The Crimson Halls of Propontis

[Pelasgia]

Propontis, Pelasgia
03/03/2022 | 09:00

Stylianos Ploumidis always had a soft spot for the Politburo Building. Built in the purest of Propontine marble, its pale silhouette stood amid the large palatial gardens that surrounded it like an ancient sculptor's masterpiece. In all aspects, the old Palace of the Crown Prince was exemplary of traditional Propontine architecture: the colonnade that surrounded the main compound, connecting it with various wings and adjoining buildings, was decidedly of the ancient Pelasgian style, incorporating the a tile roof with corners in the shapes of anthemia and griffons; the main building also had plentiful Corinthian pillars on its balcony and facade, demonstrating the transition to Tiburan and medieval Propontine architecture; moreover, its sharply angled roof extended beyond the body of the building, a feature that had been developped in Pelasgia in the late medieval to early modern period (most likely under Moorish or Far Eastern influence). The metal window frames and doors of the palace incorporated elements from every period, but were unmistakably Pelasgian. The same was true of the building's interior: mosaics, columns and pillasters, internal courtyards, small windows and spacious rooms all combined to create the most quintessential of Propontine interiors. Seen as a whole, the edifice was an emblem of everything non-Gallo-Germanian and unique about the mainly northern Himyari nation.

Walking through the ornate halls of the Politburo Building, right at the heart of the Central Government Compound, Ploumidis paused to examine the furniture and decorations of the room adjoining the main meeting hall. Richly designed wooden tables, chairs, and cabinets, all with ornamental carvings of birds, floral patterns, and, most prominently, double headed eagles were methodically and symmetrically organised around the internal fireplaces, courtyard spaces, and atop the rich carpets of the room. Silken curtains and cloth pieces, all made from indigenous Pelasgian silk (the techniques and insects for which had been smuggled into the country from the Far East centuries ago) completed the set, while bountiful internal lighting compensated for the relatively scant sunlight of a nation whose days were long and often hot. It was the loud salute of one of the guards, an officer of the Revolutionary Guard's elite Special Protection Regiment, that reminded Ploumidis to knock on the door before entering.

"Comrade Premier," said an grey old man, with fierce, dark brown eyes and a pitch-black mustache that contrasted well with his all-white hair. "You've finally decided to join us."

"Apologies, Comrade Chairman," replied Ploumidis. "I was delayed due to a conference call with the Foreign Minister and Comrade Antoniou of our E.F. delegation. It appears that the Reactionaries from Kremlyov have decided to derail the Bourdignian crisis for their own benefit."

"I have been briefed on the matter, Comrade," Chairman Ioannis Drakos answered in turn. "Please, take a seat."

Ploumidis nodded and scanned the table with the half-a-dozen-or-so attendees, as if he did not know where his assigned spot was to be: between Chairman Drakos and the Deputy Premier, Andreas Vasiliadis (who was also the Procurator General). Around them were the Finance Minister, Theodoros Papadopoulos; the Defence Minister, General Alexios Ioannopoulos; the Director General of the Pelasgian People's Secret Service (Krypteia/PLK), General Petros Alexandridis; and the Chairman of the People's Assembly, Aristeidis Ophiotelis. The members, then, of the Central Political Bureau or "Politburo" of the Socialist Workers' Party of Pelasgia (SEKP)--Pelasgia's de facto highest organ of government, for which even the Council of State and the People's Assembly were but mere rubber-stamps.

Taking his seat Ploumidis heard the sound of a notification on everyone's phones: The Tarusans were to establish control over Sankta Katherina by force, in the name of their Csegian client state.

"We will deal with the creeping intercontinental metastasis of Gallo-Germanian reaction and monarcho-fascism in due time, comrades," Chairman Drakos proclaimed. "For now, let us focus on the matter at hand: the 104th National Congress of SEKP. It is, as you all know, but a week away." Drakos paused to clear his throat before continuing, ensuring everyone's attention. "As you all well know, comrades, I am, as of November of last year, over eighty years old. It is inevitable, comrades, that I shall soon depart this world; the only reason I have not retired is to avoid friction with whoever my successor is to be, or the impression that he is merely a frontman and not fully in control. The leadership of the Party, the State, and Army is one, and it must be clear and undisputed, both to those within and without. Therefore, let us not hide behind false pretenses like a bunch of bourgeois man-whores or aristocratic courtesans: we are here to choose my successor."

The men assembled around the room traded glances, at once demarkating the factions assembled: Papadopoulos (Finance) and Ploumidis (Premier) were the Reformers, the liberalizing forces who wished for Pelasgia's economy and political system to become as open as possible; Ioannopoulos (Defence) and Alexandridis (Krypteia) were the Militarists, the men who wished for a strong military and strategic dominance over Pelasgia's immediate region at all costs; Ophiotelis (People's Assembly) and Vasiliadis (Deputy Premier/Proc. Gen.) were the Hardliners, the men who still espoused statism-socialism and wished for as much stability and as little reform to the system as possible. All three groups had conflicting interests and views, but none had a majority on the Politburo (or in the Pelasgian State as a whole, for that matter). It was the Chairman, Drakos, himself a hybrid of the Reformers and Militarists who had come to be known as the Pragmatists, who held the deciding vote, and whose personification of an alliance between the two blocs had allowed them nearly unfettered control over the People's Republic for the last fifty or so years. It was not a coincidence that Drakos had not retired--the Hardliners, wounded and sidelined over so many decades, had waited patiently as they were gradually removed from the "deep state" of Pelasgian intelligence, diplomacy, bureaucracy, and military-industry, growing increasingly frustrated at their marginalisation by a National Bolshevist party that was increasingly anything but communist. They awaited for a chance to strike--but they knew they never could, so long as Drakos was alive and in control. But with his death drawing near, they smelt blood in the water.

"I believe that it is time for change to ensure stability," said Vasiliadis, stunning everyone. "We have spent the last fifty years reforming and liberalising Pelasgia, certainly with great result, but also leading to much instability. We must consolidate the gains of the Socialist System and the Revolution, and we must make sure that Pelasgia remains Red. For that purpose, someone with in the party, within its long-established structures, within the political core of the governing institutions of the State, must take over--someone such as myself."

Vasiliadis had been made Deputy Premier as concession to the Hardliners--yet it was abundantly clear to everyone that that would no longer be enough. They were aiming straight for the top. General Ioannopoulos, a military man who had been trained to respond readily to aggressive action, took to the field at once. "Regardless of change or progress, what is paramount is that Pelasgia remains strong. Only a leader who can focus on that end and achieve it can lead Pelasgia--a leader who is committed to using reform and stability as need be. Military leadership has served Pelasgia and the Party well, which is why I recommend that it continue. I nominate myself."

Ioannopoulos had made his point clear: the Military and the Krypteia would side with whichever of the other two factions won--and, in exchange for playing kingmaker, they would seek to maintain their seat at the top. It was a tough play, but one that could succeed--and if it did not get them the Chairmanship, it would at least get them a host of other concessions instead. Ploumidis knew that he had no choice but to join the fray. "Reform has taken Pelasgia from the status of a nation on the brink of starvation due isolation and embargo by capitalist powers, and it has turned her into a mighty powerhouse, the likes of which the capitalists of the world bow down before. Just the other day, the Justosians had no chance but to recognise the legitimacy of our Revolutionary State at the mere insinuation that we would cut them off from our prosperity. This, comrades, is what fortifying the Socialist State, the National Bolshevist programme, is really like. And this is the policy that I have pursued as Premier, under the leadership of Comrade Chairman Drakos, for some twenty years now. It is this policy, Comrades, which took us from a country dependent on copying decades-old foreign assault rifle designs into one producing state-of-the-art, long-range strategic weapons and nuclear submarines whose might is renowned and feared the world over. And it is this policy, Comrades, which I aim to pursue--if and when I am elected as Chairman of SEKP. I therefore nominate myself."

The three contenders traded stares; Ioannopoulos was calm and stern, knowing that he did not need to win the Chairmanship to come out with his head high and his faction's position strengthened. The other two, however, Vasiliadis and Ploumidis, had burning fire of enmity within their eyes. They knew all would well that,

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Chairman Drakos coughed and loudly placed his hands on the table to stand, just short of slamming them--he was a massive man with the height and shoulders of a veritable Atlas, so that took little effort. "Very well, comrades. It is settled then: we have our candidates. If there is anything else of urgency to discuss, we can see to it tomorrow at the Council of State meeting. Now I must bring this meeting to a close, because I have to meet with His All-Holiness, Ecumenical Patriarch Basil V. The Church, you see, has some input on our new educational curriculum--which I presume to be a convenient excuse for them to negotiate the parameters of their collaboration with whoever my successor turns out to be; following which I have to see to certain arrangements for my coming meeting with a certain El Presidente. I hear that the man parties like an animal, so, for all we know, he might very well be the death of me, our Comrade from @San Jose."

Laughter followed the Chairman's statement. Yet, deep underneath it all, the true sound was that of knives being sharpened. Pelasgian politics, from the days of the Emperors to those of the Reds, was nothing but a bloodbath in waiting, a game of thrones, a perpetual cold civil war, ready to spring into action at any moment. The days of the coming National Congress would determine whether the peaceful transition of power established some fifty years ago would hold--or whether Propontis' streets would run red with blood once again, as one winning faction purged its opponents.​

 

[Pelasgia]

Central Military District Headquarters, Propontis, Pelasgia
06/03/2022 | 14:00

For all the political ceremonies of Propontis, it was apparent to all in the know that the military had, since 1981, been the true power in Pelasgian politics. With every decade that passed, its control became ever more entrenched, and its influence even more obvious. Nonetheless, the military was content with its kingmaker role, leaving most day-to-day administration to civilian officials--chiefly the technocrats of the so-called Reformer faction. It was international politics, defence, and control over and above the Pelasgian political system that concerned the military, whose man, Marshal Ioannis Drakos, had made sure to pack every significant state office with loyalist military officers to oversee the technocratic administrators below.

Thus, each military district of Pelasgia, usually encompassing several provinces, had its own headquarters and branch offices, which served both as a military command centre as well as an overseer of local civil administration. All these offices were centralised in the Central Military District, in Propontis, roughly paralleling the network of civilian administrative bureaus and communist party liaison posts--in keeping with the principle that power in Pelasgia was a merger of State, Military, and Party structures, all connected in the person of the Chairman.

Of the multitude wings and satellite buildings that comprised the simplified neoclassical building complex housing the Central Military District HQ, one stood out due to its seeming isolation: Wing VI. Built with walls thicker than those of any other structure and joined to the adjoining edifice by a longer, windowless hallway than that of other wings, Wing VI sported reinforced panels of bulletproof glass and visible, large communications arrays. It had no obvious entrances of exits on the ground floor, meaning that all traffic to and from the structure had to come from within the HQ Complex. This was, of course, by design; for Wing VI housed Directorate III of the Pelasgian People's Secret Service (Krypteia), a nominal part of the Krypteia that in practice operated as a semi-autonomous entity within both the Krypteia and the General Staff. Being tasked with military intelligence and counterintelligence, and with ensuring the loyalty and control of the entirety of the military by the powers that be in Propontis, Directorate III of the Krypteia was a mighty agency that none in Pelasgia dared defy--even those in uniform.

Perched at the northeast corner of the third floor of Wing VI, with a thick, double-bulletproof window looking out into one of the complex's internal garden courtyards, was the office of one Colonel Rigas M. Ippeus, Assistant Sub-Director of Internal Political Control, and an artillery officer by training. Shifting through a stack of classified papers--for the Krypteia, especially Directorate III, abhorred insecure electronic records--Colonel Ippeus was consumed by the soul-crushing task of administrative work when he heard a familiar soft but determined knock on his door.

"Come in," he said without bothering to look up. The light steps gave his subordinate away regardless. "What is it, Anna?"

"Colonel sir," answered Lieutenant Anna Ch. Geraka, his immediate subordinate and personal adjutant. "We have urgent reports of subversive activity coming in from the Pierrian Highlands into Pelagonia. The Director has asked me to refer the matter to you for immediate investigation."

The Colonel looked up; he knew Anna to have an overly imperious tone in general--likely a side effect of trying to be taken seriously in a country whose culture was still very much muchistic and patriarchal, especially in the military. Yet, he had known her long enough to know when she was being serious. And here, it seemed that this was not a case of verbal peacocking.

Rigas looked up at her, realizing she was still standing in attention. "At ease, Lieutenant. Why hasn't this been referred to the Revolutionary Guard, or to Directorate II? It's not a military loyalty matter."

"The issue is, sir," Anna explained, "that we've good reason to believe that there's been infiltration of local units by the insurgents--which has handicapped our ability to suppress them."

Frowning, Rigas set his pen aside and motioned her to hand him the files she had been holding. Shifting through them to the sound of murmurs, Rigas grew more and more alarmed. "Brigadier Papadopoulos was right: this requires our urgent attention. Thank you, Anna. I shall launch an investigation promptly. See me again in an hour; I'll have sub-tasks to assign to you and to the others."

Anna saluted. "Understood, sir."

---

Nivesta, Diospolis Prefecture, Pelagonia Province, Pelasgia
07/03/2022 | 06:00

The howl of the wind shrieked through the Pierrian highlands, right at the region's rugged and mountainous border with Pelagonia. Atop the mountain tops separating Pelasgia's two oldest provinces, only snow and tall pine trees could be found most of the time. Yet, dotted between those were a hundred or so villages, were tightly-packed settlements of thick stone homes and buildings which seemed more fitting for Scania than Pelasgia. The surrounding frozen landscape certainly added to this impression, which was only dispelled by the sight of Orthodox Church bell-towers and domes.

Perched atop a peak overlooking Nivesta, the head-village of the area by reason of its size, Stefanos Vogatsis took one last look at the alien sight of the snowy mountainside before knocking on the metal door of the small cabin beside him. Surrounded by tall trees and built slightly into the ground, the small construction was hard to spot, especially since the locally sourced stones that had been used to build its wall blended so well with its surroundings. A single knock from the inside invited him in.

Vogatsis opened the door, only to find the place almost entirely deserted, save for a stack of papers and some half-finished food on the wooden table at the centre of the single-room space. He had barely taken too steps in when he felt the cold steel of a gun muzzle press against the back of his neck.

"Don't move," said a young woman. "Who're you?"

"Stefanos Vogatsis," he answered. "I was to meet with Mr. Ion Sinas here?"

The woman slowly stepped around Vogatsis to face him, pistol in hand. "Why the uniform?"

"I'm a Captain in the Peleasgian People's Army," Vogatsis said, shrugging. "Didn't you notice my white armband?"

"Anybody can put one of those on. How do I know you're who you say you are?"

"Do you know many Pelasgian Captains who'd come out here to a cabin by themselves?"

"I'm not sure you're by yourself. You could have your men waiting outside. Turn around, and put your hands up."

Vogatsis sighed. He started forward and the women shivered, aiming her gun at him. "Don't you move!"

"Or what? You'll shoot me?" He looked straight into her deep blue eyes and kept walking.

The woman tried to pull the trigger but it would not move; annoyed, Vogatsis grabbed the gun from her hand and slapped her. "The safety's on. And this isn't a toy--if you don't know how to use it, don't touch it."

"Who are you?" the woman barked at him.

"Captain Stefanos Vogatsis," he barked back at her. "Now is Ion here, or did I climb up the mountain for nothing?"

"He's underground, in the room beneath the floor passage. I'll show you."

"And who are you?" Vogatsis demanded. "Did Ion not tell you I was coming?"

"I'm his daughter, Angelina," the woman explained. "He told me to expect a visitor, but I wasn't expecting a Pelasgian."

Vogatsis frowned. "As opposed to what, a Tarusan?"

Unlocking the passage to the basement, Angelina shot him a glance full of mild annoyance. "You Pelasgians are trespassers here. This is our country; we only tolerate you because we have no other choice. White or Red, it matters little to us."

"And you Muntenians aren't trespassers?" Vagotsis shot back as he entered the passage. "We both stole this land from the Himyaris--and we were here before your so-called ancestors, the Tiburans."

Angelina lit the path forward with a flashlight and the duo made their way through a claustrophobic tunnel beneath the home, leading to an underground hideout. "We're Tivyrians. 'Muntenian' is a slur. And as for ancestors and such, for all we know, you might as well be Tivyrian or Tiburan--you Pelasgians are all mixed beyond recognition anyway."

"Leave it to a Muntenian to be simultaneously anti-imperialist and racist," Vogatsis thought to himself. He judged it better not to vocalize his feelings, letting the matter drop. "How long do we have to stay crouched in the dark like this?"

"A few more minutes by foot, give or take," Angelina said, glancing at him with even more annoyance. "Why? Did they abolish physical training for officers in the Pelasgian Army?"​

 

[Pelasgia]

Propontis, Pelasgia
10/03/2022 | 14:30

Theodoros Papadopoulos felt his eyelids grow heavy as he sat through yet another speech—this time by none other than the leader of the Reformers’ mortal opponents, the Hardliners, Vice-Premier and Procurator General Andreas Vasileiadis. The opulent surroundings of the Grand Hall of the People’s Palace, once constructed to serve as the home of the Boule, the old Imperial Parliament, contrasted almost perfectly with the boring and repetitive verbal diarrhea forced upon the delegates by so many a speaker at the 104th National Congress of SEKP.

For every fine Ionian column, Papadopoulos counted another empty reference to the foundational work of Nikolas Psaros and Vartholomaios Prototokis, two working class liberal socialist heroes whose thoughts and deeds were the very antithesis of what SEKP had become—from the Reformer faction to the Hardliners, and everything in between. For every beautiful statue and bust decorating the circular walkway around the main hall, behind the pilaster of the Ionian columns, there was another dishonest selective reference to Marxism-Siderism, whatever that even meant in these days of National Communism—an ideology which was red-washed fascism in everything but name.

“It is apparent,” Papadopoulos heard the man beside him say, just as his eyelids were about to close. “That you are no politician, Comrade Finance Minister.”

Papadopoulos turned and faced the slender, bald figure of General Petros Alexandridis, whose metal spectacles were almost the same shade of light grey as his uniform—the uniform of the Director General of the People’s Secret Service, or Laiki Krypteia. “I am a technocrat,” Papadopoulos admitted, shrugging. “I joined the People’s Government to reform Pelasgia and to help improve the common people’s lot, not to pontificate about dialectical Marxism.”

“That is also apparent, Comrade Minister,” the Director continued, impassionate and cold-faced as ever. “I, for one, applaud you for it. Pelasgia needs more skilled, devoted men like you—and less mindless zealots. Now, as for our dear Comrade Vice-Premier… I’m not sure he would agree.”

Papadopoulos looked ahead at the speech-giving Vasileiadis. He knew were this was going. Alexandridis was standing in for the Militarists’ candidate, General Ioannopoulos—and Papadopoulos for the Reformers’, Premier Ploumidis. Alexandridis was making an offer to work together to defeat the Hardliners and their candidate, Vasileiadis—but why so early? Why had the military come out of its vantage point as a neutral king-maker playing both sides to pick a horse? What had changed?

Papadopoulos leaned toward Alexandridis. “Comrade Director, I see that we see eye-to-eye. Though I wonder what has caused this… sudden outreach of yours, so early in the process of selecting a new Chairman. Has something happened that I should know about?”

“Not yet, Comrade Minister,” Alexandridis replied. “Not yet, but perhaps soon. My sources have been... telling me things. And if anything happens, I fear that Vasileiadis and company might use that to… delegitimize more than one faction in Propontis. All but their own, as a matter of fact. You know how hazardous to one’s health that is in our capital city.”

Papadopoulos nodded. “Indeed, I do. In that case, it might do us both well to start working on a plan for cooperation, just in case. After all, our two sides have worked together so well for so long. What do the Engells say again? ‘The Devil I know’…”

---​

Nivesta, Diospolis Prefecture, Pelagonia Province, Pelasgia
07/03/2022 | 06:15

Angelina held out her hand in front of Vogatsis’ face, causing him to stop. She shined her flashlight on a metal grate and knocked on it thrice. Two knocks answered from the other side, and she responded with three of her own.

The grate opened, finally revealing the object of Vogatsis’ trip: a man, grey-haired and tall, but also slightly weighty, with deep blue eyes like Angelina’s. There was no doubt that this was Ion Sinas. Vogatsis would have been relieved—but he was not.

“Pointing a gun at your own daughter?” the Pelasgian Captain asked, nodding toward the muzzle of Ion’s rifle, which faced the duo in the tunnel.

“One can never be too safe,” Ion responded. “You of all people should know how the Krypteia operates.”

“I’ve never had the pleasure, thankfully. Not directly, at least.”

Ion lowered his rifle and motioned them inside. “Captain Vogatsis, I take it?”

“Of course. Who else would bother climbing up this rock?”

Ion stopped and looked over his shoulder. “You’d be surprised. If we had time—and a shovel—I’d give you a list.”

Vogatsis froze for a moment, but he betrayed no outwardly emotion. He knew better than to show fear in front of a man whose intentions were unclear.

“So, you’re here to finally discuss an alliance between you White Pelasgians and my people,” Ion continued, setting his rifle on a table and offering Vogatsis a seat. Without a word, Angelina went to fetch some tea with honey and almond biscuits.

“That’s the gist of it, yes,” Vogatsis answered. “Neither one of us can defeat the Reds out here, not that we haven’t tried.”

Ion sighed and nodded. “That much is clear. We’ve been fighting you Pelasgians out here on the mountains for some one hundred years, ever since the days of your Militarist Junta. Look where that’s gotten us… And as for you, you found out just how capable your repressive machinery is in the last sixty years or so, isn’t that the case?”

Vogatsis preferred not to give Ion that pleasure. Instead, he turned to thank Angelina for bringing him a guest’s treats before continuing. “We’ll never win against the Reds if we continue doing as we have… They’ll do the same thing they’ve always done: isolate us and destroy us in detail. With their new technology—drones, thermal sights, surveillance systems—it’s practically suicide.”

“You’re telling me nothing I don’t know,” Ion answered annoyedly. “Just last week, I lost three of my best men to one of your drones. Now, do you have any original ideas on how to deal with the Army? Being a Captain and all…”

Vogatsis pretended to ignore Ion’s snarky tone, passing it off as the lashing out of a commander who had just lost his men. “I do. We can’t win up here, so we need to fight them where it matters—where their weakness can be seen, even by our mere presence: in the cities. A single hit-and-run attack there can cause much more damage to the Reds’ actual tool of control—fear and the appearance of omnipotence—than any military victory in some backwater.”

Ion leaned forward. “You think I haven’t considered it? But the risks are immense. Pelasgian cities are some of the most surveilled places on earth. Internal passports, cameras everywhere, face-tracking software, and now this new ‘social credit’ experimental initiative they’re trying in Tephanon. We can hardly make it in, let alone carry out an attack and make it out. It’s suicide.”

“For you,” Vogatsis responded. “Not for us. We’re in already. We’re Pelasgians, we have people there. And, more importantly, we have people within the state apparatus. You just need to keep up your struggle here—under our common banner. We need to appear as one united front, striking everywhere at once. If we do that, we have a chance of exposing the Reds’ weakness.”

Ion leaned back and rubbed his chin, pondering. “You make a good point. This could work. But how would this translate to actually overturning the Reds. You don’t expect a revolution, at least one that could content with the repressive apparatus of your ‘State of Steel’?”

Vogatsis shook his head. “I don’t. But the Reds themselves are ripping themselves apart right now. Drakos is moribund, and they’re fighting over his succession. Politely, in congress, but fighting nonetheless. Whoever wins is bound to purge the losers, which will make them desperate. If we play our cards right, we could convince some within Propontis itself to overturn the regime, by showing that the people will no longer put up with it and want change. Our attacks will no doubt make the Reds more paranoid and make them denounce each other as our accomplice; and then, those on the more demonized side will have no choice but to take our side. The people will praise our unwilling ally if he does so, while the winners of the SEKP power struggle will show him no mercy if he fails or does nothing.”

Ion frowned. “So our best hope is for some reformer bigwig in Propontis to have ‘a canyon before him and a stream behind him,’ as the saying goes?”

“Yes,” Vogatsis said, nodding. ”It’s our best and only hope.”​

 

[Pelasgia]

Nivesta, Diospolis Prefecture, Pelagonia Province, Pelasgia
13/03/2022 | 07:00

The sun rose over Nivesta, illuminating the white snow covering its pale stone streets. The tall stony houses of the mountainous town, with their bronze roofs, appeared like metal pillars amidst the early spring morrow on the Pelagonian Highlands.

“A beautiful sight,” said Kosmas, a half-Pelasgian who was Ion’s most trusted lieutenant in spite of his mixed origin. Doukopoulos the others called him, due to his Pelasgian half’s noble origins—he could not exactly betray the Tivyrian cause to the Reds even if he wanted to.

Ion nodded. His eyes focused on a small red spot, disrupting the pale white veil covering his hometown’s earth. The spot was next to two others, which were next to even more; slowly, his eyes shifted to the right, where the wintery veil turned red and bloody. “So,” Ion said, gazing at the corpses of two slain People’s Militia officers beside their shot-up patrol car. “How long do you give it till the Revolutionary Guard get here?”

Kosmas picked up a headset from the table beside him and placed on earphone on his ear. “Judging by the chatter on the Pelasgian cops’ radio, I’d give it a couple of hours at most. They probably want to get a large force in from Diospolis to make sure they have a crashing advantage. The cops of the People's Militia know they can't handle it on their own, so they're asking the Guard to bring in their militarised units.”

“Cowards,” Ion said, shaking his head calmly. “Once they figure out the locals are helping us and they can’t win conventionally, they’ll probably level the whole village—all twenty-five thousand souls.”

Kosmas turned to Ion, who looked back at him—apart from his mother’s green eyes, Kosmas otherwise took after his Pelasgian father completely, olive skinned and dark haired and all. “Isn’t that the plan, domn Comandant? Make a heroic last stand here to show all dissidents, Tivyrian and Pelasgian alike, the need to fight and to thereby unite them?”

Ion smiled. He always found Kosmas’ accent when speaking Tivyrian endearing, for it reminded him of his own late wife’s—she had been raised in the prefectural capital, Diospolis, to a pelasgised bourgeois family and therefore spoke her parents’ own mother tongue almost as if it were a foreign or second language. “Indeed, that is the plan, Kosmas.” He sighed. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not a pity. The locals won’t be able to enjoy this beautiful morrow—and neither will we.”

---

Aspropol, Pelasgia
03/09/1947 | 18:00

Splat! Vasilis felt the instructor’s olive-wood rod strike his palm yet again. His whole body shook with pain, but he dared not utter a single word.

“For the last time, Ippeus,” the instructor said, his eyes blazing behind a pair of tiny spectacles. “When I say I want those pots cleaned, I went them to be as spotless as the Empress’ mirror. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir!” Vasilis answered, still holding out his hand.

“Hmm,” the instructor murmured. “Well then—you’ll be on dish-washing duty for the rest of the week. You’ll have plenty of opportunity to learn. As for motivation… I don’t expect your morale to be waning?”

“No, sir!” Vasilis cried. A drop of blood dripped from his palm onto the floor below.

“Good. Dismissed.”

Vasilis saluted with his bloodied hand, before turning around and walking to his bunk. The instructor scanned the room while coiling his mustache and, content that he had sufficiently terrorised the boys in his care, made his way out of the room.

Stefanos, Vasilis’ best friend run up to him, calling him by his nickname. “Rigas!” Stefanos took his friend’s hand and started to patch it up as well as he could. “You can’t keep this up. You have to stand up to him. Either that or we can run away.”

“Run away?” Vasilis “Rigas” Ippeus answered. “Where to? Your uncle is the only family you’ve left, and he’s no better. As for me, I’ve nobody left in the world. This military orphanage is all that I have.”

“We’re too young to give our lives away to these monsters,” Stefanos answered. “We’re orphans, not animals. They can’t treat us like this!”

“Oh, can’t they? Scientists say humans are animals anyway,” Vasilis “Rigas” shot back. “I say this is the only home we’ll ever get—might as well make the most of it. Everyone knows that the army is the true power in Pelasgia; even the imperial dynasties seize the Throne by force of arms.”

Stafanos shook his head, putting a gauze over his friend’s wound after cleaning it. “So, what are to do then? Just put up with this until we turn 16 and they send us off to officer school?”

“Yes,” the other responded. “That is precisely what we’ll do. Don’t you see? They’ve given us an immense opportunity. If we want to change Pelasgia—to make sure that people like us don’t have to live in a place like this—we have to stick around and make it through. I don’t curse the Emperor or the Grand Logothete; on the contrary, I think they’ve given us an immense opportunity to change things for the better—whether they intended to or not.”

Author's note: Pelasgian children are generally named after their grandparents. Thus, the paternal grandson of Vasilis Ippeus would share his name, the same being true for the grandson of Stefanos Vogatsis. Generations may sometimes be easily distinguished by the patronymic (the genitive form of the father's name, which is inserted as a middle name); however, children born out of wedlock lack a patronymic. Instead a blank, X, or the official designation "of an unknown father" (agnostou patros) may be used.​

 

[Pelasgia]

Diospolis, Pelagonia Province, Pelasgia
15/03/2021 | 15:00

"They're tenacious bastards, these Muntenians," Kostas said, turning to his colleague, Panagiotis.

The other kept his eyes on the screen, monitoring the thermal display of the feed from his

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. "Yeah, they are. They've been holding out against the Guard for nearly three days now."

Kostas turned to his own display. The grey silhouettes of ruined buildings and clouds of smoke were all the he could see, both inside and outside the light blue targeting reticle. They had been pummeling the village of Nivesta for some two days--and still, though the whole area had largely been reduced to rubble, the locals kept on fighting, defying the Pelasgian war machine to their last dying breath.

"Command said to focus on sector B3," Panagiotis added. "Apparently, one of our mechanised units is taking small arms and PKCh* fire from there."
*The Pelasgian term for an RPG, which stands for Pyravlokiniti Cheirovomvida.

Kostas limited his response to an affirmative hum. He scanned the new sector of focus for contacts and found it about as deserted, ruined, and lifeless as the old. His reticle passed the bright white silhouettes of the Revolutionary Guard's own APCs and foot mobile troopers, who had retreated to cover closer to the ruins of the settlement's old church until-- there! Kostas spotted a bright white figure against the backdrop of all the grey, standing in the window of a slightly damaged but still standing residential building. "Contact, three story building half a click northwest of the church."

"See their weapons?" Panagiotis inquired. “The PKCh team is a priority target.”

Kostas zoomed in and frowned. "Weapons? Looks to me like an unarmed woman on the window."

"Neutralize them," Panagiotis ordered.

Kostas turned to him in perplexion. "Neutralize? They've no weapons, it's probably some grandmother!"

Panagiotis did not even return Kostas' gaze as he responded. "Command said 'immediate amputation from the body politic'; that was for anyone in the settlement who has not evacuated and surrendered to the Revolutionary Guard. Doesn't look to me like she has--so for all we know, she's hiding the terrorists and spotting our guys for them."

"That's absurd!" Kostas protested. "We can't just shoot innocent civilians."

"They're not civilians; they're hostile combatants." Panagiotis retorted with an imperious tone. "It's their fault if they're dumb enough to go into the combat zone unarmed--not that it would make a difference against our drones. Now press that damn firing button, or we'll both end up getting 'amputated from the body politic' in their stead."

Kostas gritted his teeth. He muffled a prayer under his breath and pressed the button. A moment later, the beautiful stone building--or what was left of it--exploded into a thousand pieces inside a bright white flash and a cloud of smoke and debris. As the debris settled down, Kostas was confident that no contacts remained; and the Revolutionary Guard troops were free to continue their mop-up operation by advancing into the western half of the village.

---

Aspropol, Pelagonia Province, Pelasgia
14/03/1960 | 15:45

“And with that, Comrade,” Stefanos said, offering a toast of wine, “we’re finally officers in the Pelasgian Army.”

“The Pelasgian People’s Army,” Vasilis said, answering his friend’s toast.

“Semantics,” Stefanos joked, as his recently betrothed played with the red star on his cap. Laughter echoed throughout the taverna, where dozens of their classmates were assembled around humble wooden tables with fabric tablecloths.

“It never hurts to be careful about such semantics in our country, Comrade Second Lieutenant,” Vasilis “Rigas” noted, drawing his own beloved nearer.

“In any case,” Stefanos answered. “Me and Maria have some exciting news: we’re expecting! And, what’s more, we want you to be the godparents.”

“Oh my God,” Alexia, Vasilis’ wife exclaimed, practically beaming with joy. “I’m so happy for you!”

“Congratulations!” Vasilis himself added. “But are you sure you want it to be us? I don’t exactly have much experience in what being a godfather is like… Maybe one of our instructors?”

“Don’t even think of refusing,” Stefanos said, shaking his head. “You’re like a brother to me, and you’re the best man I know. That should be more than enough; and, anyway, under this new regime, I’m sure nobody will care all that much if you fail in the religious aspect of godfatherhood.”

The four young people laughed once more, sharing another drink. They had long careers ahead of them, and longer lives still. The others at the tavern laughed too, as carelessly as children; the Revolution was still young, but she had already thrown of the yoke of the omnipresent and omnipotent Orthodox Church. Surely, life could only get freer and happier from here on out…​

 

[Pelasgia]

Hagios Simeon District, Propontis, Pelasgia
23/03/2022 | 10:00

"He's dead!" Stefanos Vogatsis cried as he ran into the room, newspaper in hand. Climbing up the narrow ladder leading to the tight second-floor apartment, Vogatsis had not even bothered to stop and ask where exactly Angelina was; instead, he allowed himself the pleasure of going around the house shouting the news through every room. "He's dead!"

First the tight kitchen, then dining room--and finally the living room with its large balcony window, which looked out into the all-white buildings that formed most housing in the planned suburb of Ankystri, just outside Hagios Simeon, the more affluent and less busy of Propontis' two main ports. Panting, Stefanos stopped as he caught Angelina's slim figure facing the window.

"Angelina!" he said. "He's dead! Marshal Drakos is dead!"

"Oh?" Angelina said dispassionately. "Good news, I guess."

Panting still, Stefanos frowned. This was the man who had done more than any in the world to make the life of her family and her people into hell--and his death did not move her? Shaking his head, he approached her. "What's the matter?" he asked, touching her shoulder.

She turned and faced him, pistol in hand. "Don't you dare touch me!" This time, she removed the safety--Stefanos recoiled. "We have to keep up this charade for the neighbours not to notice, but I'm not your friend--or anything else."

"I never said you were," Stefanos retorted, taken aback. "But we're allies. And we can't work together if you don't tell me-

"Allies?" Angelina barked. "Allies?!" She removed a copy of the émigré newspaper

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from her pocket and threw it on the table beside the sofa. "My father is dead! My whole community is dead! You knew this was going to happen, didn't you?"

Stefanos sighed. "That was the likely outcome, yes."

Holding back tears, Angelina slammed her fist into Stefanos' chest. "Then why didn't you tell me? I didn't even get a chance to say a proper goodbye!"

Stefanos sharpened up, as if he were addressing a subordinate. "Your father told me not to. He judged that, if you were to know of the nature of our plan, you would never have left his side."

"So what was the nature of your plan? Die at the hands of the Red Guards?"

"Yes," Stefanos admitted. "Die and make a last stand to unify the warring factions fighting against the Reds. It was your father's idea. I tried to talk him out of it, but, in the end, I had to admit that he was right."

Angelina let out a pained cry and slammed the barrel of the pistol into Stefanos' arm. "Had to? Had to?! You... You..."

Stefanos grabbed the pistol by the barrel and pointed it straight at his own heart. "If you want to shoot me do it now. Otherwise we don't have time to waste. Do you think you're the only person in Pelasgia who's lost loved ones to the Reds? Who's had to sacrifice? I bear the name of Lieutenant Stefanos Kyriakou Vogatsis--a man whose refusal to kowtow to Comrade Dokeiatis' thugs got my family blacklisted right until my generation. Do you think it was easy for my parents to denounce my own grandfather and thank Comrade Drakos for 'forgiving' him?" Angelina opened her mouth to respond, but Stefanos shook her from the pistol grip and cut her off. "Now, if you're going to pull the trigger do it. Otherwise, I suggest you save it for the Red Guards. We have our first hit coming up, and I assure you it will involve a lot of killing. If you've got the stomach for it."

Angelina gulped. She stared at Stefanos with pure hatred and drew her finger closer to the trigger--but, at the last minute she let go. After putting the safety back on, she threw her pistol aside, onto the sofa. Without a word, Stefanos Vogatsis started for the exit, but, at the last minute, he paused at before exiting. "If you want, I can get you a list of those killed and those yet living at Nivesta. My people have connections inside Military Counter-Intel."

"What good will it do?" Angelina asked. "I'll find out eventually."

"It will let you know which of your friends are still alive, and which need a burial," Stefanos answered. "Surely you'd want to know that sooner, rather than later."

Sobbing, Angelina nodded. "Yes. Yes, I suppose you're right."

---

Propontis, Pelasgia
23/03/1968 | 20:30

Maria turned up the volume of the radio set to its highest—it was playing a speech by Chairman Ioannis Dokeiatis, that moribund tyrant of the newborn People’s Republic, so no one would dare tell them to turn it down.

“Listen to me!” Stefanos implored Vasilis. “I don’t care how long we’ve been friends or about principles: denounce me, cut me off, never talk to me or mine again. If we stay in touch, we’ll both be ruined.”

Vasilis “Rigas” hardly had the strength in him to look up; he sat at the table, surrounded by empty bottles of retsina—Pelasgian resonated wine, the everyday people’s cheap drink—with tears in his eyes. “You’re like a brother to me, Stefanos…”

Stefanos slammed his fist on the table. “Yes, and that’s why I’m asking you to denounce me like the others! If you die with me here, for nothing, then we’ll never be able to fulfill we made to each other all those years ago at the orphanage. I tried to keep it, but I was too reckless, and I suffered the fate of Icarus; you, my friend, should be slower, more careful. Keep climbing up the ladder of the army. And, one day, when there’s a chance for reform, you can help it happen.”

Vasilis shook his head. “I thought with the Revolution, things would change…”

Stefanos touched his brotherly friend’s shoulder. “So did I, so did we all. But alas, when man makes plans…”

Vasilis laughed bitterly. “… God laughs.” He turned toward the living room, were Maria was seated in the sofa, supporting her head with both hands. “What about your family? Maria, your children?”

“I’ve asked her to divorce me—it took some convincing, but it’s the only way they won’t purge her with me. She’ll take the kids, and they’ll be safe with her. The Reds love breaking up families.”

Vasilis sighed deeply. “They’ll be here, in Propontis?”

“No," Stefanos explained, shaking his head. "They’re going back to her parents’, near Diospolis. It’s better that way—they’ll be away from the capital, away from the danger of politics.”

Vasilis nodded. “If they need any help…”

“I know, my friend,” Stefanos interrupted him. “Thank you. But it’s best you keep away for a while, until things have calmed down at least. Who knows? Maybe if a generation or two, my family will have been rehabilitated, and both our grandsons will be wearing the olive green together.”

Vasilis allowed a faint, bitter laughter to escape him. “Yeah, I suppose so. Mother Pelasgia really does have a way of eating her own children…”​

 

[Pelasgia]

Propontis, Pelasgia
25/03/2022 | 09:00

Aristeidis Ophiotelis slammed his fist on the table so hard the chandelier above it shook. "Need I remind you," he said, nearly shouting, "that our Party's strength depends on its ability to assure that People, but also the Enemies of the People, of its supreme and absolute control over the country and all within it? How can the Dictatorship of the Proletariat effect the reforms needed to bring about a new, just world, when we can't even assert absolute military control over our own capital?" The Chairman of the People's Assembly paused for dramatic effect; the other members of the Politburo slightly roused themselves, hoping that he had perhaps finished his tirade. Alas, he was only taking a momentary break.

“The Reformers’ weakness has brought us here!" he proclaimed, much to his interlocutors' disappointment. "First that farce, that Vendée Rising in Pelagonia that we had to put down brutally to great international embarrassment; and now attacks on Organs of the People’s State in the very suburbs of our capital city during a period of official mourning!"

A tired sigh by General Alexios Ioannopoulos, the Minister of Defence, merely served to focus Ophiotelis' wrath on him in particular. "And let us not forget the apparent inadequacy of our military, whose carelessness has allowed this to occur at an almost treasonous scale… Or am I to think that the White Guards procured military-grade explosives at the Central Municipal Market? Unless of course, this was not the result of mere incompetence..."

Ioannopoulos, not in the least bit impressed by Ophiotelis' antics, looked the Hardliner politician straight in the eye. "What are you asserting, Comrade? Do you doubt the loyalty of the People's Armed Forces to the State?"

"These terrorists who killed Guards of the Revolution used military-tier explosives," Ophiotelis retorted, defiantly. "And whom must they have gotten them from, Comrade General? I ask you directly: are there White Guards within your ranks? If so, it would do you well to apprehend and punish them—and all those whose incompetence enabled such infiltration—as soon as possible. Failure or delay in doing so might make one suspect where the military’s loyalties truly lie…”

Andreas Vasileiadis, the Vice-Premier, Procurator General, and Acting Chairman (who also happened to be the Hardliners candidate for permanent Head of State) raised his hand. "That's enough, Comrade. I think the point has been made." He turned to Ioannopoulos. "In light of these developments, I declare that the People’s Revolutionary Guard will be taking over the guard of the capital until such a time as stability and normalcy are restored—to protect the Revolution from enemies both internal and external. It is apparent that the military alone can no longer ensure our safety.”

Ioannopoulos was burning with hatred but he uttered not a word of protest. He merely nodded in silence. On the inside, however, his thoughts were clear: "You want to play, you bastards? You've won this battle alright--but we'll see who'll win the war." He turned to Ophiotelis, who, for a moment, seemed smugly satisfied with himself, before he concealed his feelings once again. "He thinks he's neutralized us by kicking my men out of Propontis and holding me hostage," Ioannopoulos reasoned. "If only these fools knew..."

---

Selymbria Army Base, Outskirts of Propontis, Pelasgia
24/03/2022 | 20:00

A blood-chilling cry echoed through the room, followed by the light of an electric current. It only lasted for a moment, and then the screaming man panted.

Colonel Rigas Ippeus grabbed the man by the collar of the torn remnants of his Sergeant's uniform. "For the last time, Quartermaster: who did you give those explosives to?"

"I swear," Sergeant Viglakis said between pained breaths. "I was just a normal requisition. I didn't mean-

"Colonel," Anna said, interrupted the man. "Our bait has worked, it seems. I arranged a meeting in the Quartermaster's stead with the woman."

"Are you sure it is her, Lieutenant?" the Colonel asked.

Anna nodded. "I'm positive, Colonel. She matches the description perfectly, and she immediately agreed to meet when I mentioned a deal to smuggle the Sergeant here out of the city."

The Colonel turned and faced Sergeant Viglakis' bloodied face for a moment before shoving him back into the chair. "Let's go, Lieutenant. Good work."

Anna handed him his peaked cap and followed in locked step. "What about the Quartermaster?" she said in a lower voice.

"What about him?" the Colonel answered nonchalantly. "Leave that murderous, treasonous scum to the Military Police. They'll try him and dispose of him."

"He killed over a dozen Revolutionary Guards, sir," Anna noted.

"So?" Colonel Ippeus inquired. "He still deserves a trial. We can't hope to build a new, better country if we go around killing people without trial--that's what thugs like the White Guards do."

Anna whispered between faked coughing. "Or the Revolutionary Guards."

"Yes," the Colonel admitted. "Or them."

Anna smiled but said nothing. She liked to test the Colonel's convictions every now and then--and, so far, he had managed to stay true to them. In some ten years in Military Counterintelligence, he was the one man she could trust to do so, much as her favourite uncle (and Ippeus' mentor) had assured her upon assigning her to be his adjutant.​

 

[Pelasgia]

Propontis, Pelasgia
17/11/1998 | 17:53

Rigas fixed the oversized peaked cap he was wearing and continued to march. His grandfather, Vasilis, smiled but said nothing—he was accustomed to Rigas' antics. His grandmother wished to say something, but alas, she had a soft spot for the little pretend-officer. After all, he was his grandfather’s spitting image.

The boy went through the elderly couple’s small apartment as if he were a soldier: sometimes he paraded, other times he inspected the battalions of toy soldiers arranged on the floor, and others still he ran around as if he were in battle. The apartment itself was not particularly spacious, nor was it too cramped; it was typical of middle class planned housing, built in the National Communist regime’s favourite simplified neoclassical style and given to functionaries, military officers, and other organs of the state—both working and retired.

“Grandpa,” Rigas called out, pausing before a small table at the corner of the living room where he had arrayed a series of plastic army officers to inspect his own parade.

“Yes, my boy?” Vasilis Ippeus answered.

“Who is that man? The one next to you.”

Vasilis’ gaze shifted to an old black and white photo of him in uniform, from back in his graduation days. He sighed deeply and took the photo in hand. “That’s Stefanos Vogatsis. He used to be a Second Lieutenant I was good friends with; we grew up and went to the Academy together, you see.”

Rigas frowned. “Used to be? I thought officers kept their ranks even after passing away.”

“Yes, yes they do,” Vasilis replied after a moment’s hesitation. “But he was stripped of his rank for… well, those were different times. Bad times.”

Rigas reflected for a moment. “Where is he now, grandpa?”

“If only I knew.”

---

Propontis, Pelasgia
26/03/2022 | 23:50

Stefanos checked his watch before turning to Angelina. “Are you sure about this?”

“I am,” she said, looking out the tinted car window. “What time is it?”

“Half-past eleven,” Stefanos answered.

Angelina hummed triumphantly and pointed at a lone figure that emerged into the empty parking lot. “Not a moment too soon.” She moved to open the door, but Stefanos grabbed her arm.

“What if it’s a trap?”

“It’s just a woman,” Angelina replied. “Since when does your Military Police employ women? Anyway, the message really came from Viglakis—you yourself said there was no way they would have gotten to him that quickly.”

Stefanos let go and sighed. “I’ll stay here and keep watch.” He opened his coat to show a pistol.

Angelina nodded. “Before I go… Sorry for the other day.”

Stefanos nodded in turn. “What about the first time we met?”

“What about it?” Angelina answered. “That time, I was entirely justified in aiming a gun at you.”

As she closed the door behind her, Stefanos shook his head and mumbled. “Yeah, well, at least I taught you how to use one properly the second time.”

Angelina continued on her way to the parking lot, where the lone woman awaited. She was slightly tall for a woman, about the same height as most men, even as she was hunched forward and frightenedly looking around. She had her arms crossed, even though she was wearing a long, warm coat—clearly, she was either not used to being out in the cold, or she was rather afraid. “You’re Sergeant Viglakis’ daughter-in-law?” Angelina asked her.

“Depends on who’s asking,” the woman responded, her brown eyes meeting Angelina’s deep blow gaze. She took a step back.

“Elena,” Angelina replied, stepping closer. “We spoke on the phone yesterday. I’m here to help get him out of Propontis.”

At once, the woman’s face went from feigned fear to confidence. She reached into her coat and faced Angelina directly. “In that case,” she announced, “let me introduce myself properly.” She removed a pistol from within her coat and aimed it at Angelina. “I’m Lieutenant Anna Geraka of the People’s Secret Service, Military Counterintelligence Directorate. I’m placing you under arrest. Please do not resist.”​

 

[Pelasgia]

Propontis, Pelasgia
27/03/2022 | 00:05

“Fuck!” Stefanos swore under his breath as he pulled out his pistol and rushed out of the car. “I should have never let her do this.” Running up to Anna, he pointed his officer’s sidearm with its characteristic red star at her. “Don’t do anything stupid!”

“I would say the same to you,” said a voice from Stefanos’ left. Before he could even look that way, Stefanos heard the sound of a weapon being armed—a

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, if the Captain's mind was not tricking him.

“I decided to bring out something a bit bigger—just in case you were at least smart enough to wear a set of plates under your clothes, Captain.”

“Who are you?” Stefanos barked. “And how do you know who I am?”

“It doesn’t take a genius to recognise that pistol of yours,” the man replied. “I’ve got one too, and you only get it from the rank of Captain and up—though only you lower officers are actually foolish enough to do anything with yours but put in a display case.” The man took a step closer. “Now, don’t make me ask again: throw down your pistol and put your hands in the air.”

Stefanos groaned. He wished to threaten this Lieutenant Geraka, but he knew all too well how little the Krypteia people cared about sacrificing agents—especially those they would use as bait. That aside, even if he did kill her, he was still faced with a man out of his line of sight, who was wielding a weapon that could kill both him and Angelina in a single burst. Stefanos had lost and he knew it: he threw down his pistol and did as commanded. “So, what now? You shoot me?”

“Shoot you?” the man asked. “That’s for the firing squad. I’m here to arrest you, question you, and then bring you to justice. But first, let me introduce myself: Colonel Rigas Ippeus. I’m the superior of Lieutenant Geraka over here. I believe you’ve had the pleasure. Now, you would be?”

“Captain Stefanos Vogatsis. 1st Mountain Raider Regiment.”

Rigas was stunned. “Vogatsis? Are you any relation of the Second Lieutenant by that same name?”

Vogatsis frowned; he looked at Rigas slightly before answering. “He’s my grandfather. What’s he to you? And what did you say your name was again? Ippeas?”

“Ippeus,” Rigas said, trying to recall the face of that black-and-white photo from his grandfather’s living room. The nose, the shape of the eyes, the width of the shoulders, the height… there was something there alright. But he was a traitor—he had to be. Why else would he have been stripped of his rank? Even if it had been during the years of Chairman Dokeiatis’ Red Terror…

“Ippeus?” Vogatsis demanded. “Like Second Lieutenant Vasilis Ippeus? My grandfather had a brotherly friend by that name. They grew up together, all the way from the orphanage and to the Academy. They had a plan to change this country together, you know. Until the Reds turned it into a despotate worse than that of the Laskarid Dynasty…”

“My grandfather did not associate with traitors,” Rigas responded, gripping his weapon more tightly. “I looked your grandfather up some years ago. Turns out mine denounced him—so that’s that.”

“He denounced him because mine asked him to—my father told me as much, and even showed me a secret letter to that effect. Same reason my grandmother divorced my grandfather. Is this really the system you want fight to defend?”

“I will not be lectured by the terrorist, murderer grandson of a traitor!” Rigas replied.

Stefanos turned to fully face Rigas. “Really? Would you rather a Revolutionary Guardsman? I hear they’re very much in the business of murdering innocents. My colleague here is from Nivesta. She hasn’t a family member left.”

Rigas shot a glance at Angelina, whose deep blue eyes looked right back him. She was the spitting image of a Muntenian—and her piercing gaze left no doubt as to the veracity of the Captain’s words. “So,” he asked. “What’s your big plan then? To blow up all the Revolutionary Guard bases in Pelasgia? To ‘liberate’ our fatherland one mountain hamlet at a time?”

“I’ve no delusions,” Stefanos replied. “What the White Guards have been for decades doing is not working. But that’s why we allied with the Muntenians. That’s why we decided to change our strategy. We’re not the ones who can change this country but you are.”

“We?” Rigas demanded.

“Yes, you. The military, the Krypteia, the technocrats of the Premier’s faction. You can curb-stomp the Reds—the real Reds, the Hardliners, now that they’re weakened. You can eliminate them for good. Our actions were meant to give you both the motive and the opportunity to do just that. So my proposal is this: leave me and my confederate be. Let us go, let us go pretend the whole thing was orchestrated by the Reds and talk our people into stopping all attacks once you make your move.”

Rigas pondered for a moment. “Why should I trust you? You’re a terrorist.”

Stefanos lowered his hands and looked Rigas straight in the eye. “Because, deep down, you know that I am right—and that the Revolutionary Guards and their Hardliner masters are wrong. They’re savages who will bring this country back to the days of Dokeiatis and his purges at the first chance they get.”

“The army is in charge now. That’ll never happen.”

“That’s we thought back in the day too… And look where we are. Right now, you’re always on the knife’s edge—one misstep away from falling down and dying. If you want to ensure that the terror never returns, this is your chance to do so, once and for all. You’ll never get another.”

Rigas groaned anew. The souls of sixteen men in uniform, the souls of their families and comrades cried to him in pain, seeking justice—and yet, louder still was the cry of his own soul, and of that of his late grandfather, still weeping over that old photograph of a long lost friend. He knew what had to be done; and he aimed his pistol away from the two captives. “You’ll pause your campaign of terror then?”

“Of course,” Stefanos replied. “It’s the only way for my plan to work.”

“We’ll be keeping your friend here as insurance,” Rigas noted, only for Stefanos to shake his head.

“Without her, I can’t control the Muntenians—or do you plan to massacre all of them?”

Rigas sighed angrily, but he understood. “Fine, you can have her. Lieutenant.”

Almost instantaneously, Anna lowered her pistol and motioned Angelina away.

Rigas now lowered his rifle completely and pointed his finger at Stefanos. “We’re on board for now. But know that if you betray me, you’re both dead.”

Stefanos shrugged. “If we betray you, or if you fail, we’re all dead.”

With that, Rigas started to walk away and motioned Anna to follow him. “Come Lieutenant,” he said. “We’ve got to meet with Brigadier Papadopoulos right away.”

“What for, sir?” Anna asked, her voice filled with apprehension.

“I’ve got a plan to submit to his consideration,” Rigas explained. “And you’re the late Directorate founder’s niece, so he can’t exactly refuse to have us over if you’re with me. Let’s say it’s a social visit—to drink to the honour of the late General Gerakas.”

Anna smiled. Yet again, her uncle’s judgment of the Colonel’s character had been proved right.​

 

[Pelasgia]

Propontis-Selymbria Highway, Pelagonia Province, Pelasgia
27/03/2022 | 05:30

“City’s closed by urgent order of the Council of State,” Captain Konstantinidis said for what felt like the millionth time that morning.

“What do you mean it’s closed?” the trucker asked, outraged. “I was told that the normal flow of traffic would not be disrupted.”

“That was last week,” Konstantinidis clarified. “New order just came out an hour ago. You can wait at the highway stop or you can turn back, but you can’t come through. Now, turn around, or-

“Captain!” cried Papadakis, one of Konstantinidis’ subordinates, as he run up to the toll booth where the Revolutionary Guard had set up its cordon checkpoint.

“What is it?” Konstantinidis demanded.

The other wiped the sweat off his brow. “Sir, there’s a new convoy coming in—and there’s no stopping this one.”

Konstantinidis looked behind him and his jaw dropped. “Oh, damn the moment I was born!”

---

Propontis, Pelasgia
27/03/2022 | 06:00

“We have reports of military convoys entering the Capital City’s cordon and replacing Revolutionary Guard garrisons with their own troops, Comrade,” said one of People’s Assembly Chairman Ophiotelis; aides. The tall, grey man had lost track of which one it was, brushing him off as if he were annoying fly preventing him from adjusting his glasses in peace.

“Whatever!” Ophiotelis barked. “We’ll ask the General for an explanation when he gets here to answer for far graver deeds.” Like a force of nature, the most senior politician in the Socialist Workers’ Party slammed open the door of the Politburo chamber and barged in, neglecting to even sit at the large conference table before starting his tirade. “General Ioannopoulos! What is the meaning of this?”

“There should be a ‘comrade’ somewhere in there, Comrade Ophiotelis,” a sitting Ioannopoulos responded unphased as ever. “To answer your question, I merely presented myself here as instructed.”

“Do you take me for a fool?” Ophiotelis demanded.

“Military forces are pouring into the city. Were you aware of this comrade?” Acting Chairman Vasileiadis inquired in turn, as Premier Ploumidis entered, with Finance Minister Papadopoulos in tow, followed by the leadership of the Krypteia.

“Comrades,” said Krypteia Director Alexandridis as he entered the room, “Please settle down. The purpose of this meeting will be clarified shortly.” Beside him, there was Brigadier Papadopoulos of Division VI (Military Counterintelligence) along with another officer—a Colonel by the looks of his insignia. “Comrades, my subordinates have investigated the recent wave of attacks against the People’s State and they have reached a conclusion as to culpability.”

Vasileiadis leaned forward from his seat at the head of the table. “Is that so?”

Director Alexandridis nodded and motioned the unknown Colonel forward. “This is Colonel Rigas Ippeus of Military Counterintelligence, Sub-Directorate of Internal Political Control. He was in charge of the investigation and has apprehended the culprits.”

“Why were we not informed of this before?” Ophiotelis demanded.

“Because the arrest occurred but a few hours ago,” Alexandridis answered. “That, and there’s another thing. Colonel.”

Rigas stepped forward and saluted before addressing the senior leadership of the People’s Republic. “Comrades, following a thorough investigation, the Krypteia has concluded that the explosives used in the latest attack at Spourgiti Revolutionary Guard Base were indeed military-supplied.” This comment seemed to greatly satisfy both Ophiotelis and Vasileiadis—while it visibly put the Revolutionary Guardsmen guarding the room on edge. “The explosives were supplied by Sergeant Petros Viglakis, Quartermaster General of Selymbria Army Base.”

“Was the Sergeant acting on anyone’s orders?” Ophiotelis asked in a triumphant tone.

“Yes, Comrade,” the Colonel answered. “Yours.”

The entire room froze. Before Ophiotelis could even respond, Brigadier Papadopoulos presented copies of text messages, emails, and even transcripts of conversations between Ophiotelis and various rogue military officials. “The communications say that Comrade Ophiotelis was acting under the authority of ‘Prometheus’—a codename we have concluded to refer to Acting Chairman Vasileiadis,” the Brigadier in charge of the Sub-Directorate of Internal Political Control clarified.

“The very claim is outrageous,” Ophiotelis said. “Why would we do this?”

“For the same reason you assassinated Comrade Drakos,” Alexandridis retorted. “To neutralize the military and seize power over the People’s State.” Alexandridis then presented a toxicological report and a coroner’s report on the death of Chairman Drakos. “We held off on these findings until they could be confirmed—we could not possibly let the people know otherwise—but it is now certain: Chairman Drakos did not die of natural causes; he died due to elevated toxicological levels in his system. And unless the late Chairman Marshal was a drug user or some kind of degenerate—a claim deserving a bullet for any who would dare utter such slander—he must have been poisoned.”

The Revolutionary Guards, now even more agitated, started to approach the Acting Chairman and the presiding magistrate of the People’s Assembly. “What are you doing?” Ophiotelis said. “This is all clearly fabricated!”

“Comrade Andreas Vasileiadis, Comrade Aristeidis Ophiotelis: you are hereby under arrest for conspiring to assassinate the Chairman of the State Council and for conspiring to carry out attacks against the People’s State,” Director Alexandrisis proclaimed. “These deeds fall under the capital crime of high treason. Seize them!”

The Revolutionary Guards proceeded as directed, handcuffing the two powerful men violently. Almost at the same time, an alarm sounded, and blast doors came crushing down, isolating the centre of the Politburo Palace Complex. Then came an announcement from the control room. “Attention: Men of the Krypteia’s Special Prosecution Detachments have converged on palace and are seeking entry to the centre of the complex.”

“You fools!” Ophiotelis shouted. “These traitors have soldiers moving on this Palace and disarming your own colleagues.”

“Our forces are only here to prevent intervention by treasonous units loyal to the Hardliner Putschists,” Director Ioannopoulos explained. “We are not with the military—the Krypteia, the People’s Secret Service, is only loyal to the People’s State. We are a neutral arbiter that you can trust.”

The Revolutionary Guardsmen traded looks, before deciding. “Control,” said the commander. “I am authorising you to open the security gates of the main building.”

The control room complied, and the secured blast doors opened. Within a moment, the light of flashbang grenades filled the room—and the muffled sound of silenced automatic rifles sounded. As the vision of the room’s occupants returned, the Revolutionary Guards lied slain on the floor—as did Vasileiadis and Ophiotelis.

Ioannopoulos, who had fallen to the floor almost by reflex stood up with the help of Director Alexandridis. “I have to admit, your plan was ingenious—and not a day too soon.”

Alexandridis himself turned to Brigadier Papadopoulos and the Colonel. “Thank you, General. But let’s just say the plan was not entirely mine.”​

 

[Pelasgia]

Propontis, Pelasgia
30/03/2022 | 10:50

“Dear passengers: please have your internal passport and ticket with you and ready for inspection at all times. Passengers on train B42 to Diospolis, please be advised: the train will depart in ten minutes.” Thus spoke a calm, female voice, whose hue was so artificial and bureaucratic as to almost appear mechanical. In between the crying of street vendors selling lottery tickets and memorabilia of Asteras Propontis F.C., the Pelasgian capital’s association football club, the average passenger could barely make the message under the hustle and bustle of the busy station.

“Propontis Central Train Station really is something else,” Angelina said, admiring the tall building’s ornate frescoes and large glass domes. The plentiful light entering the neoclassical structure from all sides gave the Tivyrian woman’s pale face as shining appearance to match her wide smile.

“The tourist guides all recommend going through here for a reason,” Captain Stefanos Vogatsis, now dressed in his olive-green officer’s uniform, pointed out. “It’s cleaner than Pyrgos, the capital’s main harbour, at any rate.”

“Pyrgos has a certain charm to it for us Propontines,” answered Colonel Rigas Ippeus. “Next time you’re in the capital, I’ll be glad to show you around.”

“I’ll take you up on that offer,” Vogatsis said in complete seriousness. “You know, I still can’t believe that your plan worked. I’m half-expecting to wake up in some cell any moment now, as if this was all a dream.”

Lieutenant Anna Geraka, dressed in her officer’s uniform just like the Colonel beside her, took it upon herself to answer that last remark. “‘Who dares wins,’ Captain—that is the motto you special forces soldiers are supposed to live by. Our task is far from complete, but we’re committed to seeing it through, whatever it takes.”

“I know,” Vogatsis admitted. “Already, you have secured multi-party elections and the liquidation of the Revolutionary Guard. I’ve no illusion that Socialist Workers’ Party will give up its monopoly on the country's leadership any time soon, or that we won’t get some kind of Red Gendarmerie back in shape in due time. But they’re both significant steps forward; and they show that the Red Terror is truly over and that its instigators are on the way out.”

“We’re doing our part,” Rigas pointed out, as he opened his coat and pulled out a small package to hand to Vogatsis. “But now it’s time for you to do yours.”

Vogatsis took the package and opened it: it was his Captain’s pistol with its characteristic red star. “I gave you my word, and I intend to keep it. As soon as we’re back, I’ll go tell the White Guard network to dissolve most non-essential cells and to place the others in long-term hibernation. As liberalisation progresses, we will shut more and more down, until the whole network withers away.”

“As for me,” Angelina said, bringing the gaze of her deep blue eyes down from the railway station’s elaborate ceiling into those of her interlocutors; “I’ll go back to the Pelagonian Highlands to take up leadership of my father’s clan. With all the men in my family and the other large clans gone, I’ll have to take up the task of leading the local Tivyrians. I have no doubt that it’ll be hard, but I’ll encourage the mountains clans to work with the Pelasgian authorities, rather than throwing any more lives away in an unwinnable insurgency. Hopefully the new regime will be more receptive to our demands; I hear one of the new parties is focused on regional interests and minority advocacy within the confines of the socialist system.”

“The ‘All-Pelasgian Democratic League,’ if memory serves,” Anna answered. “It’s not a perfect solution, but it’s a good first step.”

“If it were so easy to solve, our help wouldn’t be needed,” Vogatsis commented half-seriously.

“Quite right,” Rigas said, checking his watch. “Without wishing to rush you, I think your train is leaving soon.”

“Yes, I think you’re right,” Vogatsis replied. As he and Angelina started to leave, he paused and handed Rigas a small envelope. “Could you mail this for me? It’s a postcard for an old friend—I would have done so this morning, but I couldn’t get up early due to all the drinking we did yesterday.”

Rigas shook his head with a smile. “Certainly, make nothing of it. ‘Till the next time, Comrade Captain, mademoiselle.”

“‘Till the next time, Comrade Colonel, Comrade Lieutenant,” Vogatsis responded as Angelina started to pull him away. “And thank you for everything!”

Rigas and Anna saluted the duo goodbye as they made their way to the high-speed train just as it was about to leave. Once they were aboard, Rigas looked down at the envelope and noticed that the address was his own: ​

Col. Rigas Ippeus, P.P.A., 47 Nikopoleos Street, Propontis 11475.
Συν/χης Ρήγας Ιππέως (Λ.Σ.Π.), Νικοπόλεως 47, Προποντίδα 11475​

He opened the folder and his eyes almost watered: it was a picture of his grandfather, Lt. Vasilis “Rigas” Ippeus, with Lt. Stefanos Vogatsis Sr. With them were their wives—both of whom were visibly pregnant. Rigas turned the photo around, and he saw a note in his grandfather’s unmistakable handwriting:​

Pyrgos, Propontis, 17/07/1960 – From one brotherly friend to another. – V.I..
Εν Πύργω Προποντίδος τηι 17/07/1960 - Εξ ενός φίλου αδελφικού εις τον έτερον. - Β.Ι.​

 

[Pelasgia]

Scutari, Pera Province*, Pelasgia
03/07/2013 | 18:00

Anna studied the fine blue figures covering the surface of the white porcelain cups. How beautifully they came together, forming the shapes of flowers and peacocks. A smile appeared on her face, only to diminish in an instant—these were part of a Carian tea set that her father had brought back from his time as a special military attaché to the Pelasgian embassy in Nauplia.

Orestis Gerakas called out from the living room. “Anna, my dear, don’t forget to put honey in mine.”

“Yes, uncle,” Anna called out in turn, quickening her pace and returning to the living room to serve her guest. “I was just studying these teacups father brought back from Nauplia all those years back—they’re quite unlike the gilded glass tea-ware we’re used to in Pelasgia.”

Orestis Gerakas smiled. “Yes, we follow a more eastern style. I believe it was influenced by all those eastern merchants who’ve transited through the Propontine Straits over the centuries. You should see the Carians’ uniforms too—they’re like something out of an old Engell movie, quite unlike ours.” Orestis paused to wipe a tiny crumb of biscuit from his dark blue ceremonial Lieutenant General’s uniform. “Listen, Anna: I’ve come to talk to you about your father.”

Anna set her cup down. “I know, uncle; it’s why I called you here. I’ve wanted to talk about him—about how he died—for a long time now.”

“Now is as good a time and a place as we’ll ever get,” Gerakas answered. “You know that he was assassinated, of course. And you know that we officially apprehended the killers and hanged them.”

“It was a group of other officers who were implicated in one of his anti-corruption probes as Inspector General of Central Military Command, from what I can recall.”

“Precisely,” Gerakas said with great emphasis. “Only, they weren’t acting alone. Those procurement programmes they were siphoning funds from were worth billions: they were funded by three separate Ministries! Think just how many layers you have to go through the approve fake or inflated transactions for procurements like that: Politburo committees; parliamentary committees; regulatory authorities; judicial review; and on and on it goes.”

“It must be very difficult to get them through without anybody noticing,” Anna admitted.

“Not just difficult,” Gerakas retorted. “It’s practically impossible. Which means that the committee members, the politicians, the magistrates—they must have all gone along with it. Not all of course, not even most; but just enough for it to go on for as long as it did.”

Anna seemed taken aback by the revelation, logical as it was. “So, you’re saying it goes deeper than those who were arrested?”

Gerakas spoke in a grave tone. “Indeed. Anti-corruption campaigns have gone on this country for some time, and they’ll go on for years more. Corruption is inherent in any complex system; and corruption of this scale goes so far up, we can’t eliminate entirely. Not as things are, at any rate. But I wanted you to know that your father was an honourable man—a good officer—and he died making a difference. He could have taken the easy way out at any moment; but instead he did his duty to the death.”

Anna sat in complete silence for a few seconds, crossing her arms. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she spoke up. “Uncle, I didn’t just invite you here to talk about father. I also wanted to tell you something: I got my results for the National University Placement Exams the other day. Before you ask, I scored a 19,026.”

“My God,” Gerakas exclaimed, his eyebrows shooting up as he did so. “That’s great news, Anna. Congratulations. You could make it into Propontis Medical School with grades like that!”

“Yes,” Anna said dispassionately. “Only, I chose to rank another school as my first option: the Central Military Academy.”

Gerakas’ excitement vanished at once. “So you want to follow in your father’s footsteps?”

Anna nodded. “Of course. Yours too, in a way. I wanted to join the Krypteia’s Military Counterintelligence Directorate; specifically, the Sub-Directorate for Political Control over the Military. I feel that it’s the best way to honour my father, by continuing his work.”

“By hunting down those who killed him, more like,” the grey-haired Lieutenant General responded. “Look, Anna, if this is what you truly won’t, I won’t oppose you. I can’t help you either—I might have founded Division III of the Krypteia, but both the ever-watchful eye of the Politburo and my own convictions would never allow me to engage in favouritism or nepotism.”

“That is not an issue, uncle,” Anna responded at once. “I want to make it in on my own merit; otherwise, all my work will have been for nothing. Besides, if father could have made it through as a half-Carian, I should not have too much trouble.”

“Military counterintelligence is a tough place,” Gerakas explained, placing his hand on his niece’s back. “The Central Academy is a tough place in general, especially for a woman, even now that they’re letting you in as something other than secretaries and nurses; but Division III is a whole different animal. I have no doubt that you’ll make it through with flying colours in so far as academics and training are concerned. But, once you’re out of Central, you have to be really careful in choosing you associates. Not to mention that you’ll want to start your career under someone who’ll be ready to recognise your potential, rather than dismissing you off-hand; and someone who’s on board with your goals, rather than being even more corrupt than those you’re setting out to fight against.”

Anna stared back at the table, at her teacup, for a few instants before turning to Gerakas. “In that case, uncle, I have only one thing to ask of you. You founded Division III, and though you’ve been ‘kicked upstairs’ in recent years, you still mentored and trained many of the officers there, right down to the last few batches. You must know who the rotten ones are, and who the more promising ones are, no?”

“Yes, that’s fair to say.”

“Then, once I graduate from Central and get accepted into the Krypteia, I want you to direct me to an officer you think has potential to allow me to grow and pursue my goal. They’ll give me the chance to select a department, no doubt; and I want to use that chance to start off on the right foot.”

Gerakas rubbed his chin. “I see. Well, that’s a fair request. I’ll just be giving you my personal opinion, which anyone would do for a student or colleague, let alone a close relative. Of course, you’ll need to get the grades and the letters of recommendation to be assigned to whatever branch you ask for—and know that there’s still a chance they could refuse you, especially if the assignment sought is in very high demand.”

“Of course,” Anna admitted.

“But provided you do all of that, I’ll be glad to help you. And I have no doubt that you will, if you set your mind to it.” He grabbed his empty teacup from the table and examined it closely. “Your father would be really proud of you, you know. Scared shitless, but proud nonetheless.”

“Thank you, uncle,” Anna replied, taking her own teacup in hand. “I’m sure he would.”

Footnotes
*Pera (Pelasgo-Carian: Πέρα, literally "across" or "further away") is the Pelasgian province encompassing all territory north of the Propontine Straits on the Gallo-Germanian mainland. Scutari (Σκουτάριον, Skoutarion) is a port city located within the province, just north across from the Pelasgian capital, Propontis. Scutari is more residential and affluent than Propontis proper, serving as a secondary residence for many affluent Propontines, as well as many upper-middle class families, who commute to the capital via regular ferry or motorboat lines.​

 

[Pelasgia]

Hierosolyma, Philistaea Province, Pelasgia
22/10/2018 | 11:00

Rigas Ippeus slammed his hand on the table with the wrath of an enraged giant. Raising it up, he saw blood dripping from underneath his palm—the sign of a successful kill against the greatest foe facing Pelasgian troops some two thousand years after their conquest of the endless dunes and rocks forming the Holy Land of Philistaea: mosquitoes.

“Sir,” sounded the voice of Warrant Officer Philippidis from the far side of the room. The pale young Pierian with the deep blue eyes waited for his commanding officer to turn around before continuing.

“What is it, Charilaos?” Rigas asked indifferently, as he turned to face the man standing at the entrance to his office—if one could call this cramped, hot, and rather disorganised little working room on the second floor of the Hierosolyma Krypteia Regional Headquarters that.

“Sir, the People’s Military Police have apprehended three suspects for last week’s attempted bombing at Tiverias barracks.” The Warrant Officer paused to give the Lieutenant a napkin before continuing. “Their interrogation testimonies implicated a local official who provided the attackers with forged internal passports to let them into the restricting area and then out of the prefecture.”

“I see,” Rigas exclaimed, while removing what was left of the slain insect from the palm of his hand. “What are waiting for then? Let’s get to him before the Revolutionary Guardsmen make it impossible for him to stand up straight on an empty bus.”

“There is one more thing, sir,” Philippou said, stepping aside. From his left emerged a slender woman, about the height of the average man, with pale skin like that of a Pelasgian but a slightly softer face, almost like that of a Carian. Her light brown hair and eyes, too, were rather atypical of a Pelasgian, since the inhabitants of Himyar’s northernmost country were known for having dark eyes and hair. Rigas had only known one officer with such an assortment of features…

“This is the new assignment from Propontis, fresh from Central Academy,” explained Philippou. He had hardly finished his sentence when the woman dropped the briefcase she had been holding, stood at attention, and presented herself in a voice that was nearly too loud for comfort. “Second Lieutenant Anna Geraka reporting for duty as instructed, Major sir!”

“At ease, Second Lieutenant,” Rigas said in a serious but unamused tone. “You said your last name was Geraka? I don’t imagine you’re any relation of Lt. General Orestis Gerakas’ or of the late Inspector General’s?”

“Yes, sir,” Anna replied just as seriously as before. “Niece to the former and daughter to latter. General Gerakas highly praised your character and integrity—which is why I requested to be assigned to your unit.”

“I could never doubt my own mentor’s judgment,” Rigas replied almost triumphantly. Lt. General Gerakas had been Rigas Ippeus’ favourite instructor at Central, and he had written the letter of recommendation that landed him a position in the Krypteia to begin with. “My condolences for your father, and my regards to the General. However, one could not help but suspect that you have landed this position thanks to certain family connections…”

“I expected that you might think as much, sir,” Anna answered. She opened the briefcase now lying by her feet and handed Rigas a small paper folder. “You will find in here all relevant documents to prove that I obtained this assignment on merit alone.”

Browsing through the documents contained within the folder, Rigas could not help but raise an eyebrow a few times. “You certainly aren’t lacking in skill or dedication, Second Lieutenant Geraka… with grades and evaluations like that, you could have landed a desk job at Central Command straight away—it’s the only job the Army likes giving intelligent young women such as yourself anyway.” He put the stack of papers aside and looked up at the young Second Lieutenant. “Which is why I’m wondering what made you choose Division VI of the Krypteia—and the internal political control sub-directorate at that.”

“I am not interested in an easy job, sir,” Anna replied. “I am interested in helping rid the military and the country of corruption. In so far as I am concerned, there is no better place to be doing that than right here, right now.”

Rigas pondered at his new subordinate for a moment, before finally standing up and returning her papers. “Very well, Geraka. You certainly know how to talk the talk; but let’s see whether you can walk the walk. Come! We’ve got a job on our hands.”

“Where are we going, sir?” Anna asked, almost surprised at Major Ippeus’ sudden initiative.

“Where else? We’re in Philistaea, home of Pelasgia’s foremost separatist terrorist movement. If you want to ‘root out corruption,’ I’ll show you what rooting out corruption looks like—one dirty official at a time.” He pointed to a map of Pelasgia on the wall. “If you can’t stand it, there’s always a free ticket back to Propontis—I’m sure the generals there are fighting over the chance to get a young, cute little assistant like yourself posted to their office.”

Anna gritted her teeth but said nothing. So far, Ippeus was nothing like her uncle had described him: rather than loyal, quick-witted, and just, he seemed arrogant, blunt, and needlessly confrontational. Maybe he wished to discourage her, to test her resolve? If so, he would play along alright—if the young Second Lieutenant wished to prove herself, she had found the right superior.​

 

[Pelasgia]

Hierosolyma, Philistaea Province, Pelasgia
22/10/2018 | 12:00

The clear, scathing light of noon fell upon the tiled floor and the marble walls of the spacious hall; this was the hall of an old palace, as was evident to any who knew anything about Propontine architecture. Yet, with palacedom long extinct in Pelasgia, the building’s usage by nobility had given way to a hospital and—when the hospital in question moved a larger, purpose-built edifice—to the headquarters of the Eastern Military District’s Military Police Command.

Each of these occupations had left its marks on the building’s interior: the elegant tile floors where the scions of the Mitrixelis family once held their balls still bore signs of heavy furniture; the walls still bore scars from the attachment of curtain separators and blood vial holders for the hospital’s use; and the most recent occupants of the structure had added several layers of blood stains to the basement. The blood went dry only to be refreshed with new pools—such as the one into which the noon sun now shined.

“This is him,” said one Sergeant of the People’s Military Police, somewhat proudful of his and his comrades’ macabre work. He pointed toward the cell’s sole occupant—a grey, middle-aged man who was visibly overweight and slightly bald, wearing the blood-stained remnants of a suit.

As Major Rigas Ippeus walked into the room, his face betrayed no emotion. “Was all this bloodletting your doing?”

The Sergeant, a pale-skinned man with hazel eyes whose name tag read “GALATIS”, seemed a bit unnerved by the question. “Yes, Comrade Major. We deemed it… preferable to soften him up for your questioning.”

“I see,” Rigas answered. “In the future, I would ask that you not do me any such favours unless otherwise advised in advance.”

The Sergeant gulped and, after remaining stunned for a moment or so, saluted. “Yes, sir.”

Anna followed behind Rigas, still dressed in her sightlier heavier winter uniform, which was made of denser fabric and had a thicker coat over the tunic. She had evidently not had time to change since getting off the train in Propontis. “What is it that we seek to learn here, sir?” She recalled the short briefing he gave her on the train and saw thought of no outstanding questions. “He already admitted to issuing the false internal passports under… questioning.” Anna paused in between her words to shoot a glance at the bloodied floor, and then at the Sergeant, who gulped anew and looked away.

“That’s right Second Lieutenant,” Rigas responded. “But there’s no way a civilian official could have gotten security services internal passports like that on his own. He must have been working with someone—we need a name.”

“We tried to get him to say, but he wouldn’t answer,” Sergeant Galatas offered. “Maybe if we worked on him a bit more…”

“You’ve done more than enough, Comrade,” Rigas declared with the tone of a prosecutor in the middle of an accusatory statement. “It’ll be a miracle if the man can still talk.”

Anna pondered the matter for a moment, before turning to Rigas. “Comrade Major. With you permission, I would like to question this prisoner.”

Rigas raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Very well, Second Lieutenant. Go ahead.” In truth, he had been hoping for a chance to test his new subordinate.

Anna saluted and, with a look of stern determination, approached the groaning man lying on the ground in a semi-fetal position, and crouched beside him. She studied the official’s features closely a found him to have a rather aged face—much more so than one would expect for a man of his alleged age of forty; and a much more fattened visage than one should expect of a communist official. As Anna’s figure blocked the light shining onto the man’s face, he started to mumble hectically in a low voice.

“Comrade Manolios,” Anna said, recalling the official’s name from Rigas’ briefing on the way to the Military Police building. “Can you hear me?”

Manolios continued to mumble faintly. Anna crouched and leaned forward to listen more closely. “Cold,” he kept repeating. “Cold.”

At once, the Second Lieutenant took off her coat and laid it over the battered official, covering him as if with a blanket. Then, she approached Manolios again, making sure that he had stopped mumbling.

“Comrade Manolios,” she declared. “I am Second Lieutenant Anna Geraka of Military Counterintelligence. I have come here to speak with you regarding the saboteurs whom you provided with forged internal passports a month ago. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

Manolios nodded in agreement, all while remaining silent. His gaze was directed straight into Anna’s large, brown eyes, displaying a peculiar mix of fear and gratitude.

“Then,” Anna continued, “you must surely remember who gave you those passports. Is that so?”

All of a sudden, Manolios averted his gaze and recommenced his endless, muffled mumbling. Anna leaned closer to the horrified bureaucrat and touched his arm softly.

“Do not be afraid. The Krypteia can protect or destroy anybody. Whoever it was who gave you those passports, he cannot harm you and yours—I’ll make sure of it, I promise you. Now, tell me who he is, and we will smite him.”

Using every shred of energy left in his body, Manoligios raised the upper half of his body toward Anna. In between pained moans from the sheer effort of the badly injured man’s movement, a handful of faint words escaped his mouth. Anna leaned closer to hear Manolios’ pained whisper. “Major General Stamniotis from Thermi.”

“Thank you, Comrade,” Anna said, as if to restore Manolios to the Party in thanks for his cooperation. “We will take care of him from here. If you work with us, the Krypteia will see to it that your sentence is reduced and you might see your family again one day.”

The pained grimace that had been formed on Manolios’ tearful face since Anna first spoke to him morphed into something of a smile, before he collapsed on the floor below. Anna, after verifying that he was still breathing, recovered her coat and returned to the Major’s side.

“Splendid work, Second Lieutenant,” Rigas commented, trying to conceal his surprise. “Welcome to the Internal Political Control Sub-Directorate.”

Anna saluted. “Thank you, Comrade Major.”

“Comrade,” Sergeant Galatis interjected, cutting short Anna's moment of triumph. “A Captain of the Revolutionary Guard has presented himself at the gate of the base, and he is demanding that we hand over the prisoner to his custody.”

A gasp nearly escaped Second Lieutenant Geraka: the Guard’s brutality was known to any and all Pelasgians, uniformed and civilian alike. Even the Military Police’s worst torturers and brutes seemed tame and humane compared to the “Party’s Guard Dogs.” Immediately, she wished to protest, but, before she could even say a word, Rigas had taken it upon himself to answer.

“Tell the good Comrade Captain that the prisoner belongs to the Pelasgian People’s Army and that, if he wishes to question him, he will have to submit a petition to that effect to the Military Counterintelligence Directorate at Philistaea Provincial Krypteia Headquarters. Of course, I would advise him not to hold his breath; for the prisoner may only be surrendered to the Captain’s custody once our case against him is concluded—and we absolutely intend to prosecute the prisoner before a court martial for crimes against the defensive capabilities of the People’s State.”

For a second, Galatis appeared pensive, as he considered whether to object to the Major’s decision. However, after weighing the relative strength of the Krypteia and the Guard upon himself, as well as the Major’s rank, he quickly decided to merely salute and do as ordered. The two Krypteia officers followed the Sergeant out of the underground holding area, but, rather than going up into the lobby, they instead continued into the largely deserted internal parking lot. There, as she entered the driver’s seat of their unmarked vehicle, Anna finally felt comfortable in addressing her new superior about what had just transpired.

“Comrade Major,” she started as she turned the key in the ignition. “If I may, why did you protect Manolios? He is a traitor who aided terrorists whose goal was to murder our colleagues.”

Rigas, who had been staring out of the car window, smiled. “You don’t hesitate to speak your mind, do you Second Lieutenant? On the one hand, I cannot hand him over to the enemy’s hands: Major General Stamniotis is the Military Governor of Eastern Command and one of the local leaders of the SEKP Hardliner faction. As such, he largely controls local Revolutionary Guard formations.” Rigas shifted his gaze to Anna’s blood-stained coat. “On the other hand, of course, I did it for the same reason that you covered the shivering man: no human being can bear to see his fellow man suffer and do nothing.”

A stunned Anna’s eyes widened like those of an owl. “I merely wished to make him talk, Comrade Major.”

“Partly,” Rigas conceded. “But, deep down, you pitied him to some degree. So did I. You’re no longer at the Central Academy, Second Lieutenant—you don’t need to pretend to be harsh and inhumane all the time. The best strategy is that which inspired both the mind and the soul—the same is true of the officer who is its author.”

Anna shot a glance at Rigas, who had gone back to looking out the window. Perhaps, who had recommended him to her as her first assignment, had known something after all.​

 

[Pelasgia]

Outskirts of Aspropol, Pelagonia Province, Pelasgia
08/04/2018 | 15:00

The soft sound of the Krinopotamos river flowing; the calm breeze of mid-spring afternoon passing through the flat, fertile plains of Pelagonia; the soothing singing of birds, perched atop ancient, robust olive and fruit trees. These harmonic sounds were the sounds of Pelagonia, Rigas’ home region and the heartland of old Pelasgia; to him, these sounds were Pelagonia, and all of Pelasgia for that matter.

“You will note, Second Lieutenant,” he explained in the tone of a teacher, “that every aspect of this villa mimics some aspect of the surrounding countryside: the large fountain is a stand-in for the river; the pear tree orchard and lily gardens for the surrounding fields; and the statues for the calm folk and tame beasts who inhabit this land.”

Anna, herself a native only of Propontine suburbia, was amazed at the sheer beauty of the locale. She had grown up thinking that the area around her native Scutari was the fairest place on earth, suited to the retreats of the old Propontine Emperors—and yet… “This place is like Paradise.”

Rigas smiled. “This is why our ancestors settled Pelasgia. Before reaching central Pelagonia, the ancient Carians were on the brink of abandoning the colonisation of Himyar; after, they redoubled their efforts.”

Anna approached one of the statues surrounding the fountain at the palace’s main internal courtyard. The figure of a muscular man wielding a discus was so delicately chiseled as to appear almost human—only the lifeless white of the marble betrayed that it was not so. “Such beauty. I would not think party officials to have such taste.” She regretted her words instantly—she was far too honest by nature, a defect that she had always tried to mend, but which was only exacerbated in the Major’s presence. He trusted him far, far too much, given how short their acquaintance had been.

“They didn’t,” Rigas explained, opening a door to the villa’s interior. “This is an old noble family’s seat. It belongs to the Komnenopouloi, I believe. Some distant branch of legitimised bastards of the dynasty that preceded the Laskarids.”

Anna followed her superior into a large room, whose Corinthian pillars, red and white-coloured walls, mosaic floors, and geometric décor appeared like something out of an ancient Tiburan villa. She paused to admire a golden crucifix decorating a fireplace—only for her admiration to turn into disgust. “It’s outrageous: these people claim to be leading a workers’ movement, and here they are, living like patricians.”

“They might as well be,” Rigas answered, as he studied the room’s designs with Warrant Officer Charilaos Philippidis at his side. “Remember how many months it took us to build a case against Major General Stamniotis? Quite alike trying to prosecute a noble of old—only this time, it’s Chairman Drakos’ anti-corruption campaign against dirty Party officials.”

Anna was surprised at her superior’s frankness—he too seemed to be too honest, though only around her and Philippidis, and only when he was sure they were not being observed. Her thoughts, however, were interrupted by the rumbling sound of wood rubbing against marble as Rigas and Philippidis moved a large bookshelf aside, revealing the entrance to a safe room behind it.

“Comrade Second Lieutenant,” Rigas told Anna. “Do you still have the tool the Warrant Officer here gave you?”

Anna nodded and handed the calculator-like contraption to Philippidis, who connected it to a password keypad beside the door. A few moments later, the door opened wide and Rigas motioned Anna to follow him, leaving Philippidis to stand watch outside.

“My God!” Anna proclaimed, witnessing the wealth stored inside the safe: precious jewelry, golden artifacts, ancient statues and old paintings, and even bullion filled the vault—alongside paper copies and hard drives full of sensitive documents that Stamniotis and his associates would have like to have kept hidden from the world.

“The control system is new,” Rigas explained, as he picked up an old painting. “But the vault is old, from before the Civil War. It was probably only discovered when the Reds took over the villa, and its successive occupants have preferred to keep it secret, adding to its wealth.”

“This should all be in a museum,” Anna commented as Rigas handed her the painting. “I mean, it’s outrageous: ancient statues? Authentic Vyzaris* paintings? These criminals have robbed the People’s heritage-
*A world-famous 19th century Pelasgian painter of the Romantic movement.

Anna paused. She studied the figure in the painting more closely: the sharp cheekbones, the strong jaw, the slightly almond-shaped eyes… “Comrade Colonel,” she started faintly. “Is this… you?”

Rigas smiled at her. “No, it’s my great-grandfather. Note the uniform.”

Anna obliged: the man in the painting, who was her superior’s spitting image, was dressed like an Imperial Pelasgian Army Lieutenant General. The uniform design had changed after the Revolution, but, since the rise of Marshal Sideris to power and the establishment of military rule in the 1960s, Red Pelasgian uniforms had mimicked Imperial ones more and more, until the two became virtually indistinguishable, save for insignia.

Anna blinked rapidly, not believing her eyes. “But… Comrade… your grandfather, your father…”

“Were officers in the People’s Army,” Rigas said, pre-empting her question. “My grandfather was an orphan. He became an orphan when at barely six or seven years of age—around the time of the Attalus the Great’s coup. From what I know, his parents were killed during the days of the Imperialist Militarist Junta for some political reason—apparently, they somehow caused problems for the Junta’s schemes with the then-reigning Komnenos Dynasty, being a cadet branch and all. Anyway, the officer who killed my great-grandparents spared my grandfather out of pity and handed him over to a military orphanage. When the Revolution came, he was still in military boarding school and got on board with the Revolution, seeing that he had no particular reason to like the Imperial system. He became a successful officer, as did my father after him—and here I am.”

Anna pondered the matter for a second, studying her superior closely, as if his appearance would reveal some clue to his ancestors’ status. Alas, he was but the striking image of the average Pelasgian: pale-skinned, with dark hair and eyes, and sharp, hard features; the only extraordinary thing about him was his remarkable height, which one could attribute to the meat and dairy-heavy diet of the nobility—but, then again, the Pelagonians were known to be the best fed of all Pelasgians, doubly so in the countryside. “But how were you not found out?” Anna wondered out loud. “During the Terror, the Krypteia’s predecessors were searching left and right for nobles and other ‘socially hostile elements’ to purge.”

“Ippeus is not a noble name,” Rigas explained, shrugging. “It’s a variation of Kavalaris**, the name of the officer who saved my grandfather. In so far as the People’s State is concerned, my ancestors’ line ended in some mass grave not too far from here. Not that I have any wish to revive their legacy: the nobility and the Empire are long dead and obsolete. They died in the previous century, and they should remain in the past. After all, all the patricians of the Empire were no better than Major General Stamniotis here.”
**Both names mean “rider” or “horseman”, a professional and hence decidedly non-noble name by Pelasgian conventions.

Anna was perplexed—first by her superior’s revelation, and second by his utter disregard and even contempt for the old Imperial system, whose scion he apparently was. What confused her even more, however, was what she asked him about next. “But, sir… why would you reveal this to me? I have been under your command for barely a few months. This information…”

“Could destroy me,” Rigas said, completing Anna’s sentence. “I know. I tell you, because I want you to trust me—just as I trust you. You’ve been with me for a few months, Geraka, and yet you’re one of the few people I know who joined up for the same reason as me: to rid Pelasgia of its new class of spoiled, unworthy nobles, who act like parasites sacking the life of the common man. What’s more, you’re competent, even more so since these fools don’t see a woman like you as a threat. I need people like you one my side to make this country a better place—so I ask you, can I rely on you? If you disagree, I will do you no harm. I’ll transfer you to an officer of your choice, with a stellar letter of recommendation and a promotion.”

Anna pondered the matter deeply, scanning her superior one more time. His stern face betrayed determination; and his large, deep-seated eyes, pierced her figure with the fierce, brutally honest look of a beast of prey. “I will, Comrade Major. I am on your side—but on one condition: if you ever stray from your path and become like these men, then I will destroy you.”

Rigas nodded with satisfaction. “I demand nothing less, Second Lieutenant. After all, I did just give you everything you need to ruin me.” Rigas then motioned toward the exit. “Come; there are no recording devices here, but, if we stay too long, people might start asking questions.”

“What about Warrant Officer Philippidis?” Anna demanded. “Does he know?”

Rigas turned to her and smiled. “What do you think?”​

 

[Pelasgia]

Propontis, Pelasgia
09/04/2022 | 12:00

The large internal courtyard of the Central Military Command Headquarters reverberated to the sound of a hundred drummers and to the step of three times as many soldiers, all dressed in their dark blue ceremonial uniforms and arranged in perfect formation. With bayonets attached to their rifles, once commanded, the men halted, stood at attention, and saluted. The standard of the Central Military Command, the People’s Army, and the General Staff all waved in the wind, alongside the Pelasgian national flag.

In front of these standards and banners, dressed in even more ornate ceremonial blue uniforms, stood three men: General Leonidas Spantidakis (the former Central Military District Commander and current Minister of Defence); Major General Nikolaos Papadopoulos (the head of the Krypteia’s Military Counterintelligence Directorate); and Lieutenant General Irakleios Theodotou (the new Central Military District Commander). All three had played their part in the latest transition of power in Propontis—and all three had been rewarded by the new Pelasgian leader, as was the tradition in the People’s Republic (and, arguably, all Pelasgian regimes before it).

Across from them stood the three Krypteia officers who had made the transition possible: Colonel Rigas Ippeus, along with his adjutant, Lieutenant Anna Geraka, and his longest-serving subordinate, Second Lieutenant Charilaos Philippidis. The drum roll got louder and louder, until General Spantidakis finally motioned the band to stop. Then, stepping forward, he spoke loud and clear:

“Colonel Rigas Ippeus—for your diligence in safeguarding the People’s State from internal subversion, and for your undying loyalty to its institutions, as demonstrated but your recent heroic and outstanding actions in preventing an attempt on the lives of the Politburo, the Presidency of the People’s Republic has seen fit decorate you with the Order of Revolutionary Heroism*, First Class. Moreover, per the unanimous recommendation of the Supreme Military Council, you are hereby promoted to the rank of Brigadier General and elevated to the post of Sub-Director for Internal Political Control of the Krypteia’s Military Counterintelligence Division, with immediate effect.”
*The second-highest ranked order of merit in the Pelasgian People’s Republic, junior only to the Order of Prometheus.

Rigas stepped forth and saluted his superiors. His immediate superior, Major General Papadopoulos, placed the order on his uniform and handed him his new shoulder insignia, before shaking the new Brigadier’s hand.

“Lieutenant Anna Geraka and Second Lieutenant Charilaos Philippidis,” General Spantidakis continued, once Rigas stepped back. “For your indispensable assistance to your superior in his efforts to protect the People’s State, and your own outstanding service, especially in light of your own young age and low rank, the Supreme Military Council, unanimously and by leave of the Presidency of the People’s Republic, hereby bestows upon you the Gold Medal of Military Merit, and raises you to the rank of Major and Lieutenant, respectively and with immediately effect. You will retain your current postings within the Sub-Directorate for Internal Political Control of the Krypteia’s Military Counterintelligence Division, under the command of Brigadier General Ippeus.”

Just like Rigas before them, Anna and Philippidis stepped forth and received their awards and insignia. Then, just as they returned to their original spots, the band started its cadence anew, before breaking into a full, celebratory march. Rigas traded quick glances with his subordinates; it had been barely some four years since he had enlisted their help in his great plan to reform the Pelasgian state—so far, it seemed to be working out well.

As the three officers silently celebrated their victory, the

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reverberated through the internal courtyard at the heart of Central Command HQ. It was not a western-style or modern march by any measure; no, it was a traditional Propontine tune, full of oriental and old Carian influences and melodies, arranged for a mixed band of Western brass and traditional Propontine strings. A truly Pelasgian march, for those who prepared to turn a new page on their country’s history—fitting, if nothing else.​

 

[Pelasgia]

Pyrgos, Propontis Governorate, Pelasgia
12/04/2022 | 10:00

It was said that Pyrgos never slept nor rested; by day, the most important port district of the Propontine metropolis would bustle with sailors, merchants, travellers and local residents, all seeking to offload or onload some cargo, buy or sell some merchandise, travel to or from some place, or go about some other business—often, more than one of these tasks at once. The only common denominator of everyone in Pyrgos was their haggling and their being pressed for time.

If there was one place that perfectly illustrated the enigma that was modern Pelasgia, it was none other than Pyrgos: the original foundation of the port, a perfectly planned grid of ancient Tiburan construction, conserved few of the old brick and stone structures that had adorned the ancient and medieval Propontine harbour. In their stead, increasingly modern structures appeared, mostly of a baroque or neoclassical variety. Unlike their Carian counterparts, however, these structures were not purely Western: they bore visibly Eastern, Himyari, and original Propontine-Pelasgian characteristics, such that they were truly unique—a veritable mix of traditions, judt like the country itself. Behind these relics of the Empire, stood skyscrapers, the glass and steel behemoths that served as a testament to modern Pelasgia’s status as Himyar’s economic powerhouse. Next to them, the mighty tower built by the Radillans—the Galatopyrgos or “Milk Tower” due to its all-white colour—appeared frail and petty. It was this structured that gave Pyrgos its name, which literally meant “Tower.”

It was in the very shadow of that tower, sat inside a picturesque tea house, that Captain Stefanos Vogatsis awaited. Enjoying, or rather trying to enjoy, tea à la propontaine with honey, Vogatsis recalled how, but a month or so ago, Colonel Ippeus had promised him a tour of the harbour whenever he returned; it was thus rather shocking when he was asked to do so by that same officer as soon as possible—apparently to discuss matters that could only be discussed in person.

“One tea for me, please,” said a young woman to the waiter as she entered the café. Taking up a seat across from the Captain, it was not until she removed her glasses that he recognised her, dressed in civilian clothes and all.

“Blue looks good on you, Comrade Lieutenant,” Vogatsis told Anna, leaning forward to greet her. “I was expecting the Colonel, but this is a welcome surprise.”

“He’s a Brigadier now,” Anna replied in between faked coughing. “And I’m a Major. But let us not concern ourselves with such things.” She passed him a slip of paper inscribed: “Pretend that this is a date.”

Vogatsis’ eyebrows shot up for a moment, but he played along. “So, how are things in our capital city?”

Anna thanked the waiter for bringing her order before answering. “Busy.” She started to pour honey into the cup from a small container brought alongside it, before mixing the whole thing with a spoon. “My boss’s boss is restructuring and moving a lot of personnel around—it seems there’s something big in the works. I should probably catch up with some old friends working in branches outside of Propontis.”

Vogatsis took a bit from the biscuit beside his teacup, doing his best to feign indifference—it was a damn good biscuit, which made his job easier. “What kind of restructuring are we talking about? Forgive me, Anna, but I’m more familiar with drills than business.”

“Mergers and acquisitions,” the newly promoted Major responded, taking a bite of her own biscuit. “The international kind. Something to do with our subsidiary in Caria, if memory serves.”

Vogatsis expected this answer, but he was not at all pleased to have it—in recent weeks, more and more of his men had been shifted to the north in preparation for some kind of large-scale amphibious drill. Though news trickled in every now and then, especially with the media barrage about Caria buying some advanced AA systems to install on the disputed island of Hagios Georgios, he did not have the same access to military intelligence as his associates in Propontis. If they were expressing the same concerns as him, it was a bad sign.

“It’s funny that you say that!” Vogatsis exclaimed. “Many of my colleagues and friends are moving northward these days—I guess they want to find a nice place near the beach to spend Easter. I myself might be moving here soon; say, a fine lady like you wouldn’t mind giving a hick the grand tour of Pyrgos?”

“Not at all,” Anna said in turn, handing him a card. “It would be my great pleasure. You can speak with my secretary on this number if you need something urgent while you’re in town, or to work around my schedule. Work is very busy these days, what with the World Belt Initiative and the new trade deal with Serenierre.”

Vogatsis took the card in hand and studied it:
​

Ανθλγός Χαρίλαος Φιλιππίδης
Διεύθυνση Αντικατασκοπείας Στρατού
Λαϊκός Στρατός των Πελασγών
char.philippidis@krypteia.gov.pg | ΤΗΛ: 210 …
2nd Lt. Charilaos Philippidis
Military Counterintelligence Division
Pelasgian People’s Army
char.philippidis@krypteia.gov.pg | TEL: 210 …​

“Will do, my dear,” Vogatsis responded, before catching the waiter's attention. “Could we pay? One bill, please.”​

 

[Pelasgia]

Propontis, Pelasgia
14/04/2022 | 17:45

“Your proposal is interesting, Rigas,” General Papadopoulos said, his eyes staring not so much at his subordinate but through him. The head of the People’s Secret Service, the Krypteia, had his hands crossed in such a way that the fingers formed a triangle, into which he had fit his nose and chin. Pensive as he was, one could not detect any expression on his face, even on the uncovered half—such was the character of the Director General. “But I am not sure where it would leave me. After all, leaving the military to enter into politics would put me in a precarious position… The top of the Krypteia, by contrast is a precious and safe spot.”

Rigas leaned forward, drawing the focus of his superior’s gaze. “Sir, you have trusted me this far; you know I wouldn’t come to you empty handed, begging for solutions. I offer you something far mightier than your current position and shoulder stripes: I offer you the seat at the spot at top of the country.”

Papadopoulos sat back to consider the matter. On the one hand, under the system proposed by Rigas and his confederates, the presidency would be much weaker than it currently was. On the other hand… if properly placed and with enough institutional influence, a semi-executive head of state could easily dominate the politics of the country. Certainly, a former Krypteia director could achieve that—especially if he placed hand-picked loyalists at the top of the intelligence services and military and brought many of his own with him.

“Are you sure that this is politically feasible?” Papadopoulos asked Premier Ploumidis, who had been sitting beside Rigas.

“Most of the political world is with us,” the grey-haired politician with the piercing blue eyes answered. “I’ve made sure of it myself. Combined with the support of the All-Pelasgian Democratic League and their associated groups, the transition should proceed smoothly.”

Rigas could not help but smile every time that party was mentioned. It was Theodosios Pedinos, Angelina’s husband and the new leader of the Muntenians, who headed the League. His smile was cut short by General Papadopoulos’ voice.

“That’s all assuming that Ioannopoulos decides to play along. What if he doesn’t?”

Rigas and Ploumidis traded glances. “In that case, sir,” Rigas started, “it would all fall to you and General Spantidakis.”

“Have you made appropriate assurances with the SEKP Reformers?” Papadopoulos asked Ploumidis. Papadopoulos’ colleague from Central Command had asked for almost as high a price as the Krypteia director’s in exchange for his cooperation: the leadership of SEKP’s successor party. He already had the Militarists behind him; what he needed was the Reformers, the only other SEKP faction left after the purge of the Hardliners, to ensure that his candidacy would succeed.

Ploumidis nodded. “I have—though I had to use your name more than once to make the Krypteia look the other way.”

Papadopoulos waived his hand dismissively. “My men are loyal, you have nothing to worry about—provided you truly stay by my side. Which is why I want one more thing.” Before voicing his last demand, Papadopoulos turned to Ippeus. “Colonel: I want you to follow me into civilian life. You’re the only man with nearly as much influence as me in the Krypteia. I can’t leave you behind, now that you’ve shown enough initiative to be more than just my creature.”

Rigas clenched his teeth; his family, his whole life had been in the military, ever since his childhood. At the same time, he had entered the service with a purpose—and that purpose demanded that he accede to his superior’s request. After all, if his plan for the end of dictatorship were to succeed, civilian politics is where change in Pelasgia would primarily take place, even if gradually at first. “Of course, General. Your demand is only fair.”

Papadopoulos smiled. “Well then, gentlemen; we have a deal. Comrade, or should I say mister, Ploumidis will make you a Minister of State in his cabinet, when the time comes. Keep your friends close, as the saying goes…”​