OOC: This is intended as a sort of "Home Front" style thread for the influences and effects of the ongoing events in "Red Sun Rising", namely the increasing involvement of the Communist Powers in not just the Yujin Civil War but also the simultaenous development of the People's Republic of Vangala and its invasion by the Yujin Imperial Army.
IC:
People's Army Barracks,
Whyteston, Carnshire
It began with a Transfer Order. At first, the Quartermaster was sure it was another typo, since the quality of paperwork in the People's Army had been mediocre for years and it was common for the Logistics Corps to rely on local "know-how", rather than professional typists or their own records. This was an understandable side-effect of the purges, and of an Army that was at any one time made up at least two-thirds of conscripts half-assing everything to meet their National Service quota. Most of them either went on to Higher Education or back to working the land or on the assembly lines of the factories.
So, it was not unusual to recieve garbled or generally shoddy quality documents, as Quartermaster Henry Short well knew. However, the nature of the order gave him pause, so, blowing his nose heavily into a ragged hankerchief, the part-time Quartermaster and full-time Co-operative Treasurer(there was no such thing as an Accountant, but someone had to keep track of inflow and outflow) picked up the battered phone on his desk, and phoned Regional Headquarters.
"Hello, this is Whyteston, calling Greathampton. Asking for confirmation on an Order 111401. Yes, thats right, 111401. No, I'll hold." He drummed his fingers on his desk, whilst the clerk on the other end went to get someone to confirm. Getting anything done at this level in the People's Army was time-consuming at best, but that was ok. Short didn't have much else to do right now, since it was still only Early Spring, and his Regiment was mostly made up of people on sick leave from the flu, or busy cleaning the mud and shit off the wheels of their five-tonnes, or maybe strolling around town with heavy service-batons, lording it over the Carnies.*
"Ah, you back? Good. So, yes, it was Order 111401. Yes, I just want to confirm that this Transfer Order is entirely correct. You see, the copy I have- oh? Yes? From the top you say? Really? No way! You're sure? Oh, I'm sorry, didn't realise Sarnt Major, of course. I'll make sure it happens as soon as possible. Sooner! Haha, yes, my mistake. Ah-" The phone clicked, hung up from the other end. Well, this was most unusual and no mistake. An order from Central in Westhaven, of all things. No Typo. Henry Short frowned. Most irregular. Still, it wasn't like it would do any harm. The boys were hardly using them anyway, and when were they likely to ever need them?
He signed off at the bottom of the Order, and went to inform his assistants, and the Captain in charge of the Barracks. Looks like they'd be doing something this March, afterall.
====================================
Whyteston Engine Factory,
Carnshire
Overseer Hart tapped the Production Order thoughtfully. It was clearly in error. There was no way, with all the Orders he'd gotten lately, that they could fulfill this. He was sure someone was fucking around. That, or the 'crats up in Greathampton had gone insane. Did they not realise what he had to work with? 200 feckless, lazy Carnie women, assembling engines with the speed of a glacial snail, chatting to each other and gossiping and smoking, despite his best efforts to instill some real discpline here. Worse, the material they had to work with was often shoddy at best, a fact he attributed to the fact that the Miners, Smelters, Formers and probably even the Overseers over westaways were all fucking Carnies too.
One day, there will be trouble. Hart knew. Too many Carnies everywhere. They tried it less than 18 years ago, theyll try it again. Ungrateful shits.
Striding along the metal gantryway, looking down at the sorry excuse for assembly lines, watching the parts fall down from the hopper onto the assembly line, seeing the crude engines being slowly put together by 200 of the ugliest women he had ever known, so ugly he didnt even care to abuse his authority and force them to sleep with him, something his predessecor had done with impunity untill someone had accused him of revisionism back in the day and that was the last they ever saw of him. Probably some Carnie bitch making up lies, as usual.
"Alright, everyone listen up! I said listen up!" He shouted, picking up a loud-hailer. Intercoms were the preserve of the rich. Even with the loud-hailer, hardly anyone could hear him over the grind of machinery. He didn't dare stop production for the quiet it would bring. Even a few minutes delay could mean the balance between life and death with the people who mattered, the Government Contractors and the Co-operative Reps. Luckily, there was a law that allowed a minority representation to exist in Co-operatives where Carns were a majority, so Hart didn't have to consider the absolute nightmare scenario of having to anwser to Carnies.
Impatient, he settled instead on writing out his instructions on some cards, and then passing them down the line, and keeping an eye on the women to make sure they all read it. He hoped they could all read, fuckin Carnies were useless in school too, sometimes even refusing to speak English. Hart could stew for hours on all the ways the Carns annoyed and disgusted him.
The women seemed to lose their usual dull and carefree expressions, and grew even more sullen, some even angry. He made sure they all understood what was being asked.
The Foremen came to him, asking if this was correct. He told them it was. "Straight from the top. Unpaid overtime for everyone to make it happen. No excuses." The Foremen spluttered. "But, Carnie women we can understand, but making -us- work overtime..."
"Everyone. No exceptions. This has to be done. You know what happens when Gov contracts aren't met."
"We're already OVERLOADED with Gov contracts! We have 4 lines, which means 4 engines an hour, at peak ability. That means, optimally speaking, we can churn out 24 engines in a working day, maybe 32 if we really really push it. Thats 32 two-cylinder car engines, not truck engines, not tank engines, not jet engines or boat engines or any other kind. Tractor engines in a pinch, maybe, we do alot of agri work, but car engines, mostly. Not good engines, Not fast engines, but engines that dissatisfy everyone equally. Making what this Order asks for is completely out of the ques-"
"I FUCKING KNOW, ALRIGHT?" Hart roared. "Its ridiculous! Who the fuck is in charge up there? But in charge they are! You know what happens to those who don't get it done."
The Foremen grumbled, mostly because they knew they could. Something that Hart only tolerated because he needed the support of fellow ethnically Havenite people to run this place. Otherwise he'd take stronger measures against such rank insubordination.
"How do you even -build- a flamethrower?" one Foreman openly mused. "They certainly didnt teach that back in Shop class."
"There's a rough schematic we can get from the Barracks up the road, if we need to. Apparently they've been ordered to help out, too."
=======================================
Embassy of Vangala,
Westhaven
Deputy Foreign Minister John Key shook hands with the Vangalan emissary, offering him tea and biscuits and all the amenities he could. The Foreign Ministry was in the doghouse, metaphorically speaking, and had been since Macclesfield had crushed their bid for greater policy independence with the Danmark Scandal. That some of their staff were now People's Heroes over the Liangang Affair didn't seem to matter. The Premier- for, despite all pretense over law to the contrary, that was what he was, now- had moved masterfully and with brute force to cut off the Ministy of Foreign Affairs tendrils into other branches of government. How Macclesfield had developed such a good relationship with the PA and the CIB was something of a mystery, one that Wilkes had fumed over, and tried to use his remaining friends in CIB and the Air Force to sniff out, but without much luck.
But the net effect was that they were now required to work full-time on making this grand, ridiculous People's Crusade a reality. At first, it hadn't seemed too bad a foreign policy iniatitive, even if it had been hypocritical of Macclesfield to agree so readily to it. Supply the Hongmenghui. Perhaps difficult in terms of distance, but on paper it seemed a fine commitment to socialist principles, and one that couldn't hurt Havenshire overall. Certainly it was a popular proposal, and one people could more readily understand and get excited over than his ridiculous Prospero Plan.
But as they had dug deeper, it became readily apparent that to reach the Hongmenghui, they'd have to cross the world's most formidable mountain range. To get to those mountains, theyd have to cross hundreds of miles of practically primeval and unspoilt rainforest. To get to the rainforest, more miles of rice farms, choking, barely industrialised cities, and thousands of miles of hostile sea.
Every step back from their goal to home seemed more and more insane and nightmarish. But the Ministry was under great pressure to deliver, and to smooth everything over so that Macclesfield could posture in front of the People's Assembly, and show all the great and glorious work he was doing -now- for the people's cause. He needed policy wins, and he needed them fast. He needed them because, as Key was smart enough to realise, even with the support of the People's Army and the CIB, Macclesfield simply -couldn't- rule by fear and terror, the way Walker could. Even if Macclesfield wanted to, that apparatus relied too much on the unique force of Walker's personality, a factor which, when removed, had led to this balkanisation of government, each Ministry carving out its own Kingdom and trying to direct the entire ship of state seperately. As much as Key had supported his boss Wilkes in doing exactly that, he also couldn't fault Macclesfield for wanting to stop that.
And the only way he could re-assert total control was to win the unwavering loyalty of the People's Assembly, and, by extension, the heart of the people themselves. Democracy, of a kind.
As the meeting with the Vangalan Ambassador dragged on, Key nodded and smiled in all the right places, offering assurance and agreement after agreement. Invaded by Yujin you say? How terrible! You want material aid for the war itself? Well, that might be tricky. Yes, we're committed to supplying the Hong- Look, there's no need to make such threats. Of course your troops also need aid in fighting the good fight. What about...Flamethrowers? Hundreds of them, naturally. Its all jungle and wetland on the border, right? Naturally, Flamethrowers will even the fight. We're already building roads, help you get supplies about yes? Weapons? Well, I suppose we can spare some more rifles and ammunition, but the Flamethrowers surely count?
The meeting went on in such a vain, with Key making promise after promise to the Vangalan Ambassador. In exchange, he asked for the only things Vangala could really give, which he was instructed to ask for so the Vangalans didn't feel like a charity case. Rice. Rice, Spice, and all things nice. Macclesfield was already dreaming of setting up Curry houses around the nation, feeding the people with a new, inexpensive foodstuff. An end to famine, by way of the gratitude of our brown brothers in the east. He was a fine one for dreaming, the Premier.
Key smiled, almost cracking his face. All this pressure, something had to give. The shitpipe would burst someday. And the Foreign Ministry would be standing by, ready with the long knives, to depose this fool of a Premier.
*=Carnies, a derogatory term for the Carnish, a minority ethnicity resident in the Southwest part of Havenshire, of Celtic/Ivernian origin and resident in Havenshire before the arrival of the Breotish/Engellexic Havenites.
IC:
People's Army Barracks,
Whyteston, Carnshire
It began with a Transfer Order. At first, the Quartermaster was sure it was another typo, since the quality of paperwork in the People's Army had been mediocre for years and it was common for the Logistics Corps to rely on local "know-how", rather than professional typists or their own records. This was an understandable side-effect of the purges, and of an Army that was at any one time made up at least two-thirds of conscripts half-assing everything to meet their National Service quota. Most of them either went on to Higher Education or back to working the land or on the assembly lines of the factories.
So, it was not unusual to recieve garbled or generally shoddy quality documents, as Quartermaster Henry Short well knew. However, the nature of the order gave him pause, so, blowing his nose heavily into a ragged hankerchief, the part-time Quartermaster and full-time Co-operative Treasurer(there was no such thing as an Accountant, but someone had to keep track of inflow and outflow) picked up the battered phone on his desk, and phoned Regional Headquarters.
"Hello, this is Whyteston, calling Greathampton. Asking for confirmation on an Order 111401. Yes, thats right, 111401. No, I'll hold." He drummed his fingers on his desk, whilst the clerk on the other end went to get someone to confirm. Getting anything done at this level in the People's Army was time-consuming at best, but that was ok. Short didn't have much else to do right now, since it was still only Early Spring, and his Regiment was mostly made up of people on sick leave from the flu, or busy cleaning the mud and shit off the wheels of their five-tonnes, or maybe strolling around town with heavy service-batons, lording it over the Carnies.*
"Ah, you back? Good. So, yes, it was Order 111401. Yes, I just want to confirm that this Transfer Order is entirely correct. You see, the copy I have- oh? Yes? From the top you say? Really? No way! You're sure? Oh, I'm sorry, didn't realise Sarnt Major, of course. I'll make sure it happens as soon as possible. Sooner! Haha, yes, my mistake. Ah-" The phone clicked, hung up from the other end. Well, this was most unusual and no mistake. An order from Central in Westhaven, of all things. No Typo. Henry Short frowned. Most irregular. Still, it wasn't like it would do any harm. The boys were hardly using them anyway, and when were they likely to ever need them?
He signed off at the bottom of the Order, and went to inform his assistants, and the Captain in charge of the Barracks. Looks like they'd be doing something this March, afterall.
====================================
Whyteston Engine Factory,
Carnshire
Overseer Hart tapped the Production Order thoughtfully. It was clearly in error. There was no way, with all the Orders he'd gotten lately, that they could fulfill this. He was sure someone was fucking around. That, or the 'crats up in Greathampton had gone insane. Did they not realise what he had to work with? 200 feckless, lazy Carnie women, assembling engines with the speed of a glacial snail, chatting to each other and gossiping and smoking, despite his best efforts to instill some real discpline here. Worse, the material they had to work with was often shoddy at best, a fact he attributed to the fact that the Miners, Smelters, Formers and probably even the Overseers over westaways were all fucking Carnies too.
One day, there will be trouble. Hart knew. Too many Carnies everywhere. They tried it less than 18 years ago, theyll try it again. Ungrateful shits.
Striding along the metal gantryway, looking down at the sorry excuse for assembly lines, watching the parts fall down from the hopper onto the assembly line, seeing the crude engines being slowly put together by 200 of the ugliest women he had ever known, so ugly he didnt even care to abuse his authority and force them to sleep with him, something his predessecor had done with impunity untill someone had accused him of revisionism back in the day and that was the last they ever saw of him. Probably some Carnie bitch making up lies, as usual.
"Alright, everyone listen up! I said listen up!" He shouted, picking up a loud-hailer. Intercoms were the preserve of the rich. Even with the loud-hailer, hardly anyone could hear him over the grind of machinery. He didn't dare stop production for the quiet it would bring. Even a few minutes delay could mean the balance between life and death with the people who mattered, the Government Contractors and the Co-operative Reps. Luckily, there was a law that allowed a minority representation to exist in Co-operatives where Carns were a majority, so Hart didn't have to consider the absolute nightmare scenario of having to anwser to Carnies.
Impatient, he settled instead on writing out his instructions on some cards, and then passing them down the line, and keeping an eye on the women to make sure they all read it. He hoped they could all read, fuckin Carnies were useless in school too, sometimes even refusing to speak English. Hart could stew for hours on all the ways the Carns annoyed and disgusted him.
The women seemed to lose their usual dull and carefree expressions, and grew even more sullen, some even angry. He made sure they all understood what was being asked.
The Foremen came to him, asking if this was correct. He told them it was. "Straight from the top. Unpaid overtime for everyone to make it happen. No excuses." The Foremen spluttered. "But, Carnie women we can understand, but making -us- work overtime..."
"Everyone. No exceptions. This has to be done. You know what happens when Gov contracts aren't met."
"We're already OVERLOADED with Gov contracts! We have 4 lines, which means 4 engines an hour, at peak ability. That means, optimally speaking, we can churn out 24 engines in a working day, maybe 32 if we really really push it. Thats 32 two-cylinder car engines, not truck engines, not tank engines, not jet engines or boat engines or any other kind. Tractor engines in a pinch, maybe, we do alot of agri work, but car engines, mostly. Not good engines, Not fast engines, but engines that dissatisfy everyone equally. Making what this Order asks for is completely out of the ques-"
"I FUCKING KNOW, ALRIGHT?" Hart roared. "Its ridiculous! Who the fuck is in charge up there? But in charge they are! You know what happens to those who don't get it done."
The Foremen grumbled, mostly because they knew they could. Something that Hart only tolerated because he needed the support of fellow ethnically Havenite people to run this place. Otherwise he'd take stronger measures against such rank insubordination.
"How do you even -build- a flamethrower?" one Foreman openly mused. "They certainly didnt teach that back in Shop class."
"There's a rough schematic we can get from the Barracks up the road, if we need to. Apparently they've been ordered to help out, too."
=======================================
Embassy of Vangala,
Westhaven
Deputy Foreign Minister John Key shook hands with the Vangalan emissary, offering him tea and biscuits and all the amenities he could. The Foreign Ministry was in the doghouse, metaphorically speaking, and had been since Macclesfield had crushed their bid for greater policy independence with the Danmark Scandal. That some of their staff were now People's Heroes over the Liangang Affair didn't seem to matter. The Premier- for, despite all pretense over law to the contrary, that was what he was, now- had moved masterfully and with brute force to cut off the Ministy of Foreign Affairs tendrils into other branches of government. How Macclesfield had developed such a good relationship with the PA and the CIB was something of a mystery, one that Wilkes had fumed over, and tried to use his remaining friends in CIB and the Air Force to sniff out, but without much luck.
But the net effect was that they were now required to work full-time on making this grand, ridiculous People's Crusade a reality. At first, it hadn't seemed too bad a foreign policy iniatitive, even if it had been hypocritical of Macclesfield to agree so readily to it. Supply the Hongmenghui. Perhaps difficult in terms of distance, but on paper it seemed a fine commitment to socialist principles, and one that couldn't hurt Havenshire overall. Certainly it was a popular proposal, and one people could more readily understand and get excited over than his ridiculous Prospero Plan.
But as they had dug deeper, it became readily apparent that to reach the Hongmenghui, they'd have to cross the world's most formidable mountain range. To get to those mountains, theyd have to cross hundreds of miles of practically primeval and unspoilt rainforest. To get to the rainforest, more miles of rice farms, choking, barely industrialised cities, and thousands of miles of hostile sea.
Every step back from their goal to home seemed more and more insane and nightmarish. But the Ministry was under great pressure to deliver, and to smooth everything over so that Macclesfield could posture in front of the People's Assembly, and show all the great and glorious work he was doing -now- for the people's cause. He needed policy wins, and he needed them fast. He needed them because, as Key was smart enough to realise, even with the support of the People's Army and the CIB, Macclesfield simply -couldn't- rule by fear and terror, the way Walker could. Even if Macclesfield wanted to, that apparatus relied too much on the unique force of Walker's personality, a factor which, when removed, had led to this balkanisation of government, each Ministry carving out its own Kingdom and trying to direct the entire ship of state seperately. As much as Key had supported his boss Wilkes in doing exactly that, he also couldn't fault Macclesfield for wanting to stop that.
And the only way he could re-assert total control was to win the unwavering loyalty of the People's Assembly, and, by extension, the heart of the people themselves. Democracy, of a kind.
As the meeting with the Vangalan Ambassador dragged on, Key nodded and smiled in all the right places, offering assurance and agreement after agreement. Invaded by Yujin you say? How terrible! You want material aid for the war itself? Well, that might be tricky. Yes, we're committed to supplying the Hong- Look, there's no need to make such threats. Of course your troops also need aid in fighting the good fight. What about...Flamethrowers? Hundreds of them, naturally. Its all jungle and wetland on the border, right? Naturally, Flamethrowers will even the fight. We're already building roads, help you get supplies about yes? Weapons? Well, I suppose we can spare some more rifles and ammunition, but the Flamethrowers surely count?
The meeting went on in such a vain, with Key making promise after promise to the Vangalan Ambassador. In exchange, he asked for the only things Vangala could really give, which he was instructed to ask for so the Vangalans didn't feel like a charity case. Rice. Rice, Spice, and all things nice. Macclesfield was already dreaming of setting up Curry houses around the nation, feeding the people with a new, inexpensive foodstuff. An end to famine, by way of the gratitude of our brown brothers in the east. He was a fine one for dreaming, the Premier.
Key smiled, almost cracking his face. All this pressure, something had to give. The shitpipe would burst someday. And the Foreign Ministry would be standing by, ready with the long knives, to depose this fool of a Premier.
*=Carnies, a derogatory term for the Carnish, a minority ethnicity resident in the Southwest part of Havenshire, of Celtic/Ivernian origin and resident in Havenshire before the arrival of the Breotish/Engellexic Havenites.