weapons industry. It is of our benifit that the strife continues. We are prepaired to offer you exclusive rights to the oil, however we will control the land. This is our proposal"

"Seems fair, I am able to offer you my surplus of equipment but no troops, I cannot spare those at the moment. As well I currently know your position within the Treesian community in NorthBabkha and I demand some changes. You may stay, as can your orginization, but I demand that the violence, thuggery and corruption end within the Province. You may stay in the province and run your buisness from here, under my protection, but I cannot allow you to continue the trouble."

Hesam smiled, he was in a position to make the arrangments, so he was able to make demands that would normally be impossible

Oisin paused and looked at his brother. They knew this was a bad idea, but it was their best chance, they needed to work this out between them though.

"Your Excellency, please allow us a moment to confere, this is quite a lot to ask, but I am sure we can come to an agreement"

With that Hesam lef thte room, he was more than willing to return to the gardens in peace. Rafizadeh glared at them and followed.

"Agha Sahib, why do you speak with these criminals? they destroy our Country!"

"Rafizadeh, these criminals will be an excellent way of getting our problems to solve themselves. We have nothing to fear in this situation"

Babak Kapav Mehr University Main Campus, Kamalshahr, Babkha Just as the situation seems like the worst it could possibly get, violence erupts at the BKMU campus. A motley group of protesting social sciences students, disenfranchised veterans, and the poor somehow organized themselves into a full-blown riot.

The Slobovian Army had a spy within BKMU that had by now been collecting information on the group. The spy had gained knowledge of the pre-meditated riot hours before it happened, but the time that it took to move up the Slobovian chain of command, made the Slobovian government's message warning of what the group was going to do arrive at the Babkhan Imperial Armed Forces Headquarters a minute too late.

Although the Slobovians have a spy within the group, no one knows its actual size, nor who it's leader is due to the atmosphere of confusion within and without it. It is known, and obvious to the Slobovians that the group formed out of a reaction to the cruelty of the blackshirts.

Arminius International Airport, Þompsohndburg Borough of Grøßenburg, Slobovia Upon receiving the news that the warning came too late, Præsident Þompsohnd has decided that he should fly to Babkha. He stands on the runway with his wife, a group of advisors, their wives, and their children. As the Presidential Jet, a converted Il-76, taxis up to the tarmac from it's hangar, Þompsohnd kisses his wife and says "I'll try to be back soon, ok Heiðr?" She says "ok" and kisses him back. The President lets his advisors get on the large plane first, and as he himself climbs the steps and stands before the plane's door, he waves good-bye to everyone on the tarmac, and steps into the plane. The plane then taxis to the runway, and takes off, with it's destination being Shah Babak International Airport.

The Command Centre, Kamalshahr 9/12/03 11:05

The Zjandaria House compound, bounded to the west by the Salaam-e Kúché (the path of peace a ceremonial procession route to the Majlis-i-Mellat), to the north by the Kheyabun Raspur (Raspur Street), and to the east and south by Sefarat Kheyabun, known to outsiders as Embassy Row, and the Kheyabun of Victory respectively, laid at the very heart of Kamalshahr within sight of the Darvazeh-i-Jahan ‘gate of the world’ the 400 foot triumphal arch which was the only official entrance into the now Forbidden Shahyiar Palace. All the other institutions of government were within spitting distance, the Majlis-i-Mellat, the Chancellery, the Vizierate of Home Affairs – itself relegated to a small adjunct of the sinister Komiteh building, the Supreme Court, and so on and so forth.

A fresh young military man named Ataxerxes had built Zjandaria House two years ago according to a grandiose neo-classical design, in keeping with much of his later career it was over schedule and over budget and the internal plumbing was prone to constant leaking but nonetheless the young army Sarhang successfully promoted it as a great personal accomplishment. As such, looking like a cut and paste from the imaginings of Albert Speer, it was gloriously at odds with the aesthetic of the rest of the ‘perfect city’; which needless to say was an inspired gold and jewel encrusted Persian centre, a regrettable but necessarily hard pseudo-Stalinist crust of Ferro concrete apartments blocs, and a completely unplanned and substantial growth of slum dwellings that had turned the once lush province of Kapitalia into one vast agglomeration of shanty towns.

Zjandaria House itself was the nexus of the Military and law enforcement establishment in Babkha, headquarters to the Vizierate of Defence, the Imperial Babkhan Army, and the Royal Gendarmes Regiment, alongside a few smaller agencies. At the core of this building was the Command Centre, a vast duty room, which occupied the entire third floor of Zjandaria House. Agha Sahib Roozbeh Peyman mounted the stairs two at a time. Outside the entrance, a guard with a machine gun demanded his pass – not even gentlemen of standing were exempt from the needs of security. The door opened with a thud of electronic bolts.

An illuminated map of Kamalshahr takes up half the far wall. A planetarium of crime, orange in the semi-darkness, marks the capitals three hundred police stations. To its left is a second map, larger still, displayed the entire Kingdom. Red lights pinpointed those towns big enough to have a Gendarmerie. The heart of the Kingdom is crimson. Further west and north the lights thin until, beyond Raspur, into Razjania-Dehvaz and North Babkha, there are only a few isolated sparks, twinkling like campfires in the desert.

At the heart of the Command Centre was the vast reporting bureau, at least a hundred girls in starched white shirts sat in glass partitions, each wearing a microphone with a headset attached. Every monstrous or criminal act in the entire Babkhan nation, provided it is not committed by a member of the establishment, a protected person, or an influential official, is reported to here, controlled, evaluated and reduced to a statistic before being passed along the corridor and the chain of command. Only the most critical information passed down the entire length of the corridor to the so-called Cabal Room, where the heads of military intelligence would act upon it. And that was where Peyman was heading now.

It was an innocuous green door marked Room 65 that Peyman now knocked and entered into. In there huddled round the small round table were the Chief of Staff to the Vizier of Defence, the Imperial Quartermaster of the Imperial Army, an Agha Farman of the Royal Gendarmes Regiment, a Senior Inspector of the Magistrates Inspectorate and a Sarhang of the Satrapian Militia for Kapitalia.

“Doorood Agha Sahibs”, Peyman addressed the assembly warmly as he laid his brief case down on the table and took a seat. ‘Doorood Agha Roozbeh’ came the uniform reply from his peers. The Imperial Quartermaster, poured Peyman a scotch, the Agha Sahib noticed that everyone had a glass in hand; it therefore would not be his style to decline. “We don’t usually drink at this hour of the morning old chap. As you well know.” That was the Chief of Staff speaking. A full figured gentleman too fond of spiced mutton and strong liquor. “But after we heard the news… well.” Peyman took a sip of his drink, a fine imported malt but some ice would have been nice, and then, having put the glass down he took a wad of papers from his briefcase. “Yes I understand completely. Now shall we begin this meeting?” The others nodded and the Sarhang of the Satrapian Militia stood up to read a statement. “At 12:00 hrs on the 8th of October the Kapitalian Militia was put on its highest state of alert. The stated reason was that Treesian terrorists were preparing a ‘bomb attack on locations or persons unknown.’” Peyman made a note on his jotting pad “Which agency issued this alert?” “SAVAK, Agha Sahib.” The representative of the Gendarmes scribbled angrily on a peace of paper. Peyman motioned the militia Sarhang to continue. “On the 7th an officer of the Militia was discretely approached by the Chairman of the Central Bank of Babkha under the pretext of a call to his house to investigate a break in. On that occasion the Chairman intimated that SAVAK men bearing an order stamped with the Seal of the Rastakhiz had withdrawn a million rials from the vault of the Central Bank. Upon hearing this I took it upon myself to visit the Chairman at his home.” Peyman was not overly dismayed at this. It was not the first time that SAVAK had by-passed the Yemin Zoka on such matters as the activity of known wanted terrorists and thrust orders directly down upon the Satrapian Militia. Fortunately for Peyman the militiamen actively resented this and were consequently of great help. As for making a sudden withdrawal from the bank, both SAVAK and its more loathsome successor the Komiteh were known to be more than generous when it came to helping themselves to public money. But the hasty and barefaced manner in which the million had evidently been taken was in itself interesting. “Does the Chairman know who made the withdrawal?” The Sarhang smiled. “Indeed Agha Sahib. The Chairman reported Nematollah Nassiri had handed the clerk an order, allegedly from the Grand Vizier but bearing the Shahanshah’s seal.” Peyman was beginning to get the picture, using an illegal and probably fraudulent Imperial Farman Nassiri had set up a slush fund of some kind. But to what end. Anything that the SAVAK and Komiteh planned was inevitably bad news for the Yemin Zoka. “Thank you Sarhang. Kostri, do you have the current location of Nematollah Nassiri?” The Agha Farman of the Gendarmes nodded his head, which for a Babkhan usually meant no. “Agha Sahib, he is either in the Komiteh building or out of the City. None of our narks and tongues have anything new on him since the bank incident.”

It might have seemed strange to an outsider that the intelligence and security agencies of the nation spend so much time and energy spying on each other, but the fact was that SAVAK-Komiteh was trying to absorb the Yemin Zoka and perhaps even the entire Imperial Armed Forces into its structure. While for their part the Yemin Zoka perceived the SAVAK-Komiteh to be a threat to the traditional freedoms and liberties of the Kingdom. Thus they constantly strived to cancel each other out.

The Chief of Staff then spoke. “My contacts in the North report that Nassiri was spotted at Sajin City Airport and subsequently in the grounds of the Kamaltoon Gendarmerie.” Now that was interesting, Peyman thought, ‘a career civil servant like the CoS with contacts?’ That could only mean one thing that this Chief of Staff was still in contact with his nominal boss, the Vizier of Defence, Satrap Jahandar. “Did anyone else watch the news this morning? A riot in Kamaltoon that sacked the Treesian Consulate?” Peyman enquired. Everyone round the table shook their heads. They had. “Interesting isn’t it. SAVAK alerts the ordinary police to a bomb threat but deliberately avoids telling any other intelligence or security agency. Nassiri withdraws a million rials from the Central Bank in Kamalshahr and is next seen in Kamaltoon. The Treesian Consulate there is stormed by a mob. It flows together nicely doesn’t it?” The red faced Imperial Quartermaster harrumphed. “Those toe-rags want to claim the glory for dismantling a terror cell all for themselves!” Peyman mulled that. It had occurred to him that Nassiri might be trying to improve his standing with the Grand Vizier but that was too open and shut a case. It lacked the ring of truth. “One does not need a million rials to start a riot. In some depressed areas a working mans salary would be enough to spark a brawl. No I’m afraid our friend Nassiri must have another transaction in mind.”

‘But what exactly?’ Peyman was now bedevilled by this concern. As far as he knew the only person in a position to find out would be Satrap Jahandar. After the meeting concluded Peyman decided to pass a message through the Chief of Staff direct to Hesam, the Bureaucrats protestations of ignorance where systematically swept aside and a new channel of communication was opened with the Satrap of North Babkha.

The first message along this new opening was as follows:

“Doorood Old Friend,

It seems you were not so out of touch with the affairs of Kamalshahr as many believe.

At mutual frienemy (I believe you coined the term) is in a town not so far from you.

If you acquire him you will hold all the aces.

Regards”

Slobovian Presidential Jet, in flight from AIA to SBIA The Slobovian Presidential jet has an office on board so that the President and his advisors can work while on the move. In the office there's nice, plush Bavarian blue carpeting, with comfortable red furnature, and Saxon green walls. The President sits behind his large, oak desk reading reports that are coming in from the plane's radio room as his aides give suggestions one what should be done.

"The Babkhans need help, Mr. President," said the President's top military aide, "riots and civil disorder are popping up almost everywhere...we must stand by our friends sir." Þompsohnd sat back in his chair and said "the reports coming in from the Slobovian embassy are saying that Kamalshahr is beginning to look like Tehran...what's to say this won't turn into a revolution? What's to say that if it does the rebels won't win? What's to say that if the rebels win, they won't do to our embassy what the Iranians did to the American embassy? But you're right, we must stand by our friends, and we must offer to help Babkha restore civil order." The President then stood up and picked up the phone. "I'll call the Grand Vizier's office and offer Slobovian MPs to help contain the rioting" the President said to his advisors as he dialled. "Hello, could I speak with the Grand Vizier please?" Þompsohnd asked upon reaching contact with Ardashir's receptionist. "This is President Þompsohnd of Slobovia" he said. The President then waited for a few minutes until the Grand Vizier picked up the phone, and then said "Your Excellency, how are things?" "I understand almost all of Babkha is under a state of civil disorder...could you use some help?" the President said, "well, the Slobovian forces never really went home...the just anchored off in international waters...a few hundred Slobovian MPs as well as around two or three thousand Slobovian Infantrymen could land to help with the security work if you wish, but we could talk this over later...I'm on the Presidential Jet on my way to Shah Babak International Airport as we speak...bye."

The Jaws of Hell,

In the streets of Kamaltoon nothing to the untrained eye would seem out of place. The market was open, traffic was busy as usual and the people of the town went about their buisness almost as if the riot had not happened. The Treesian consulate was a smoldering shell, Looters had come and gone leaving the remanants of the building empty.

But if someone were to look to the top of the surrounding buildings, a subtle difference would begin to emerge. Soldiers dressed in black Patrolled the city by roof tops, it was more efficient and since there was an order to shoot rather than police the city, there was no need to be muttled in with the people below. Then there was the safe house. A building that was completely surrounded by Large black trucks and undercover paramilitary shuffling back and forth in an attempt to be unseen. It didnt work as this was the only area of town where the locals did not go. the entire length of the street from one intersection to the other was completely empty except for the area around the safehouse.

Inside the house Nassiri was working in his office, the information he had needed was all there. Only in pieces. He and 12 other Intelligence Officers had been attempting to put back together the written evidence that had been shredded and burnt in the riot. It was a daunting task and was taking an extremely long time. All together he and his team had assembled 20 sheets, and of those, only 4 were pertinent to the bomb threat. Most of the others were relavent to consul relations or trivial memos about the situation in Babkha.

Across the street, Akinakes Khala of the Yemin-Zoka looked through the window of the shop he and his team had occupied. Due to the nature of the city design, The strike team had been able to take the building via cutting a hole in mortar in the back wall of the building, and had accessed it through the adjacent shop on the street paralel to the safehouse via a hole cut in that Garage. While the streets had been monitored, when the team entered the garage in a van it was quite normal. Simply a van driving in for repair. what the Fedyaeen, had not seen was that the van had been driven through the garage and into the building that was backing it.

Here the team had reenforced the vans body with steel plates, and boosted the engine for this particular mission. At 5:05pm the team loaded up and waited.

At 5pm sharp, plastic explosives blew the front of the build clear off, sending brick and plaster across the street. Simultaniously the van drove at top speed across the street and into the front door of the safe house, managing to clear the doors and lodging itself into the staircase in the hallway. All this happened within ten second.

The Sliding door of the van slammed open and the strike team sprawlled out. The fedayeen troopers who had been maning the front entrence were now twisted corpes stuck underneath the massive vehicle. Khala moved toward the stairs and aiming his sub-machine gun up the stairway he traced a beam of red light on the first target he saw, shooting the man 5 times in the chest before he had even enough time to prepair his weapon. The strike team moved to the top of the stairs in close formation, aiming in all possible directions. Already the helicopter over head could be heard waiting for pickup, Khala was still 4 minutes ahead of schedule.

The team entered the first room, moving along the walls after a smoke grenade had been thrown and found the room empty, then into the second room on the landing. Another smoke. through the teargas came pistol shots, fired wildly into the landing, but after only 20 seconds the shooting stoped. The team entered searching man to man for Nassiri shooting immediately once their identity had proven not to be him. Finally Khala moved to the far end of the room, along the interior wall and found Nassiri in his wool suit cowaring under a desk with an emptied pistol in his hand. Still in Shock, Khala hooded Nassiri and cuffed him, placing him in the center of the team, they moved into the corridor, finding resistance on the stairway, they emptied a few rounds from the shotgun and returned into the office.

Khala used the radio, "Talon this is hunter, objective complete, bring it down the the target point."

With that Khala threw a red smoke grenade and waited, covering the entrence and laying down fire against the targets attempting to enter. Soon a rope ladder in the window could be seen, and the team scrambled out. At the end was Khala and his prize hanging onto the rope while the helicopter delivered them from the area.

A textbook operation, down to the "t'. It could not have gone better. Once at the Gendarmie base, the prisoner was processed and safely locked away.

Sajin City, The Satrapian Palace

"Thankyou Satvan, well done, and my compliments to the work of your men."

Hesam put down the phone everything was finally coming together. He then began writing a message to Paymen on the recent developments.

The New Seat of Government

Rakesh looked around him - it was picture perfect day in the massive metropolis of Dehvaz. The city, a cultural center of the Kingdom had expanded with the economic fortune of the province. Back in the day, Dehvaz would be only one of the glorious cities in the glorious Kingdom - but those days of power, might and glory were nothing but distant memories quickly fading away. Kamalshahr had become a Fascist capital where the military, the Fascist party, drunkards, mobs, and the Mafia all competed for power. Most of the provinces too had been broken into submission - the lack of funds from the Central Government had crippled many Provinces - God alone knows where all that money went. But a new day had risen in the Kingdom - a brand new day. With the Tashbaan crisis behind him, Rakesh had turned to the internal workings of his beloved Kingdom only to be greatly disappointed. Where had the Golden Age gone? When did Babkha become the land where internal elements of the national security apparatus lead the Kingdom? When did the Shahanshah - the King of Kings - be a mere puppet to the Fascists that governed Babkha? That all would change today.

Rakesh gazed up at the expecting crowd. He had moblized all the leftist-centrist elemetns he could - which was increasingly difficult due the crackdown by the Fascists. He had even succeeded in rescuing a few of his comrades from prison in Kamalshahr so they could stand before him on this momentous day. Behind him the Babkhan flag flew proudly in front of the former Dehvaz Conference Center which had been converted hastily into a new Parliamentary building that would hold the new government of Babkha. Rakesh stood up as the massive crowd - thousands strong - broke into applause and he walked to the podium. The teleprompter was ready but Rakesh had memorized the speech as if it was engraved into his brain. He began to speak ...

Quote:

I want to ask a few simple questions. And then I shall answer them.

What has happened to our vaunted idealism? Why have some of us been behaving like scared chickens? Where is the pluralistic democratic voice of Babkha?

Today the rulers of our Kingdom has dinned into us that we are a weak nation; that we are an inefficient people; that we are simple-minded. We have been told that we are beaten, decayed, and that no part of the world belongs to us any longer. They, Fasicists, Anarchists, Terrorists, Radical militants, shout--from public platforms in printed pages, through the microphones--that it is futile to oppose the "wave of the future." They cry that we Babkhans, we free Babkhans nourished on Magna Carta and the Constitution of our Kingdom, hold moth-eaten ideas. They exclaim that there is no room for free men in the world any more and that only the slaves will inherit the earth. Babkha--the Babkha of Babak and Nantell and Namvari and Khuramdin--they say, is waiting for the undertaker and all the hopes and aspirations that have gone into the making of Babkha are dead too.

However, my fellow citizens, this is not the real point of the story. The real point--the shameful point--is that many of us are listening to them and some of us almost believe them.

I say that it is time for the great Babkhan people to raise its voice and cry out in mighty triumph what it is to be an Babkhan. And why it is that only Babkhan, with the aid of our brave allies--the Shirerithians, Karnalians and Hanoverians, can and will build the only future worth having. I mean a future, not of concentration camps, not of physical torture and mental straitjackets, not of sawdust bread or of sawdust Caesars--I mean a future when free men will live free lives in dignity and in security.

This tide of the future, the democratic future, is ours. It is ours if we show ourselves worthy of our culture and of our heritage.

But make no mistake about it; the tide of the democratic future is not like the ocean tide--regular, relentless, and inevitable. Nothing in human affairs is mechanical or inevitable. Nor are Babkhans mechanical. They are very human indeed.

Babkhans have always known how to fight for their rights and their way of life. Babkhans are not afraid to fight. They fight joyously in a just cause. And today my fellow citizens we shall start a fight againt Fascism, Corruption and Tyranny that has brought our Kingdom to its knees!

We Babkhans know that freedom, like peace, is indivisible. We cannot retain our liberty if three-fourths of our Kingdom is enslaved. Brutality, injustice and slavery, is destroying us like a fire in a wooden house - if we do not douse this flame it will spread no only to to last bastions of freedom and democracy in the Kingdom - but to the last free and democratic nations in our world!

If we are to retain our own freedom, we must do everything within our power to rid ourselves of the filth that has taken over. We must also do everything to restore to the enslaved peoples their freedom. Those whose rights have disappeared and who can no longer speak, think or act freely will be liberated under the banner of liberty and equality for all!

We Babkhans can no longer stand and watch our Kingdom be destroyed before our very own eyes. But a perpetually militarized, isolated and impoverished Babkha is not the Babkha that our fathers came here to build. It is not the Babkha that has been the dream and the hope of countless generations in all parts of the world. What is convulsing in our Kingdom today is not merely another old-fashioned dictatorship. It is a counter revolution against our ideas and ideals, against our sense of justice and our human values.

Two systems today compete for the Kingdom and the world - fascism and democracy. Fascism has one goal - the destruction of democracy. This is why this war that is occurring is not an ordinary war. It is not a conflict for markets or territories. It is a desperate struggle for the possession of the souls of men.

We are not fighting for ourselves - we are fighitng to preserve freedom for mankind! For the moment, the battleground is the Kingdom of Babkha - but we are fighting a war for global freedom, we are the first soldiers in trenches but we are the front-line trenches in a global battle.

In this war, we the believers must prepare to move decisively against the Fascists everywhere. We must united our forces to form one great democratic international. We are no longer socialsits, communists, centrists, liberals or conservative. We are people united in the struggle for democracy and the soul of our Kingdom and of our world. Freedom-loving men and women in every land must organize and tighten their ranks. The masses everywhere must be helped to fight their oppressors and conquerors.

No, liberty never dies. The Khans come and go. The Attilas come and go. The Hitlers flash and sputter out. But freedom endures.

Destroy a whole generation of those who have known how to walk with heads erect in God's free air, and the next generation will rise against the oppressors and restore freedom. Today in Kamalshahr, the Fascist Ardashir may gloat that he has destroyed democracy. He is wrong. In small farmhouses all over Shahzamin, in the shops of Razjania and Dehvaz, on the docks of North Babkha, freedom still lives in the hearts of men. It will endure like a hardy tree gone into the wintertime, awaiting the spring.

And, like spring, , the democratic revolution will come. And men with democratic hearts will experience comradeship across artificial boundaries. These men and women, hundreds of millions of them, now in bondage or threatened with slavery, are our comrades and our allies. They are only waiting for our leadership and our encouragement, for the spark that we can supply.

These hundreds of millions, of liberty-loving people, now oppressed, constitute the greatest force in history. They have the will to destroy the Fascist gangsters.

We have always helped in struggles for human freedom. And we will help again. But our hundreds of millions of liberty-loving allies would despair if we did not provide aid and encouragement. The quicker we help them the sooner this dreadful revolution will be over. We cannot, we must not, we dare not delay much longer. We must greet with raucous laughter the corroding arguments of our appeasers and fascists. They doubt democracy. We affirm it triumphantly so that all the world may hear

Here in Babkha we have something so worth living for that it is worth dying for! We have not heaved from our necks the tyrant's crushing heel, only to stretch our necks out again for its weight. Not only will we fight for democracy, we will make it more worth fighting for. Under our free institutions, we will work for the good of mankind, so that all may have plenty and security.

Today, we the people united in democracy, liberty, fraternity and equality have taken the first step in throwing off the yoke of Fascist oppression. Today in the city we all stand in - we declare that we no longer will be ruled by Kamalshahr! Today we tell the Military - do not meddle in our affairs! Today we create a new seat of government in Dehvaz! Today we call upon the decendants of Babak Kapav Mehr to take the thone of Babkha and lead her to a tomorrow free from oppression and slavery to the Fascist infidels! Today we tell the people of Babkha and the world - DEMOCRACY WILL NOT DIE!

With the flag of the Kingdom waving in air, I declare that the true Majlis i-Mellat of the Kingdom of Babkha is in session and that the true government of the people shall lead Babkha to a victory over oppression and destruction. Representatives have been sent to Shireroth, Karnali, Hanover, Morovia, Treesia, Delvenus, Attera and all other free nations of the world saying that Kamalshahr no longer speaks for the people of Babkha!

My friends and comrades - a new age has been ushered in. We will accept all allies and support our citizens in fighting the Fascists. We will fight for ideals to the death. But Ardashir Khan Osmani and your heathen supports mark our words - YOUR DAYS ARE NUMBERED!

Rakesh stepped off the podium as the crowd went wild shouting "LONG LIVE THE SHAH! LONG LIVE BABKHA!" The democratic revolution had begun.

In Kamalshahr the reaction to the Satrap of Razjania-Dehvaz’s declaration was almost immediate. News carried fast over the radio of the Hanoverian backed revolt in the West. The Prime Minister of Hanover was attempting to seize the Grand Vizierate, perhaps even the throne, for himself! The bazaar was incensed. Everywhere effigies of the traitor Rakesh were burnt in hastily organised bonfires. The ominous drumbeat of war had been taken up and the left had betrayed the nation to another power.

At a 6:00 AM on Wednesday the 10th of December representatives of the highest echelons of the SAVAK-Komiteh met in the golden city of Vey and agreed that the alignment of Tashbaan, the Qumar Free State, and the Satrapy of Razjania-Dehvaz had opened an invasion corridor for the Hanoverians while at the same time a large part of the Imperial Army, two regiments of the Scheheradze Division and the entire Asabara Division was bottled up in North Babkha under commanders of dubious loyalty. With Nassiri suddenly incommunicado the secret state realised that only Ardashir would have the resources and innate cruelty to put down the revolt, he had therefore to be kept alive. Back in Kamalshahr, after receiving a message from that group, the Shahanshah’s ‘Valet’ Teymur Bakhtiar was sent at 8:35 AM to the Grand Vizier’s Quarters to inform the Emir of the full extent of the revolt.

Grand Vizier’s Office, Royal Shahyiar Palace, Kamalshahr

It was 10 in the morning when Teymur finally got admittance into the Emir’s bedchamber. The Royal Chamberlain led Teymur along one of the secret corridors of the palace. These corridors, like rat runs, were embedded into the very walls of the Shahyiar Palace – no one knew how many there were – and they connected all the important places, Grand Vizier’s Quarters, the Throne Room, the Shah’s chambers, the Harem, the stable, Teymur knew he was outside the harem because of the peepholes in the wall for example, Teymur was fairly certain that those peepholes had not existed before the appointment of the current Royal Chamberlain but he was of no mind to ask.

The Royal Chamberlain directed Teymur a little further and then at the correct spot took his leave, back towards the peepholes as it happened. Teymur was about to push open the concealed panel to the Emir’s bedchamber when to his surprise and considerable alarm it was swung open from the inside. Teymur’s ill-ease abated at the sight of two harem girls, his sudden appearance had given them just as much a fright, and they were certainly flustered and dishevelled in a state of near undress with only a purple drape between them to cover their misnamed ‘modesty’, their hair was a mess and from behind, as they passed him without a word, Teymur could see welts on their backsides. The Kingdom may be tottering on the brink of anarchy but it was clearly just another day at the palace. The two made their way back along the hidden corridor; there was some shrieking in the darkness just a few moments later. Most likely, Teymur thought, the two girls had come across the Royal Chamberlain in the midst of his pleasures. As the Komiteh Sarlashger stepped through into the bedchamber the thought of the state that the two girls were in put a great fear into his heart. A moment later this fear was drowned in a flood of relief, the Grand Vizier was fully clothed and sitting at the sobhune or breakfast table. The Emir was having what Teymur used to refer too as the breakfast of champions; a large glass of malt scotch and a bowl of steaming red soup, which he took to be mulled Treesian Red, into which Ardashir was dusting a white powdery substance, inevitably cocaine. “Khosh amadin Teymur,” spoke the Grand Vizier without turning round, “will you join me for a bowlful?” “Perhaps after we have concluded the business at hand excellency.” Teymur went to sit at the sobhune table with the Grand Vizier, and perfunctory salaam got down to stirring the Grand Vizier to action. “Emir, the students of the BKMU have barricaded themselves in their campus. Dissidents and criminal elements have joined them. There have been instances of looting and arson. There is widespread civil disorder…” The Emir gulped down his bowl of cocaine laced Treesian Red. A moment later a grin began to crease his face. Ardashir gave a hearty laugh. “Why Teymur, that is a revolt! Send an armoured car and a detachment of Fedayeen we will have ourselves some bloody sport with these overindulged students.” “Excellency, it is not a revolt it is a revolution. The Satrap of Razjania-Dehvaz attempted to convene a new Majlis-i-Mellat in Dehvaz… Ardashir had a choking fit, after several coughs he brought up liquid; crimson globules were sprayed across the table. Teymur was left wondering whether the substance was Treesian Red or blood. “That dog Rakesh! He thinks he can defy my will? That jumped up republican? That sycophant? That lackey of the Hanoverians thinks he can defy me? I will make him pay Teymur, I swear to you that Rakesh will hang from piano wire like every other traitor to this Nation.” Ardashir sprang up from his chair and ran across to the telephone, besides which there was a rope swing or harness of some kind suspended from the ceiling that Teymur could have sworn he had never seen before. The Emir picked up the receiver and pressed a number from on the auto dial selection. It wasn’t long before he was bellowing. “Hello, operator? Hello! Get me the commander of the Kamalshahr garrison. Yes, General Oveissi. Immediately!” A pause. Then, “General Oveissi? Doorood, this is the Grand Vizier. No, no I have no time for that, listen to me call out the Djavilan and Homafars regiments. Storm the BKMU. Take no prisoners after the attack has begun. Then you must begin to fortify every natural strongpoint and all key public buildings in the city. Impose a curfew beginning at six PM tonight. The Fedayeen and some Slobovian military police will assist you. Doorood to you too, get on with it.” With that Ardashir hung up abruptly. This was what Teymur had wanted, the army on the street. The liberals will never die in the last ditch and if their place is taken by Tudeh extremists the middle classes would swing their support behind the Behsaz, giving the secret state a stay of execution long enough for SAVAK and the Komiteh to get its blow in against all its enemies and liabilities, which still included the Emir once the crisis was past.

“Slobovians, Excellency?” Teymur was nonplussed “I thought that they had withdrawn.” “Apparently not. Their President err Ompson? Pompouson? Or something like that, arrived unannounced at Shah Babak International Airport last night… he gave Air Traffic Control something of a fright, the Kamalshahr air defence grid nearly shot his plane out of the sky. It was only a call to my office that saved his hide. He wanted to speak to me but I was otherwise engaged.” Teymur could not help looking at the harness. Ardashir looked momentarily bemused. “Teymur is it true that the Slobovian President is related to that delightful old Kaiser chap who we used to play poker with?” Teymur had to try very hard not to nod his head while thinking of the then Shah Ardashir’s antics with the Kaiser Kufukaf Iskander. Kumarastan, the Skerries, all those damn battles over those damn islands, it was enough to make a grown man weep. But he kept his composure just like he always did. “I believe they are all related to each other in someway or another in that country Excellency.” The Emir picked up an apple from among a bowl of fruit, it was rotten, and Ardashir put it back into the bowl and walked away pretending not to have noticed it in the first place. “And I suppose I shall have to go and meet him today. He’s been put up for the night at the Kamalshahr Hilton. He needs to be thanked I guess. A Slobovian troopship is due for docking down at the harbour later today or tomorrow, that should help bolster our numbers.” Ardashir went to pour himself a glass of malt whiskey, he gestured to Teymur who shook his head to indicate that he wanted one as well.

Babak Kapav Mehr University, Main Campus, Kamalshahr

It was at first light that workers at the nearby Mirza Malkom Factory had come out on strike in support of the White Rose student movement that had taken control of the Main Campus. As they filed past troops outside the Dar Al Fanun Foundation building, they shouted ‘Make way for the working class!’ By the afternoon huge crowds had converged on the campus. The crowd included many women, who were furious at recent price rises, and children attracted by the noise and excitement. Some of the more artistic students had built a ‘Statue of Democracy’ that looked uncannily like a scaled up papier-mâché portrait of the Satrap Rakesh Ackbar. At 2:30 in the Afternoon a van full of Fedayeen drove into the campus courtyard and made clear their intention to pull down the statue – they had hardly thrown a rope round the head of ‘Rakesh’ before the crowd overwhelmed them. The students thus emboldened swept into the Dar Al Fanun building, beating up and driving out all the Gendarmes there. However the real violence began when a worker tried to grab and automatic rifle from a member of the Satrapian Militia and was shot dead. Then the order was given to open fire on the crowd outside the Dar Al Fanun building. At first the gendarmes and the militiamen fired into the air, but they hit some of the rioters on the upper floors of the Al Fanun. Anger and panic seized the crowd who then tried to break out from the cordon of hastily assembled troops. These soldiers, believing they were about to be mobbed, fired into the crowd. Hundreds fell dead. A middle-aged man was running past a concrete container with flowers. A bullet hit him in the head, and his brains spilled out over the concrete. A pretty female student from Parestan lay in a pool of blood. A Sarhang, half-crazed, stepped into the blood. When people screamed, “You bastard, look where you are standing,” he shot himself in the head.

Dehvaz, 12pm

Rasheed Majeed followed his boss away from where he had, minutes beforehand, given the speech which had both chilled and exhiliarated him. Was what Rakesh described really possible, or just another ploy to win them to his side? Majeed did not know, Majeed did not care. Underneath his clothes, he could feel the butt of the pistol that the damned Treesians had given him. Treesian Mafioso pig-dogs, they were. Especially that damned Ferdia, and the inhuman MacIoclann. One a callous, cold-hearted “businessman”, the other a homicidal nymphomaniac, and a sadist to boot. They were all insane. And they had his son, those beasts had his first-born. So he strengthened his resolution, he would shoot this leader of men, no matter how inspiring he was. And although Majeed was no longer certain what ideology he supported, or what god he worshipped, or which people he wanted to help, he knew that Rakesh’s death would also serve the common good. For what better symbol is there than a martyr. And it would be good for Majeed too, would it not? He would be de facto leader of Tashbaan!

But still his conscience, so long a dormant force within Majeed, twitched uncomfortably. Can you actually do this? Kill a man in cold blood just because some black-hearted gangsters tell you to. Just because they have your son? Why not rise above, become a martyr for your own cause? These thoughts slithered like rattlesnakes through Majeed’s addled mind, shaking their rattle of discontent and righteous fury. No, I will not do it, Majeed decided, and then spoke “Satrap?”

Rakesh turned around, and Majeed walked up to him. “Satrap, I have a sin to confess,” he said, and unfurled the pistol from within his clothes. The look on the Satrap’s face was of a last moment resignation, and heightened Majeed’s respect of the man’s nobility. Then Majeed reversed the pistol and presented Rakesh with the butt. And then he told him everything…

Dar Sheosaf, hidden in the darkness near the two men, heard it all. Ifreann’s Gates, they were sunk. He whipped out a mobile phone, tapping in a message to be sent to headquarters. “Majeed fell through. What do I do now?” He waited, listening to the two men, almost within touching distance, talking about Majeed’s transgressions. Soon the Satrap would know everything!! Then the message came. Two words. “Kill both.” Sheosaf nodded grimly, and produced a silenced pistol from his jacket. Manoeuvring around so that he would emerge out of the alley he was hidden in behind Rakesh, he took careful aim, trying to anticipate the trajectory from where the pistol, which was held loosely in Rakesh’s grip, would hit on Majeed if, say, it accidentally went off. Then he fired. The bullet zipped into Majeed’s gut. The man doubled over, clutching his stomach. Then he half-straightened up, looking in horror at the blood on his hands. “Inshallah!” ‘God wills it’ he muttered, mutedly, in Farsi. Rakesh looked on in horror. Dar waited, seeing what the Satrap’s next move would be…

Road outside Tashbaan, 12:30

It had been a long journey, McCulann hadn’t thought it would take so long. The convoy had had to wait until all the trucks crossed the causeway between North Babkha and Tashbaan, so he supposed that explain some of it. Still, he was cheerful. They were near the end of their journey. And then he would be able to assess the situation in Tashbaan properly. And perhaps get to a telephone to call O hUiginn, see how the Consulate was keeping. Sometimes being a crook, he reflected, was a refreshingly honest existence. You looked out for yourself and your friends, and defended them against attack, whether physical or legal. Better than being honest, and living under some other man’s heel all your life.

Afas’ had been snoring steadily for two or three hours, but when the jeep hit a pothole in the road, he jerked awake. “Where are we?” he asked in Farsi, rubbing his eyes. “About ten miles from the city,” McCulann answered. “Good, I will be glad to stretch my legs and get some food. What food do they have in Tashbaan?” McCulann shrugged. “I don’t know, I’m sure we could find a Treesian restaurant if you don’t want to hazard the local cuisine.” Afas pulled a face, Treesian food, being more suited to the almost-polar climates of “back home” did not sit well with most Babkhans, but especially not Afas, who, despite his leathery skin and huge paunch, had a delicate constitution.

They entered the city twenty minutes later. The outskirts of Tashbaan were like another desert city, slums. Thousands, if not millions, of people made their abode here, at the city’s edge. They pawed at the windows of the jeep as it nudged them aside, and McCulann saw countless staring, hollow eyes, all fixed on the tinted windows of the jeep. It made him uncomfortable, but he could not turn away. He saw too many pale Treesian faces, faces that he could have seen in Caer Llachan or Failti, and too many emaciated babies. He had seen such things in war, of course, but he had never gotten used to it. Eventually, close to tears, he turned away, and shut his eyes.

He opened them again when their driver called “We’re here”. They were indeed at Ferdia’s warehouse, one of a complex of the large buildings, like aircraft hangars. Ferdia had bought them from the former Air Guard of Calormen, a relic of pre-Hanover times, and converted them into huge stock bays and offices, leasing some of them to the Hanoverian Government, using a false identity of course; it wouldn’t do for the Hanoverian Government to publicly buy property from a well-known criminal.

The Mafia of Tashbaan was there to meet him. There was Ferdia, with his cane, which he used more and more often now, even if he would not admit it to himself. There was MacPhearsaigh, tall, and thin as a rake, his head like a vulture’s, the nose the prominent beak. There was MacIoclann, surrounded by his usual entourage of retainers, all speaking Treesian loudly and fluently, of course. Notably absent was Oisin Beag. McCulann sauntered over to them, smiling broadly, Afas wobbling along beside him. “Sun bless, earth keep, a chairde ciuin,” he said, embracing and shaking hands. “Where’s Oisin Beag?” he asked, knitting his brows, after the formalities were over and done with. After all, he had assumed Ferdia would trade some of the Red with the gun dealer, and McCulann wanted his profits. “He’s away on a matter of business, Black-eyed,” MacPhearsaigh said, “come into the office, and we’ll tell you all about it. Perhaps over a glass of Red.” McCulann grimaced. “Alternatively, I have some good honest Eyepopper Ale,” MacPhearsaigh said, “that Red is gut-rotting stuff, after all. I can’t understand how all the amhadani drink it.”

Sajin Palace

Oisin Beag and his brother put their heads together as soon as the Satrap and his retainer left the room. “By Ifreann’s slopes!” he breathed, “what do we do??” Oisin Mor shook his head, “I don’t know! I didn’t expect anything like this! We can’t make a promise for all of the Treesians in NorthBabkha, we’d be lynched!” Beag scratched his head, thinking hard. Then he smiled. “We don’t have to,” he said. “What?” Mor said, “but you heard him, he wants all illegal activity to end.” “Yes, but on our part only, or on my part, if you would rather be a silent partner in this deal. After all, how much money do we make from gun-running? A few million a year? But think of how much more we could make with the oil! And with government subsidies, and tax credits, and an amicable relationship with a Satrap. Think, Mor, how much we could make! We could be billionaires, and it would all be legitimate! We wouldn’t even have to give MacPhearsaigh his percentage anymore, because by pledging not to do anymore illegal activities, we’re free of him! We’re not ratting on anyone, we’re not shooting anyone in the back, we’ll be businessmen, tycoons.” His brother, as always, was taken in completely by Beag’s persuasive talk. “Alright, I’ll go along with you,” he said, “so long as you can guarantee I’m not going to wake up one day with my own genitals in my lap with ‘You betrayed me’ etched on them.” “So long as you don’t betray me, I promise,” said Beag primly, and then he grinned widely. This would be very interesting, and very profitable.

Mansoor’s Camp, the Zurvanzia Mountains

Mansoor communed with Zurvan, the “aid to communion” still sloshing faintly in the bowl on his lap. “What should I do, O Reaper of All That Is Evil?” he asked. As usual, there was no response. So Mansoor looked deep within himself for his answers, as Zurvan willed. He passed beneath the veneer he had always worn, his human sensibilities, and found the bit that Zurvan wanted him to see.

Then it hit him. Nassiri wasn’t coming. Nassiri, in fact, would never go anywhere again without serious help. This confirmed reports he had had from his spies, but he had not truly believed them until Zurvan showed him the way. Therefore, Zurvan showed him, he must voyage to Kamalshahr on his own, and fight the evil Artakhshatra, and restore order to the Kingdom once again. This is your destiny, Kia Mansoor, Zurvan said suddenly, and was gone from Mansoor’s mind.

He left his tent, and fired into the air with the pistol at his side, the sign for all to gather. Bandits rushed in from every direction, one group carrying the unfortunate whose foot the bullet had landed in. “Men!” Mansoor yelled, “Today I have seen my destiny! We move for the capital!” The bandits whispered excitedly amongst themselves. Kamalshahr! An entire city to sack, plunder, rape and pillage. The woman and children, stood behind the menfolk, asked the peripheries what was going on. Soon the whole camp was alive with rumour and murmurings. This was interrupted by Mansoor’s last cry “We leave at dawn!” Then all scattered to collect their possessions and pack them into the trucks and cars of the bandit camp.

That evening, Mansoor gazed out over a cliff edge, towards the southeast, where he knew Kamalshahr to be from his grandfather’s tales. He still remembered his grandfather, old Hesam Mansoor, a hardy Cossack, one of the Cossacks under Ardashir Khan, as the Emir of Raspur had been then. A Treesian soldier had killed him, shot in the head, never a chance to fight back. It was a dishonourable death. But Mansoor, though his rage at his grandfather’s ignoble end would have kindled Hell itself, did not blame Treesia. No, he blamed Ardashir Khan, the plunderer, the marauder, the evil. He would have his vengeance…

Babak Kapav Mehr University, Main Campus Building, 12-12-03

The 11th of December had been spent clearing bodies from around and inside the Dar Al Fanun Foundation, which had been recaptured from the student White Rose Movement after soldiers had fired on protestors. Agha Sahib Roozbeh Peyman had been called in to supervise the cleaning up operation. Firstly there were the hundred and seventy-five dead to deal with. The corpses were loaded into lorries and taken to special pits dug at secret locations in the Satrapy of the Greater Zjandaria. Prison doctors who patched up the wounded, to allow them to be interrogated by the SAVAK, had to sign statements swearing to silence over the affair. Peyman had also drawn up a plan, standard practice really, to deport prisoners and the wounded, along with their families in due course, to the island of Kumarastan. Anyone who enquired as to the fate of the wounded or the dead would naturally enough also be rounded up and shipped off.

The blood splattered around the square was another headache. Gendarmes first tried to hose it away using requisitioned fire engines, next some captured students were made to go down on bended knees and scrub it off with brushes. But this effort was all for nought when a gang of Fedayeen, carrying swords, came rushing into the square and beheaded at least nine of the scrubbers, naturally enough the square was splattered with blood and gore once again. The sword was on the neck of the prospective tenth victim before the Gendarmes intervened to put a stop to the atrocity. The Satrap of Kapitalia was believed to be considering laying asphalt down over the square. That was a shame Peyman thought. There was some of the finest cobbling in the entire city on that square.

Not that Peyman was callous in the sense that Nassiri or Teymur were, it was just that with a fortune made out of anticipating the Great Babkhan Depression he had been able to appreciate, and afford, true beauty. And discounting the slums and the hastily build apartment blocks on the western approaches, towards the port where Slobovian military police even now were unloading, Kamalshahr was one of the most beautiful cities on the entire planet. No, Peyman reasoned, the White Rose Movement, who he noted with some satisfaction SAVAK and the Komiteh had failed entirely to notice, had brought this down upon their own heads. How could they not have seen the fate that befell the Qermez?

After these halting efforts at tidying the square events began to move again. The White Rose students had been bottled up inside the campus for three days now, their sally out to the Dar Al Fanun building having been disastrously rebuked. Early on the Satrap of Kapitalia had cut off the campus buildings hot water and electricity. Barricades sealed off the approaches to and from the BKMU and 2,000 soldiers of the Djavilan and Homafars regiments were assembled together with two armoured cars and a Kapav MBT. Waiting for the dreadful but inevitable order to storm the university.

At 9 pm a red eyed Grand Vizier visited Oveissi and Peyman at a makeshift command post in the Dar Al Fanun library, much of which was in complete disarray, to supervise the destruction of the student revolt. The Royal ‘Valet’, Arteshbod Teymur Bakhtiar, was also in attendance. It was, Peyman thought an ill omen. “Oveissi, I ordered the BKMU taken on the Wednesday. You have not done so. Why is this?” Oveissi, a devout sycophant, knelt at the Grand Vizier’s feet wringing his hands. “Excellency, my deepest apologies but we had to retake this building before we could even contemplate assaulting the university.” The Emir kicked his boot into Oveissi’s face, the man rolled over like a puppy. Next, standing over him, he picked up the garrison commander by the scruff of his neck with his good hand. “You idiot! Once the shooting started you had them on the run. If you had just carried on you could have crushed the revolt and pulled down that damn ridiculous statue. Why the hell did you stop?” The normally muscular Oveissi was quivering like a mass of jelly. Peyman started to edge towards the door while Teymur stood by an overturned bookshelf, arms folded and grinning. “Sahib! It was Roozbeh! Roozbeh asked me to stop so that he could remove the dead…” With that Oveissi was dropped to the floor and all eyes turned towards Peyman, who had almost reached the door but had now stopped in his tracks. It was true that Peyman had asked Oveissi to implement a ceasefire. Not only to clear the dead it must be said nor to eradicate the evidence of any massacres, strictly speaking that could have been done at anytime. No the Yemin Zoka, and the other agencies at the Command Centre, feared that prolonged fighting would have provoked wider civil disorder, disorder that could have led to a revolution – a threat to the life let alone the liberation of the Shah. That said Peyman had delayed an attack that the Grand Vizier had ordered and now he was getting an awful lot of funny looks from everyone around the room.

Hired Garage, Sajin City, 13-12-03

Even though it had been five days since his abduction, Nassiri was still incandescent with rage, his bullish face was puffed up and crimson. Doubtless some of the younger members of the Yemin Zoka snatch squad might have been intimidated by this had not Nassiri’s head been removed from view by the sack that had been placed over it. Nassiri was also quite capable, in a rather obscene, blunt, and loud kind of way, to talk his way out of most situations – usually by promising unspeakable torments for anyone so unfortunate as to be in his way – and doubtless some of the more nervous members of the team might have quailed under his verbal assault had not his mouth been sealed shut with duck tape. Nassiri was also known among the intelligence community as being someone of great strength and agile reflexes combined with a predisposition towards violence. Accordingly that did necessitate the precaution of cuffing his wrists and his ankles, lest he try to make a sudden lunge at one of his warders. In fact had some causal observer been present in that garage on the back streets of Sajin City he might have been moved to say that Nassiri was trussed up like a roasting chicken. The captive was kept in this condition twenty-three hours a day, every day. The spare hour was given over to feeding, for which there was a saline drip inserted up the nose, and defecation, for which there was a bucket in the corner. The concern of the Yemin Zoka for the danger that this SAVAK officer posed was such that whenever Nassiri’s hood was off for the saline drip to be inserted, or indeed when the Arteshbod was squatting over the bucket, he remained cuffed and a diligent paramilitary was usually on hand pressing a 9mm against Nassiri’s head.

It would be fair to say that Nassiri’s rage was being stoked by his humiliation and impotence being a prisoner of a branch of the armed forces that he deigned to despise openly and to their faces in the conference rooms of the Shahyiar Palace.

For Akinákes Khala there was an entirely different headache of its own proportions, next to which swooping on the Fedayeen safe house in Kamaltoon had been the easy part. Interrogating Nassiri had not been quite so productive an experience, in so far as it was completely dispiriting, for the finest torturer in all of Babkha was proving really rather resilient in the face of his own tricks and the team lacked the tongue loosening chemicals so amply provided for at official interrogation centres.

The Babak Kapav Mehr University, Main Campus Building, Kamalshahr

Khala was far from being the only member of the Yemin Zoka officer with a headache. Agha Sahib Roozbeh Peyman had only the day before been on the receiving end of a tantrum from the Grand Vizier. Peyman had hindered an attack on the reckless students of the White Rose Movement. By upsetting the schedule with his clean up operation he had brought the Emir’s wrath down upon his head, though Peyman noticed that it was the General Oveissi who was on the receiving end of all the physical blows – perhaps friendship still counted for something. Ardashir had looked Peyman squarely in the eye; and from them a fierce malevolence smouldered like hot coals. At first he had been content to scream and shout and to punch the commander of the Kamalshahr garrison in the face but then a new and frighteningly calm countenance came over his face. “Old Friend you have let me down. Do you know how many have heard those words only to find death itself?” Ardashir threw General Oveissi to the ground next to Teymur together with a shake of the head to tell the Royal ‘Valet’ that he should continue beating the luckless commander, for that is what Teymur did. “You will never do this evil thing again Peyman.” The Grand Vizier promised his patron, “For you shall see how I reward failure.” Peyman had not noticed it before but now but Teymur was carrying a rope of braided rawhide in his hands, and of course even then he could not predict the atrocity that was about to occur.

Non-descript house in Sajin, Midday

The five conspirators, O hUiginn, Larkin, Scamall, and Madra sat in a circle, the rescued bomb materials on the floor between their legs. The detonators Larkin had brought in a satchel were over the other side of the room, safe from harm. “So…” said O hUiginn, tapping one of the bottles with the gold foil wrapping “Drogheda Grog” still intact despite their rough and clandestine voyage from Kamaltoon, “the target is the Palace, still?” Larkin nodded grimly, “Can you think of a better way to let the Babkhans know they aren’t welcome in Tashbaan?” O hUiginn, despite his nationalist impulses, was still a sane man. “It’s just…” he said, rolling his shoulders in a kind of extended shrug, “it’s just, they already know we Treesians are behind it. That can only mean one thing, removal of rights…” Larkin was stone-faced for a moment, then he burst out with, “Look, do you think I wanted this assignment? I’m a cultural attaché, for gods’ sakes! My boss assumed that you Treesians were cold-blooded psychopaths. Am I meant to lose my position by telling him he’s a bloody idiot? It’s too late now. Either you help me do it, or I do it alone. Besides, they destroyed your Consulate. Isn’t that reason enough?” O hUiginn wondered if it was.

At that moment Cu entered the room. The wiry-haired Treesian checked the hallway outside for a moment, as though there was someone in the house despite the vigorous security check Madra and he had done earlier. “There’s a garage across the street,” he said. “Yes, I know,” O hUiginn said, “it’s owned by a pair of old brothers. They checked out on the security check when the Consulate bought this place. Why?” “They’re not there,” said Cu. “It’s a bunch of armed guys. They’re being real quiet and real sneaky, but I saw a man come out, and inside the doorway was another man with a shotgun, watching the street. They’re doing something in there. At a pinch I’d say Military Intelligence, cos SAVAK fellas normally just roll in and take over the shop, and the Komiteh wouldn’t even leave the building until they finished what they’re doing.” Larkin got up and looked through the blinds across the street to the garage. “And what do you think they’re doing in there?” he asked. Cu shrugged, and sat down. “We won’t know, until we do some reconnaissance,” O hUiginn said. Scamall shook her mane of red hair, and grinned widely. “Sure, Scamall, you and Madra do it tonight,” O hUiginn said, waving lazily. The female terrorist giggled happily, and the stoic Madra only nodded.

The foothills of the Zurvanzia mountains

Mansoor sat in the cupola of the bandit’s sole tank, the Bousseh-Hesam, The Sword’s Kiss, both a meaning of swift death and a slur on the Satrap of North Babkha. He looked out at the horizon, towards Kamalshahr, his feet draped over the side, the cannon of the tank between them. In his left hand was a copy of the Avestas, dog-eared and foxed from constant use. He could recite it almost verbatim now, as his grandfather had taught him. But he had thought him something different. The true spirit of Ahriman, grandfather had said, lay not in the dragon of darkness, but in the very spirit taught to be the saviour of mankind, the Artakhshatra. That spirit had disguised itself, and had fooled even Zurvan in its duplicity, said grandfather. Old Mansoor had pointed then around the two of them as they sat on the porch of the old house in Sajin. All around us, Hesam Mansoor had said to his grandson Kia, is Zurvan. But in the southeast, he had said then, pointing to Kamalshahr, is evil. That is where all misery stems from, young Kia, remember that. Don’t be fooled by the smiling serpent. Don’t be fooled by the dragon that pretends to be a king. Never allow the Shah to dictate to you what is right or wrong.

A young man, even as a grandfather, Hesam Mansoor had taken a commission in the Murdad War. And he had been killed, in the same penultimate battle, which turned the tide of the war. The Treesians had demolished Susa, and the young Kia Mansoor had watched the fires as Susa was razed to the ground. And his little fists had screwed up in fury. This would never have happened, he had thought, if Osmani had not gone to Treesia. And then his grandfather’s philosophy returned to him. Of course, the Artakhshatra must be a source of evil, in alliance, or perhaps in equality, with the dragon Ahriman. Sent to corrupt the souls belonging to Zurvan! And even Zurvan must be fooled, for his grandfather had taught him that Zurvan was their protector. Therefore, he concluded, even at that young age, he, Kia Mansoor, must dedicate his life to fighting the Artakhshatra, to being its enemy.

It hadn’t worked out quite that way, of course. Instead of being a glorious revolutionary, which Mansoor supposed he would have thought of being, if his idealistic eleven-year-old mind had known what a revolutionary was, he had become a bandit chieftain, a minor warlord at best, a petty thief at worst. In his day-dreaming youth, he had imagined riding to distant Kamalshahr, which he had never seen at that age, on a white horse with a screaming horde at his back, perhaps, like the heroes of old, and the old battles between the tribes, and slaying the Shah himself. Since then, of course, he had been to Kamalshahr, hadn’t liked it very much, and had gone back north. He hadn’t even seen the Shah, and he hadn’t known at the time what would happen when he did.

But on his way home, he had met Abbas the hermit, whom he now believed to be a prophet of Zurvan himself, but at the time had thought to be quite a crazy old man. Abbas had shared his grandfather’s strange view of the two allegedly opposing spirits of Orthodoxy, and had seen in Mansoor the potential to release the souls of Zurvan’s dominion from their evil grasp. He had shown him how to commune with Zurvan, had taught him the meditation rituals and how to brew the communal drink. Mansoor had practiced these rites ever since. And what secrets had been revealed to him, of the evil of the Shah of the evil of Shahs for millennia beforehand, and indeed millennia hence, if Mansoor himself did not rise against them. From then on, he had had faith in himself as the sent one of Zurvan, his entire mind was dedicated to it. He bided his time, for a sign from Zurvan. The arrival of the Treesian, and the news of a revolt across the border in Calormen, coupled with the movement of the Imperial Army away from Kamalshahr, had finally impelled him. Now he moved, with his army of vagabonds, thieves and murderers, to the centre of Babkha, and the capital. There he would meet his destiny. There he would cleanse the land of the twin demons: the Artakhshatra and Ahriman. Zurvan had willed it: Zurvan’s people would be freed.

Tashbaan, Shasta Avenue, Killian Ferdia’s House

“Godsdammit!” roared Ferdia, as he read the status report from Dar Sheosaf, “that damned stupid Majeed!” “That’s not all,” said MacPhearsaigh, handing him another piece of paper, “Ackbar has gone walkabout, we can’t find him. Sheosaf says he’s coming back.” Ferdia limped out of his office, and into the sitting room, where McCulann sat in shocked silence, watching the Babkha Live News footage of the still-burning Consulate in Kamaltoon on the television. There had been an update, apparently. The caption “five new bodies retrieved from wreckage” was written at the bottom in Farsi. The Mafioso threw himself down into a leather armchair, and threw the papers at McCulann. They fluttered against the air, and landed rather disappointingly at the Consul’s feet. Blinking, he picked them up, and read through them. “This is your plot to take over Tashbaan, is it?” he said. “Yes,” Ferdia said sulkily. “From what I hear, it’s not going to last much longer, anyway,” said McCulann, handing them back to his friend. “Why not?” asked MacPhearsaigh, insinuating his tall, thin body into the room. “The Hanoverians are rumoured to be sending a taskforce to deal with the Revolutionary Council,” the Consul said. “That’s just rumour, nothing more,” Ferdia said, waving his hand dismissively. “Not necessarily,” Connla said, pointing at the television screen, “it said yesterday that SAVAK had found the Hanoverians to be involved in the bomb plot. If they’re willing to involve themselves with dissidents like Mick O hUiginn and his delinquent friends, then they’re probably already moving troops in secret. They’re much craftier than the media gives them credit for. Trust me, I attended one of their steak dinners. Apparently, by moving my fork a certain way, I had given approval of something someone had said. I had to get the Ambassador in from their capital to assure them I was not authorised to enter into a military alliance. Funny folk.” The three watched the screen switch to the attractive female newsreader, who said that there would be an update on the “Kamaltoon situation” in an hour. “In other news,” he said, “the Kapav Lions were beaten 6-0 today by Kaligandaki Bhakundo, may their toes and fingers fall out. The Lions, who would have killed their opposition in a manly fight, lost..” She put a finger to her headset, “I’m…sorry, for misinforming you. The Kapav Lions in fact won today against the bumbling and idiotic Kaligandaki Bhakundo, who hadn’t even the courage to face their defeat, instead claiming to win 6-0. The Shah was unavailable for comment, but we here at Babkha Live News are sure he would have called upon the players of the opposing team to answer to him personally for their unmanly and cowardly claims if he had.” They turned it over to Raidio Teilifis Babkha then, for the Treesian-Babkhan news. They had an interview with one of the escaped cleaning staff of the Consulate, who swore blind that the Treesian Consul, the ‘honorable Connla McCulann’, had been sitting down for peacetalks with the Babkhans when they suddenly ‘started throwing bombs all over the place’.” Good old Treesian reporting, McCulann thought. Rakesh sat in his seat in the beautiful new National Assembly of the Kingdom (in preparation for elections and the calling of the Mjalis) in Dehvaz. The last few days had been traumatic indeed. His good friend Rasheed Majeed had revelaed his sinister plans and was killed in cold blood right in front of Rakesh's eyes. Rakesh's eyes still teared when he thought of the good and honorable Tashbaani man - a state funeral was underway. Rakesh had survived that attack only through the grace of God, the bullet that was meant for him had only scraped his arm - and he had run away with all the life in him.

Rakesh looked up - Muhad Khomen, leader of of a conservative-rightist party was giving a longer than usual speech on how the role of Monarcy must be enshrined and protected. Of course there was the key problem. The Throne of Kapav was empty here in Dehvaz - the Shahanshah, if he could be even referred to as that, in Kamalshahr was nothing but a hagged lifeless shell of man drugged beyond comprehension by brutal Fascists supposedly in control of the Kingdom. Rakesh had established a Royal Commission to find an heir to fill the throne and the two names - Abbas Namvari and Bahram Gul Khuramdin were old courtiers no one could find anymore. Rakesh rubbed his head - so now the Kingdom ruled without a Monarch. Khomen had once again shifted the tone of his speech as he banged his fist on the podium and talked about the state of the new Imperial Army. Rakesh laughed in his head. The "new" Imperial Armed Forces was at best provincial milita land, air and naval units centrally coordinated. Nonetheless the Armed Forces were quite well armed and could defend the new capital city very effectively - of course the weapons of mass destruction were to go unmentioned. The safety of the new Kingdom more or less rested in the hands of Satrap Hesam Jahandar who controlled the Imperial Army divisions closest to Dehvaz. So far the units had not moved but that could change very soon.

Rakesh glanced up shortly to see Sadr Sadate, head of the Babkhan Congress Party begin another tirade about the strengthening of liberal institutions of Kingdom. Sadr Sadate always spoke about that for some strange reason. The Babkhan National Assembly was very divided politically that Rakesh's governing coalition of centrist-leftist parties had "wobbled" a few times. That was of couse a good and bad sign.Rakesh was awoken from his awaken slumber by an aide who handed him a short communique:

Quote:

The radio run by students in Kamalshahr has mysteriously gone quiet. Operatives at the University has not responded ib several days. Fearing the worst.

Rakesh wiped the sweat off his brow. He whispered to his aide - an Emergency National Security Meeting was to be called.