Serpents in the House of the Lion

[Umbazi]

President-for-Life Ousmane Diarra, First Citizen of the Umbazi Republic, Conqueror of the Marquette Empire, Lord of the Lions and Leopards, sat, tired, in his gold-leaf throne, his tired old eyes red from a run of sleepless nights of late.

In front of him was a "Family Audience"- a recent necessity- in which all his Sons, Daughters, Daughters and Sons-in-Law, Grandchildren and other relatives could come to him and air their greivances and report their progress in running the Great Umbazi Republic. It ought to have pleased the old patriarch that so many of his family were directly involved in the running of this country, responsible for everything from Armaments to Natural Gas to the Post Office.

That is, if they weren't all exceptionally useless shit from a rancid elephant's ass.

"Will you all just SHUT UP?" he roared, his voice hoarse from decades of hard-drinking and smoking the finest tobacco. "I cannot believe the hullaballoo I have to endure from you shitheads! Now, shut up, sit down, and speak ONE AT A TIME, or I will have my guards throw you into the Barani Sewers." This was not an idle threat. More than once Ousmane had used his incredible power to punish wayward family members. Noone now spoke of Uncle Toule, or his family. They had tried to back a coup in 1994, and they- and their entire village- had been ruthlessly slaughtered by the Presidential Guard.

"Great Father, I have come to you because Kwame Diarra is Minister of Natutral Gas, yet I have a better head for economics and business. You know this, it is why you sent me to study in Marquette, at great expense." Jophet Diarra, the second eldest grandson at 21, had only just finished his Degree in Business Studies at the finest University in Marquette.

"Great Father, you appointed me to this post because you saw my value! Do not let Jophet dissuade you from-" Ousmane simply waved his hand, and Kwame instantly shutup. He knew his Grandfather's moods well.

"Jophet, do you trust in Ousmane? Do you trust in my wisdom?" he asked pointedly, his aged bloodshot eyes staring hard into the younger man's.

"Y-yes, Great Father..."

"Then trust in me again. I have something else in mind for you and your skills. Kwame will not be allowed to mess up this post, any more than I allow anything else to go awry in this country. Trust in my judgement." he said, his iron grating voice echoing harshly in the marble Audience Hall.

There were many silent glances and much shuffling amongst the gathered family members. The criticism was implicit.

"Return to your villa, Jophet. I will call on you soon. I have a very special mission in mind for you. I will say only this- brush up on your Kyivan." Jophet brightened, and prostrated himself. "Your Will, Great Father."

"Kwame, dont fuck this job up. Squeeze those raghead Uroudah in the Northern Provinces, and meet the quota however you have to. You have command of 2 Brigades of the Local Garrison. If you need more, let me know. We will have our Gas, and through it we will shall have the First World by the balls." he grinned, revealing a fine set of gold dentures. "Goldentooth" was one of many irrevent nicknames given to the old Dictator, but never spoken aloud in public.

"Now, who else has business with Great Father?" he asked, staring hard at the ungrateful brood of serpents he called his family.

He was 81, and he felt every year. But as long as breath was in his body, he was Master of All he surveyed. The only question on everyone's minds was, for how long....

 

[Umbazi]

"How much longer is this going to take, Witchdoctor?" growled the ageing Dictator. He was sat in an uncomfortable metal folding chair in his own private clinic, his Doctor, a well paid and amoral Belmontian named Dr.Thoreau, kneeling beside him with an open case of syringes, pads, and other medical necessities. Currently he was taking the President's blood pressure levels.

"Remarkably healthy, sir. Despite your age and subjection to stress, you remain in robust health, overall." said the obsequious white man, tutting fussily as he packed the pressure gauge away. "However..."

"What?" grunted the 81-year old. "Don't tell me. You want to check my prostrate again, you disgusting Kuffuri." the Dictator's eyes narrowed, well used to Thoreau's usual practices.

"Regrettably, yes. A man of your age cannot be too careful..."

The President snarled, and then barked an imperious order. "LEAVE US."

"But My President-"

"I said Leave us. Return in 20 minutes. No sooner. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Great Father." said the Presidential Guardsmen, who quickly exited the inspection room, leaving the two men in private.

"You speak a word of this to anyone, Thoreau, and I will have unspeakable agonies-"

"Yes, yes, now if you would kindly bend over, mr.President-"

========================================================

Later, still limping, his eyes watering, the ageing President shot an angry glare at his Guardsmen, who tried to look incongrous. "We are going now. Its time we checked up on the National Treasury. Where are my aides?" The president said, suprisingly high-pitched.

Back in the clinic, as Thoreau disposed of the rubber gloves, he frowned as he looked at the test results. He'd have to send them to some colleagues back in Europe to be checked, just to be sure.

If he was right...No, he clucked to himself. Best to keep this secret. Even if he did become certain about his results, there was nothing to be gained for him or for this blighted country by acting on it.

One way or another, he decided, Change would be coming around here. And when it did, he smiled, he'd spend all his accumulated money on a villa somewhere nice. Makai, perhaps, or Franken.

 

[Umbazi]

Kwame Diarra, Eldest Son of Amasi Diarra, Eldest Son of Ousmane Diarra, and now Minister of Natural Gas, squinted in the billowing wind at the arid shithole that was the Janub Provinces. He was dressed in a light cotton green army shirt, and wore the rank badges of a Colonel, his rough diplomatic rank. He refused to wear shades, as that was a fashion employed by his Soldier-worshipping brother, Jophet. Kwame preferred to think of himself as a Sportsman, not a Soldier Diplomat. Had his Father and Grandfather not insisted he make something of himself, Kwame would spend his time playing Soccer, and would probably be quite good at it too.

Instead, here he was, riding along in a shitty, soon-to-be-retired UAZ, the last of Kyiv's last great refits back in the 1980s. Apparently, new Model 310 All-terrain vehicles were being purchased, and Kwame hoped he could use his clout to get himself and his Department some. They'd need them out here, in the Dunes.

"WHAT IS THE PRODUCTION QUOTAS LIKE?" Kwame yelled against the wind to the others in the UAZ, an Overseer, a driver and a Bodyguard with an AK-74. He shouted to be heard over the wind and the roar of the engine, as they sped past some Gas Extraction Derricks, spouting flames high into the dusty-azure sky.

"What? I cannot hear you minister!" shouted back the Overseer, who was a fat, bald man with many rings on his fingers and a somewhat dishevelled business suit. On his lap he gripped tightly to a briefcase in which were all his papers and a mobile phone.

"I SAID, WHAT ARE THE PRODUCTION QUOTAS LIKE!" he leaned in close to the fat man's ears and yelled hard.

"Ah! Ok, Ok, well, You have to understand, minister, with the Uroduah Bandits, and the vast territory we have to cover..." the Overseer quibbled.

"JUST TELL ME!" he slammed the top hatch shut, and managed to keep the howling wind out for a bit. "Tell me the production quotas."

"Overall, we manage to manufacture 10,000 canisters of Natural Gas per year."

"10,000? TEN THOUSAND? That should be your MONTHLY quota! What the hell are you devils playing out here?" Kwame barked. If he had learned one thing in Business School in Marquette, it was how to motivate people through command.

"Minister, you have to understand, even with the troops of the Army, our derricks and depots are spread out across the desert. Maintaining chains of supply, concerntrating force in key areas, is incredibly difficult when they strike at anytime, and fade away in their blasted Technicals." The Overseer sighed, perhaps not fully comprehending how much like his Grandfather Kwame was.

Kwame frowned, restraining his desire to indulge in a Terrible Rage. Something he had been forced to learn, hard and long, over his life, that his anger was counterproductive. If he did not master it, it would master him.

"The problem to me seems simple. The Bandits cannot operate out in this desert alone, yes? How can they know which depots are guarded well at any one time over another? Where do their technicals come from, and how do they repair them?" Kwame outlined what seemed patently obvious to him with enormous patience, ignoring the urge to throttle this fat bureaucratic fool.

"Well, you see, Minister-"

"ENOUGH!" he roared, causing the Overseer to flinch. "The plan is simple. When we get to Camp, I am ordering a decree published. Effective immediately, for every canister of gas that is unmade or stolen by the actions of Bandits, a life will be taken from the local villages, and ended." He said the words coldly and harshly. "The Gas Must Flow...Or Uroduah Blood will flow instead."

 

[Umbazi]

Selek Diarra was the youngest Surviving Son of Ousmane Diarra, the Great Father himself, and at the age of 49 was an experienced Colonel in the Umbazi Army. His Mother had been one of the last women that Ousmane Diarra had ever truly loved, and as such he had been regarded with affection by the Great Father more than most. He had recieved the finest officer training money could buy, and was a Tank Commander of considerable distinction. Wiesan Mercenaries had taught him how to utilise the Leopard 1A4 Tanks he favoured, and he had proven himself a Combat Veteran against the Communist Uprising in 1983.

Colonel Selek, "The Leopard of Steel", and Commander of the 14th Armoured Brigade, had refused Generalships offered to him by his father before. But when word reached him in Kibusa that there was trouble along the Ascalon Border, he had phoned his Father-on a private number only he and a dozen other people posessed-and got himself the full rank of Lieutenant-General. He would command the Border Force being rapidly assembled, and do what he loved to do best- drive at full speed in an armoured machine and kill people.

He didn't trust the Roads, especially not in a backwater like the Northeastern Frontier. He and his Armoured Spearhead raced ahead of the main Troop Column, spewing up clouds of red dust, as they manfully surmounted the rugged terrain of the Highlands that made up this backwater. Riveted to the sides of his elite tankforce were cured leopard-skins, further enhancing their image as ruthless killers.

Popping the Hatch, Selek made sure his gasmask was secure as he looked out on the barren landscape. It would be a Day at the most before he got to the Border Towns in question. The Special Police had been telegraphed, and raked over the coals for their dereliction of duty. Someone was going to pay dearly for creating this mess, and in true Diarra-style, lots of people were going to die for this mistake, one way or another.

Selek breathed steadily, despite the rocking and grinding of the Tank beneath him, as it sped across the wasteland. His Father trusted him to resolve this efficiently and with surgical use of force, but in truth, he was concerned. Ascalon was being even more arrogant than usual, and he was concerned he would have to skirmish with the ADA when he got to the border towns. He had no direct experience of tank-to-tank battles, being experienced only in crushing infantry and ragged peasents beneath his tracks. A part of him relished the challenge, but he knew that, whilst well-maintained, efficient and suited to the enviroment, his Leopard 1A4s were no match against whatever modern monstrosities the Ascaloni would field. He decided, then, that when he reached the next town, he would take a different tack to usual. He would restrain his desire to race around with the Armoureds, and instead rely on the Millita and the Army troops to make the necessary sweeps. He was unsure how compromised the Republican Millita might be in this place. How far did the criminal conspiracy extend? In truth, he and the Central Government knew nothing about what truly went on in these out of the way, forgotten dry shitholes.

But he was the Leopard of Steel, he reminded himself. He had a reputation to uphold. Besides, if he failed, his Brothers would never let him live the shame down. He couldn't even, in good grace, call for reinforcements without some loss of face. He had just under 20,000 men of Umbazi Army he could be reasonably sure of, since they were all from distant provinces. He had maybe 30,000 Millita, tops, he could muster from the length and breadth of these arid shitholes. Most would be goat farmers with rifles, and the rest were probably the smugglers he was hunting.

Yes, he mused, the glaring sun glinting off his tanker-goggles, this would be fun indeed. His Wife would be proud of him yet.

 

[Umbazi]

Chancellor of the Treasury Khouana Diarra smiled cruelly as he saw the bickering Party officials file into the Estates General building, their voices already a hubub with arguement and debate, even as they filed mechanically to their assigned seats in the old, Marquette-built building. He knew something that none of them did, and Knowledge was Power.

As the hubbub died and they settled into their seats, the Fat Chancellor emerged from the shadows. He wore horn-rimmed spectacles and his fingers were squeezed with many rings he had accquired over the years, each one representing the blood and sweat of hundreds of labourers hacking Umbazite and Sapphires out of the hardest veins deep beneath the earth.

He nodded in the direction of the Estates Arbiter, a wizened and aged man whose life was dedicated to memorising and enforcing democratic protocol and tradition with regards to the Estates General. In truth he had little power, beyond ensuring that Order was kept in this House, which was by and large a rubber-stamping body for the President. Nonetheless, formality and protocol ruled here.

Khouana took his seat at the front, sitting where his Father once sat, before he became too "busy" and too infirm to attend Estates General sessions.

The room was silent by this point, punctuated by the rapping of a hard ivory cane against the floor by the Arbiter.

"Vous pouvez commencer." said the Arbiter in dry-throated Frankish.

Khouana sat silently, watching the proceedings with a hawklike gaze through his thick spectacles. He folded his hands carefully, aware that everyone in the room was also watching him, scrutinising him for any clue of his mood or thoughts. He knew that he had Power here, Power he had clawed for, and argued often with his Father for. He hated his Father. He had always been "Little Tenbo" the Little Elephant, mocked cruelly by his father for his weight. He had burned to show the old man up, and had taught himself how to be ruthless, cold, and a manipulator. Just like his Old Man. It was perhaps ironic, he considered, that he was most like the Man he hated most in the world. His pyschiatrist had told him that was why he ate, to punish himself. He had had his guards disappear the pyschiatrist the day after.

The Backbenchers went first, bringing forth petitions of trivial concerns afflicting their villages and districts, telling tales of petty land disputes, bad weather, starving livestock, rampant corruption and insufficient infrastructure. Khouana ignored them, their complaints were petty and small compared to the issues Khouana obsessed over. Issues of Real Power.

Without taking his staring eyes off the proceedings, letting the minor Councillor from Kita Province sweat a little, Khouana whispered to the man next to him. "What time is it?"
"Its-"
"Nevermind." Khouana saw someone else across the galley nod at him. He smiled. It was time.

He nodded at the Arbiter, who reluctantly rapped his cane on the tile floor, signalling that the Councillor's time was up. He sweated and gulped, and quickly hurried back to his seat, his hands shaking and dropping papers he had been reading from.

Khouana stood, and addressed them. "Councillors, Messieurs- We are gathered here as a body to represent the entirety of Umbazi, is this not so? Each of us represents a portion of the whole, each of us is a part of the Voice that Guides the Hand that Shapes Umbazi. We are, in a very real sense, Umbazi." There was a ripple of assenting murmurs, as Khouana paused for effect. "Yet, brothers, countrymen, there is no respect in our country for our Voice, no respect anywhere." Again more murmurs, but with some doubt as to where he was going with this.

"It is Time, Councillors!" he barked, slamming his meaty fist into his upturned palm. "It is time we restored that respect. It is time we spoke as a body again. It is time we acted with haste against the disrespect to Umbazi being perpetuated daily by the Smugglers, the criminals and the corruptors. It is time we worked to restore the respect this House deserves, and destroy the underminers, expose the vermin nibbling at our foundations and our credibility!" his voice rose to impressive levels. He had much of his Father's oratory skill in him, and he had worked for years to hone his talents as a Public speaker.

The murmurs grew louder, as what he was proposing slowly dawned on all of them. "I propose a motion before this house: That where our Valiant Army under my younger brother seeks to root out the rats with violence and flame, we shall hunt them still deeper through the twisting tunnels they make of our laws, our practices, our societies. I propose that a Committee Against Corruption be formed, and the Smuggler's networks found and torn down. I propose we root out this criminal rot at the heart of our nation be ripped apart, branch by branch, root by root, untill there is nothing left! Who will hear my Voice? Who will hear the Voice of Umbazi?"

This time the Councillors roared, getting to their feet, knowing a cue when they see one, shouting and clapping as they did so. "We will! We will anwser the Voice of Umbazi!"

Khouana sat down to cheers and appropbriation, and allowed himself to smile more broadly. He knew what everyone of them suspected. Where would such a Committees powers end? Who, in fact, would be "rooted out"? It was all part of the Game, and Khouana knew that this would be a decisive move in his long-planned game. He craved Power, and once he had truly mastered the Government, there was only one piece left before Checkmate.

He was the hated, despised second son. He had seen his Father's Will, and he knew he would not inherit much when the Old Man finally died. He aimed to change all of that. He would become the Great Father, as he knew he always should have been.

 

[Umbazi]

Amasi Diarra was the eldest. the most loved. Commander of the Presidential Guard. Councillor for his father's own hometown. Yet, as he sat at the National Umbazi Women's League Annual Conference, his bulging gut restrained by his well-worn uniform, he reflected that he had lived his entire life in the Shadow of his Father. He was sixty years old. His father had been ruler of this country since he had been 19, and throughout that time he had trained, prepared, learned, made good will tours, been the soft touch where his father, the Great Father, had needed to be hard, and vice versa. It had been an excellent balancing act, and worked wonders.

But now, as his own virility faded, his sons becoming better men as Minister or Ambassador, his daughters seeking foreign and wealthy husbands, as his hands automatically clapped to another inane speech, he wondered if he had lived his life well enough.

As the speaker got down from the Podium, He saw his younger sister,Jaineba- now greying and motherly, having turned herself into a Matriarch for all women of Umbazi to follow- rise to the podium, and begin to speak. He had good relations with both his sisters, Amanita being the Surgeon-General and having worked equally as tirelessly as he over these last few decades to improve Umbazi and manage it the way Great Father wanted.

She was giving an impassioned speech on how Wives must keep their Husbands honest, and consider the Nation above all else. He wasn't really paying attention. He felt like all that sweat and blood he had given for his Father, all the lives he had taken, had been in towards something. Towards, he had supposed, his own accession to power. But now he wondered if he would ever see power in this country. He knew he was down in his Father's will as being so, but he knew also that there were so many other factions, eagerly awaiting the old man's death.

He closed his eyes, and once again saw the face of his Uncle Toule, his eyes worn and bloodshot, as he stood chained to a post in a dusty yard in Barani. He had refused the blindfold. He remembered that morning like it was yesterday, remembering feeling the tightness of his uniform against him, as he raised his arm, yelled FIRE! and dropped it again. He could hear, like a faint echo out of time, the crack of rifles, and sense the shadow of the smell of burning cordite. His Uncle fell limp, and faded back into memory, a corpse forgotten and rotting somewhere in the vast Savannahs around the Capital.

He returned to the present, and could hear and see the massed ladies cheering and clapping as his sister's speech came to its crescendo, as she urged them to ready their Sons for yet Greater Efforts to make Umbazi great, and kept their daughters pure to become mothers to another generation of hard-working Umbazi. He felt himself clapping again. In truth, he was here as a guest of Jaineba, here to anwser a question she had asked him, here also to name his price if he accepted.

As Jaineba came down from the stage to applause, he rose from his seat, and nodded politely as she took a sip from a bottle of water. He knew how strenuous good public speaking could be. He had spent decades making the Presidential Guard fanatically loyal to him and his Father and no other Diarras, or other factions at all. He had bled with them, sweated with them, and now they regarded him as their natural leader.

"Ah, Amasi! How good of you to come!" Jaineba said, with expertly-practiced joy, as she ran up to him and threw her thick, flabby arms around him, kissing him wetly on his aged cheeks.

He chuckled nervously, long used to his sister's histrionics. "Yes, it has been a while since we have talked. What is it you wished to discuss?" he asked, his voice rich and hardened by years of smoking Radilan Cigars.

She made a show of being shocked. "Not here, Amasi! Let us go somewhere private to talk." She smiled broadly, never dropping her act in public. When they were alone in a back-room- the door guarded by one of Jaineba's hired Security- her face seemed to age five years, and she began to take her earrings and rings off, undoing her hair and becoming more comfortable in her age.

"Ah, Amasi, do you ever wonder if all this is worth it?" she sighed. Even this, Amasi wondered, could be an act. His sister had been lying and pretending so long he wondered if there was a real Jaineba at all, and not some automata that became whatever it needed to be to get what it wanted.

"I don't have time for chaff, Jani. Tell me, what is it you wanted?" he said, crossing his arms and leaning against a side table.

"Have you seen my daughter, Mariama of late? You know she has always been a good girl. She went into the Covenant near Menaka, you remember?" she spoke informally, as if at ease and with someone she could trust. This only made Amasi more wary. "Yes, I remember. You screamed and threw plates at your husband when you found out."

Jaineba scowled, repressing her inner beast, not willing to let herself be goaded so by her brother. "Whatever. My darling Mariama is hoping to become an Abbess, though she is so young, and her ambition- as much as her piety, of course- pleases me. I was wondering if you could speak to the Archbishop and arrange something."

Amasi sighed. This was all she had summoned him for? She could do it herself, surely, with all the contacts and power she wielded through the Wives and Daughters of Umbazi. "The Archbishop is out of the country, still at the Conclave and dealing with other Church matters. But when he returns I will speak to him about Mariama."

"Thank you, Amasi. You were always my favourite brother. One last thing- those Ascaloni. It displeases me that so many of them have influence in our Church. It displeases me that they are mean to Mariama, calling her slow and dreamy. She is a good girl, even if she spends too much time in prayer. I won't have it."

Now this was more like it. Amasi frowned, and considered his position. He would need to speak to father about this. Expelling the Ascaloni was a difficult thing and could cause unneeded tensions at this time. It troubled him that Jaineba, who was an excellent intriguer, would want them removed for so trivial and base a reason. What was her real game? He would have to set his own spies to find out. At the same time, he needed to talk to father anyway. He needed to resolve these issues that had been bothering him for so long, and, with both his sons now employed, he felt he was secure enough to address the issue once and for all.

"Of course, Jaineba. I will speak to our Great Father. I am sure everything you need will be arranged." he smiled falsely, revealing many gold teeth. He had always been a martyr to tooth decay, his penchant for chewing tobacco to blame. He had, of course, a foreign dentist of excellent skill.

"Good to hear, Amasi! I am so pleased you will help your sister when she needs it."

"Not so fast, Jani. I have a requirement of my own. I need to know about Khouana."
"Khouana? What do you mean?"
"Does he still sleep with his wife? I have heard...rumours, that could help me, in time."
"But Amasi-"
"No Buts. Find out through the League what rumours there are about our Fat Chancellor. If he is impotent, or worse, a Sodomite...." he smiled cruelly. "I want to know."

=====================================================

 

[Umbazi]

Jophet Diarra winced as the bright light of the afternoon sun assailed his jet-lagged eyes. He stepped out of the heavy UAZ, surveying the Base that had been so quickly assembled in the Ash Sharqi Highlands. Arid dust coated everything, and the smell of petrol mixed with machine oil assailed Jophet's nose. He stretched his muscles, yawning, and grabbed a thermos flask filled with hot kaf.

He had come here, to Leopard Base, to see his Uncle, Selek. He had flown all the way back from Kyiv, but he would be expected back soon. There was so much still to learn, and Kyiv, for all that it was truly fucking cold, was a wondrous place to him. The architecture might have been ugly as shit and the atmosphere one of relentless foreboding, but the society circles he moved in were truly dazzling, and he found himself learning things that actually...captivated him. Kyivan Philosophy, new concepts that resonated deeply with old ones that he had internalised. It was the purest kind of Cultural Osmosis.

Putting on his sunglasses, Jophet followed the Soldiers to the heavy Bunker at the centre of this makeshift encampment, where he presumed his Uncle was. Jophet felt like an outsider here, in this dusty, truly Himyar millitary base, all crude clanking machines, rough unwashed men in dirty green and khaki uniforms, shouting, swearing and gruelling physiciality.

Stepping low into the Bunker, Jophet found it much more bearable. The stone walls were air conditioned, and the light was much dimmer. Dominating the bunker was a wide foldout metal table, over which was draped a number of maps of the Umbazi-Ascalon Border and the Ash Sharqi Province. Pinned to the map were a number of flags, representing troop concerntrations and known hot-spots.

With his Uncle were a number of Staff Officers. Selek was in midflow, explaining something. "-And then we leave a minefield, so any of those bastards who try to cross at night will get a nice suprise." All the Officers murmured assent at their Commander's plan. The General paused, and, seeing his nephew, smiled warmly.

"Jophet! How good to see you. Or should I say, Ambassador?" Selek laughed, and gave his weary nephew a suprisingly tight bearhug. Diarra was a wiry man, but what there was to him was corded muscle, stretched tightly over his scrawny body. "Welcome, sit down. What can I do for you? You have some Kaf with you?"

Jophet smiled, knowing that, whilst Selek had his own children, he preferred his Nephews, for they were successful, and had great potential. Selek's own son was weak and prone to sickness, and, whilst an accomplished musician, showed no signs of interest in or potential to become a Contributor to the State.

"Thank you, Uncle, General. Yes, I have Kaf. How is my Aunt, and Cousins?" Whilst Jophet poured some warm kaf into some mugs, the Staff Officers filed out of the Bunker, and went about their duties, leaving Selek, Jophet and a few soldiers standing around, silently but watchfully.

"Ah, one can never have enough Kaf in this line of work." The General sighed, sipping his beverage. He made small talk with Jophet for a few minutes, before they cut to business.

"So, tell me, Nephew. Why have you come all the way from Kyiv to talk to me, hmm?"

"Uncle, I need...a favour." Jophet reluctantly admitted, sighing. Reluctantly, he confessed his purpose. "The Kyivans respect only martial ability and strength. Whilst they are polite to me, I know they see me only as the spoilt Grandson of my Country's leader. They have so much to offer, and If I am to do right by Umbazi, to make it a Truly great nation...we will need all the strength the Kyivans have to offer."

The General frowned, considering Jophet's words carefully. "What exactly are you asking?"

"Uncle, I would like to spend some time with your men, and learn how to be a Soldier." This was a heavy request, and one that would carry with it its own burdens. Jophet knew he would find it difficult to find time between his diplomatic duties in Kyiv, and becoming an Umbazite soldier, especially one of sufficient calibre to impress upon Kyiv.

"This is a heavy thing you ask of me. You know that I am respected by my men, by Great Father, because I do not ask favours, because I achieve, and do not use the influence of my blood to curry unfair advantage. Why should I bend this, for you, so you can do the same thing?"

"Because I do it to be a Better Man, and to help Umbazi. You know that...Great Father is old, and that...my Father is also old." Jophet brought these words out reluctantly, knowing they sounded dangerously close to treason.
"I know that, in less time that we might think, I or my Brother will be offered power in Umbazi. I would see it that our country is ready for such a thing."

The General drank his kaf, and pondered carefully, drumming his fingers on the map. "How much time before you are due back?"

"A week."

Selek sighed. "Then you can start right now. I need a man to help with laying the mines. Normally I'd put you through PT first, and an Officer Course...but you want to be a Man. In tune with our Country. Impress the Kyivan Stratocrats. You will be a Private. Talk to my Lieutenants, they will get you a uniform. No special treatment. You have a week, starting from the moment you leave this Bunker, to help the rest of your Company lay a minefield across the Umbazi-Ascalon Border. Do it, and do it well."

Jophet brightened. "Thank you, Uncle."

===================================