the Hard Six

[Thaumantica]

Rumblings in the Month of February
Sjadnbrdo, the Soldiers City, Životinje

It was a time of great confusion, not unrest, but true and fundamental misunderstanding between the military and the government. In its own peculiar Miedzymorzan way, this had always been the status quo, a separate and unequal status and clout within the taxpayers mind. Work went on, as it always does, and average government officials and officers of the corps filed records, compared data, and of course conspired against each other like fiends. Like these mechanisms of the Federal Hierarchy, Marshal Huszar's wrinkles wrapped around his knuckles in the same way they had for decades, or at least since he began noticing how old he was actually appearing on the outside. The uniform he wore had changed thrice in his tenure, and the people wearing it around him several more times then he could count. Dionis Huszar had never quite imagined all of the changes in doctrine before their arrival, and much of his tactical mind would never truly adapt, but he still considered every new day a blessing, and every single subordinate a multitude of blessings within his or herself.

Miedzymorze was one hell of large country, its terrain was diverse, its children unique, profoundly rich with character. Huszar considered no man from Sarmatia the same as his counterpart, and knew that total assimilation of the armed services would be his undoing if it were permitted. A General Officer in the nineteen-eighties likened it to intercourse: "the Goddess of War is like your wife, Dionis, if you give it to her the same way every night, she will smile upon another man, perhaps your enemy". He took this quite seriously, and to his knowledge his wife had never cheated on him, partially perhaps because he treated every day with her as a new experience, a new spice with the right sweetness to keep that precious balance of lust and love. His Army of the Federation had not just to love him, they had to want him. Responding even to Junior Officers, he saluted crisply, greeted them warmly, and spent time with his Non-Commissioned Officers like it was his hobby, he picked their brains and tried to keep track of their progression in faith, love, and career.

Where the controversial Assertionist Movement began and tapered off Huszar would never know, for he had never considered himself receptive to any political point of view, he dealt in the military arena, considered his subordinates safety and sanity before the growth of any democracy or republic. In reality, his Coalition with the Assertionists had been built on only one common goal: striking down Barazi once and for all. The news would never hear of it, but Huszar truly hated the Baroturks, from his earliest memories as a boy there had been no time when he considered one a friend, or worthy of his trust. Invading the Nationalistic Cabal only entrenched this view for Marshal Dionis Huszar; the Baroturks had hardly hesitated to sell each other out. While their divisiveness had played heavily in his favor, saved lives even, Huszar and his Command Apparatus knew for certain now that the Baroturks were not to be trusted with significant military assets, they required constant supervision.

In the deteriorating streets of Sjadnbrdo he walked, possessing no more then two guards at any time, adjusting a tight patrol cap which he could feel compressing on one of the unsightly veins on his forehead. Unlike most Officers of his rank, he silently reckoned that few would see nor hear him coming. In no particular formation he and his attachment appeared like any other group of soldiers and officers taking their lunch, reluctantly dining in one of Sjadnbrdo's third rate kitchens. "While we still can" Huszar remarked towards the two guards, "let's enjoy the calm of peace".

Receptive to their emotions, Dionis could immediately sense that their otherwise boorish faces were reading in to his statement too deeply. "Shall we expect a new threat, Marshal Sir?" the younger of the two asked as they continued along deeply cracked concrete, trash blowing defiantly to the wayside. "You'll keep my hide safe, first and foremost, gentlemen . ." Huszar replied, multi-tasking to light a cigarette, ". .Still, I foresee a new regime in Karpatica. The Populists, or the P.S., whatever they call themselves". The guards looked genuinely shocked, "What of the Assertionists, sir?"

For a few moments he himself was taken aback by that question, Huszar was, what exactly would come of the Assertionists in Zivotinje & Vyhor? Theirs was a rough and tough record of dying hard, always giving new meaning to the word "opposition". In his own time Assertionists, or a Coalition of Assertive Republicans, had always held majority in the lower realms of the Federal Intermarum. War had broken things wide open however, and the old regime was no longer steady and well resolved, not the agents of freedom the people thought they were. Miedzymorze was unpopular abroad, that was to be expected, it had always been the odd man in the middle, but the Federation of Faith was losing its consensus of internal support, and while the Assertionists were still asserting, the people no longer had a taste for their haphazard solutions.

"They'll improvise, adapt, and overcome . . or they will die, to be blunt . . Sergeant" Huszar fired, surrounding his moist tongue with a stale gust of smoke. "We serve the people, first and foremost, Sergeant. I want you to remember that" Dionis consoled them with a straight line of eye contact, unbreakable and calm, "No politician can tell me how to defend this country, my defiance and the Constitution can guarantee that, but we can expect a new type of soldier and junior officer in our ranks . . the youth are always effected by this type of political change". Decades had passed since any serious political upheavel in Zivotinje & Vyhor, yet Khazaria & Sarmatia were no strangers to radical shifts of thought. Zivotinje was where the Federal Army and Air Corps called home, it was where Huszar called home, and if it was by god given chance bordered in any place by ocean the Navy would have done the same. The State of Vyhor alone employed over 60% of its citizenry directly through the military industrial complex at any given time; the new political regime would not put a million out of work to prove a point, the Marshal prayed.

There lied the true misunderstanding of it all, he truly had no grounding or comprehension of the Populist Public Service Society, the P.S. Movement. The election was a mere two weeks away, and he did not understand the men and women who he would soon consider colleagues, he knew neither his friend nor enemy, because no one quite knew which P.S. would shape up to be. Its ideology seemed committed to the worker, the labourer, it stressed and aggrandized sweat or those who "hustled". Assertionism was about blood, fighting for what you believed in, and constantly propping up the individual.

While Dionis had a vague theory of how he might transition in to propagandizing and emphasizing a new bodily fluid, he was not quite sure how it would be received. For so long the people had heard that the Union would always ask them to fight for freedom, to bleed for it, but this P.S. was not concerned with freedom at all, it called for social responsibility, hard work, and sweat. This was a new doctrine, a new Goddess of War, and Huszar would embrace her cautiously, perhaps still with a knife tethered around his thigh.

The Military was separate from Government for a reason, the Articles of Unionization made sure of that, but the war in Barazi had blurred the line quite destructively. In Milliyetci Barazi the Military was the Government, it was a military dictatorship. Assertionist Statecraft was doing little to reverse this trend, there were elections sure, but no Government outside of Miedzymorze had recognized them as legitimate. Barazi was more or less in the same position with a new flag, a new capital, and new masters. Huszar felt no true remorse over this, the Baroturk condition did not resonate with him as significant or worthy of pity, but he understood that the Assertionists had blatantly misrepresented themselves as saviors in his Operation Steadfast Liberty.

"When all is said and done gentlemen" Huszar piped up, expending his cigarette in to a rusted sewage drain, "Your flag will be blue, your uniform green, and so long as I am alive - I will Command these Armed Forces with integrity", he stood silent in the walkway for a moment for theatric and dramatic effect, "And yes, you sure as hell will get paid!". The guards laughed heartily, knowing they were bringing attention to their party, and they enjoyed this cool environment of peace while they still could. A calmness that only the homeland could deliver, in streets -- while tattered -- that comforted the eye because it was a filth they knew, a most familiar discomfort of rotting trash and sewage. Sjadnbrdo the soldiers city represented to them a sustainable condition, and while it was not pretty, it was where their brothers and sisters lived, it was home.

 

[Thaumantica]

On The Wrong Side of Assertion

“Make no mistake about it” Radny rumbled “I am going to keep this God damn State, and I am going to keep it as Blue as it ever was”. He was the top Civil Officer in the State of Zivotinje, the Herald for a Blue Union of “Democrats” in the Midland Federation, and this Spring he was fighting for his office. “I need to know how to beat them, Gentlemen” Radny Posavski said, addressing a largely Assertionist assistance staff whose faces were blushing bright red uncertainty for perhaps the first time in their rinse, wash, and repeat style careers.

Posavski’s Labor rep. piped up nervously, still long before the others, patting down the flimsy material in his discount suit to occupy his hands as they writhed with nerves, this was not an environment he was destined to thrive in – “Per . . Perhaps we could grant a concession . . The opposition demands social justice for the working class, maybe you have to throw the people a bone”. The room had broken in to a mix of sighs and grunts of dismay, concession was not a page in their playbook. These Assertionists were fledgling along in the dynasty that their Fathers or Grandfathers built by stacking bodies and rubble from the opposition.

“We do not negotiate with the Opposition, sir” Posavski’s most senior advisor replied, “one step back for us would mean the undoing of our way of life, an end to the grand era of Assertionism and a Free Zivotinje . .”. To this the room could agree to in unison, as rings rattled upon the center oak table in loud approval, “. . embrace this fear, sir, this struggle. Now is the time to Assert our values and interests far and wide”.

If Politics is a game of Chess, then the Assertionists were prepared to prove through blood and iron that their strategy was to outlive and outlast. Plans and marching orders to detain opposition were already prepared, but not in the conventional ‘order form’ from the Herald, these were phone calls and favors given and taken amongst armed friends. Funding was no issue, in Zivotinje the Civil Office had relied upon Private Armies and Private Justice to do their dirty work, to suppress the people when and where the Federal Army was too objective or ignorant. Posavski could not trust Federalists, Radny had long ago himself been declared the champion of Miedzymorzan Dissolution, an enemy of the state superior to his own rogue state.

Alienated but comfortable in his temporary respite, the Labor rep. relaxed and sunk back in to his seat with a coy smile on his face, he had meekly expressed an opinion no one wanted to hear, but one that the new regime would surely appreciate and implement. Perhaps it would not be social “justice”, in the shape of things to come, but there would be significant social change in the realm of labor, and he was to be the face of compromise. “I love you all, but you are some ignorant fucking Zivs” he said with a smile.

Posavski simply bore down on his Labor rep. with a long drawn stare, “I won’t permit a lick of change unless it’s my idea, or I am convinced I can make it mine”, Radny was fuming now “these Populists are taking us for fucking Republican Zivs, like we are going to roll over for a wave of misguided votes”.

[FONT=&quot]“What are our limits, sir?” a grizzly sounding man grunted, his breath wreaking heavy of tobacco. “This State is a few murders away from an all-out Hunger War . . ” Posavski answered, taking his own seat for the first time, “. . Make it happen, let’s be fucking Zivs, we throw the first punch . .” he said as he wrinkled his old grey face in to a grimace. He was reaching now, Radny was, and he knew it just as well as his advisors. The Assertionist political position had already been fortified, primed for a defensive war, not for this outward assault. This one was going to cost more than reputation and cash, it would come down to blood and ammunition in a matter of days. "After the distinct sound of gunfire fades, we will rise again; shaken and disoriented probably, but make no mistake about it: I am going to keep this God damn State".

They too, the politicians, were beginning to taste that wind of change as it flowed up from the starving bodies of Miedzymorze. That night Posavski ordered five hits on known Opposition Headquarters in Lower Preria, where their message was resonating with a people being shaken this way and that by a litany of private interests. He was going to walk the very talk he had talked, and tonight that meant breaking in doors and busting up democracy. Meanwhile his numbers were dwindling, straw polls were not marching to his tune anymore as they had in the last three elections. To Posavski, fear felt the same as uncertainty, and within his minds eye he could not foresee a pleasant future as he had before the Baroturk War.
[/FONT]

 

[Beautancus]

Rumblings in February
Stary Hrodino, the City of God, Greater Sarmatia

It was a time of perfect, if cruel, clarity- plans coming to fruition, to the horror of countless souls trapped out there in the fiercest winter the northern plains of Międzymorze had seen in decades. That wind, foul and raging, could and likely did scorch and blacken the flesh of those unfortunate enough to be caught in it, for whatever reason, likely out searching some half-forgotten granary for a few morsels of rotten barley or wheat. It was the most glorious time in his life, and he only had a few more months to enjoy it.

Jozef Kościałkowsky swirled the amber-colored ambrosia, pure as the Devil's own driven snow, about in his tumbler, admiring the memory of his first tangle with Sarmatian whiskey...more than fifty years prior now. A good memory, integrally linked with the first time he'd had a woman. And what a woman it had been. This whiskey was not better, but certainly no worse. There were no women to be had now, not with the ailments that wracked his body- and that was perhaps the only complaint that Kościałkowsky would have leveled at the Divine, here in the twilight of his life.

It couldn't be helped. Nothing could help, which was saying a great deal considering the near infinite resources the man could call upon. This did not mean his life was over, or his usefulness at an end. None of his rivals, and none of his Federal "fellows" knew of the crab that tore at his innards, his pancreas nearly consumed already. Far from it- all that this meant was that he was far more focused than he had been even six months ago, with a determination that bit through the souls of men and machines as so much fresh bread.

A good analogy, Kościałkowsky thought as he beamed inwardly, and apparently outwardly. The slightly younger man that shared his fireplace this evening cocked an eyebrow quizzically, draining the last of the whiskey from his own tumbler.

"Allow an old man his internal monologues Tom, they are some of the last I will ever have."

"Horse shit Jozef, you'll have all the time there ever was and ever will be...when this thing is done at least. You and I are both true believers, despite what the pundits might say about you. God only knows what they might say about me, if they really knew anything about me." The firelight cast shadows at odd angles on Tom's face, deepening the cragginess of his features, and certainly adding a depth to the overtly sinister cast of them.

There was a certain metallic quality there in that face, above all the tricks that the firelight might play. Whereas Kościałkowsky's own features had been most often compared to granite, or marble in his younger and more dashing years, Tom's features were purely bronze, perhaps recalling some of the heritage of his distant Far-Eastern grandma, toted back from a punitive expedition in the dusky years of the Nineteenth Century.

"I assume our little programs are still moving apace out there on the tundra?" Kościałkowsky inclined his head in the direction of the great double windows, beaded with rivulets of frozen moisture, gleaming like mad diamonds on the ancient glass. Kościałkowsky knew the answer without having to ask, but he wanted to hear the younger man's appraisal of the situation.

"All well and good, as much as one can say such a thing about a program that's really more of a pogrom. And like the disparate arms of a hurricane, a thousand thousand hurricanes, the chaos is spreading amongst the ranks of our foemen. Misguided cunts, grasping at half a handful of modernity, and half a handful of history. Poor bastards really don't have any idea just how far Damocles' sword has dropped." Tom smiled when the dying Federalist snorted, and drained his tumbler- again- and refilled it instantly.

"You always have the best fucking whiskey. I hope this is one secret that you'll be sharing...you know, before you get your ticket punched."

"Mmm. To be sure and sure. Most of this," the sweep of Kościałkowsky's liver-spotted hand encompassed the entire chamber, "will pass from my keeping soon enough. But there are things that I would seen done by my own hand before then."

Both men brooded on in silence for a long moment, the silence drawing out between them as amiably as possible, which was all it had ever done between them. The hissing and popping of wood in the fireplace acted as prop-pieces for the gloomy thoughts of both, until the elder of the two could stand it no more.

Rising from his chair, old joints creeping and popping with what seemed the force of glaciers colliding and shattering, Kościałkowsky scooped a cigarette from the open silver tray at the stand beside him, and sparked it to life before stalking over to the ancient phonograph cabinet. Old hands deftly handling the record and the needle arm, he set a piece of his favorite music to life, the achingly beautiful melody of the Adagio filling in the silence that yet hung between he and Tom.

"Huszar, the old bastard. I would have willingly called a friend, even a brother once. I shared my vision with him, long ago...and it was scorned, as one might step around a girl too portly and priggish. The boundaries that have sullied our forbearers great dream, the boundaries that have kept small minds and smaller nations at the forefront of every mind...damn them all, and damn him. And by all that we both hold Holy, God damn Radny Posavski."

A quite nearly imperceptible smile crept onto Tom's face, the corners of his mouth curving just enough for the hint of that smile to appear there, before he too levered himself out of his chair. Before moving to join the older man again, he too lit a cigarette and drained his tumbler once more.

He'd long since learned to gauge Kościałkowsky's moods, and the one brewing now was a truly black one, the like of which had seen men die in their multitudes so many times that it simply did not do to count. Tom understood it, and even shared it to an extent, though his own loathing had not been nursed over the same span of decades, as Kościałkowsky's had.

There was a great thing on the tip of Tom's tongue, lurking just behind his eyes, burning on the tips of his fingers. It was a great and terrible thing, something that the dying statesman said he understood, and had long yearned for. Yet Kościałkowsky still loved the Eagle, and loathed the Wolf, in his heart of hearts. Tom thought them both beneath contempt, but understood that there, in that withered and rotting black heart, Kościałkowsky had come closer to contemplating The Thing than any other man of his age.

"And God will, in His own time- and in mine." Tom laid a hand on the slumped shoulder and gave it a slight pat.

"I have no doubt of that, alone amongst all things in these bitter days. No doubt at all." Kościałkowsky smiled, and nodded down at the record, which was perhaps nearly so old as he.

"I met him once, Różycki. I was barely old enough to appreciate his music, and he was nearly too old to care that I did...but it's always stuck with me. It is a shame, but I do not think that any of this will see a soul so creative as this borne into the world. Not amongst us, which is all the more shameful." Kościałkowsky sighed, and stubbed his cigarette out. He was about to start to philosophizing, Tom could tell.

"I suppose there are details that you would discuss."

Tom shook his head, inhaling from his own cigarette until it nearly burnt his knuckles. "None for the now Jozef. You have need of rest, and I have need to travel- weather be damned. We will speak again soon, as needs must."

 

[Thaumantica]

Faith in Your Fellow Federalist

Sometimes it seemed as if the Sarmatians never missed a beat, that an entrenched elite possessed some sort of crystal ball in the heart of Stary Hrodino. In the wrong instance that might mean being tipped off as to the location of a few of your constituents bodies, and in the right instance it meant being tipped off that a hit was coming down on you.

Though he had never kept a cell phone for longer than a week, a strikingly confident sounding man by the name of Tom always had the right digits to get ahold of him. Dav Kortori was stirred from an unsatisfactory slumber by the irksome analog beeps of his throwaway trac phone. It was like an alarm clock gaining a mind of its own, jerking him awake in the midst of a painstakingly dull dream. Part of him already knew who it was, that dark corner of his conscience he did not particularly favor discussing in public. Tom's voice was clear, concise, inspiring even; a cold greeting from a socially frigid man, the sort of tone that wreaked of faith and federalism.

"No rest for the opposition, Mister Kortori" Tom whispered over the phone from his condiminium in Hrodino, "I am fixing to get in to the habit of saving your life, if I can manage it".

Kortori threw the white satin sheets covering his body away, sending a gust of sour pungent air in through flared nostrils, the distinct scent of the Khazar Whore who lay asleep beside him. "Is that right, Tom?" Dav asked sarcastically, "So you are one of the few people who wishes me to see the sun rise?".

"I want to see you live to win this election," Tom answered back with rigid seriousness, "To effectively close the book on Assertionism". The mans inner Federalist was oozing out by now, and he did not give a damn, there could be no bi-partisanship across state lines with a Movement which did not recognize any form of Federal Law. To Tom it was really quite obvious, the cosmos had aligned, his ambitions coincided gracefully with that of Federal growth, and even a propagation of the Lord's Word.

He was out of bed now, facing the window and door in his dirt cheap hotel room, "You must know my politics by now, my vision, don't you now Tom?" he half-asked for rhetorical purpose, "People are cognisant of precisely how I intend on break down the privatized state, the so-called Union of Autonomous municipalities, which are in reality rogue microstates propped up by militias and soldiers for-hire". Tom let out a great long sigh, more then loud enough for Dav to hear, "Vaguely aware of this - this crusade of yours - if your own words can be trusted" Tom responded, revealing his own shade of sarcasm.

Headlamps from a passing automobile crept through the window shades with no haste, producing perfectly straight lines on the hotel room walls as they always did even in these seedy establishments. Dav Kortori considered that for a long moment, his own word, whether he himself fully trusted it. By the numbers, there was a significant chance Dav would be the Spring Sensation, the March Miracle in this upcoming election. If all of this were to come to pass, and he sat in Karpatica where Radny Posavski did now, would he have the fortitude to keep even half of his promises? There could be no telling, no absolute certainty, yet Kortori believed now that circumstance could not change him, that he was a tiger who would never change his stripes.

"You will want to flee that sad little Zivotun village you are in now, Mister Kortori, lay low until daylight - where you can be seen in public . . Stay in front of the Cameras, they will not hit you with everyone watching" said Tom, making his request out to sound like an order from a superior officer, quite purposely.

Dav was already slipping in to a set of casual clothes, dark blue jeans just covering brown boots, and a dark gray fleece jacket with no brand logo to draw attention. He knew the answer already, but he asked anyway, "Who exactly are they, Tom?".

"To generalize: they are the men you yourself will have to hire when you hold the Office is yours, when you hold the Scepter in Karpatica." The circumstances were more complicated then either of the two could imagine. Gunmen often had no political loyalty at all; staying safe and getting paid was likely their only real priority. The gunmen had handlers, middle men, and those middle men had handlers themselves. Connecting a handgun to shooter all the way up to the man in charge was difficult in Sarmatia, in Zivotinje it was impossible. Firearms in Zivotinje did not have serial numbers, there was no signature difference between one brand new firearms and its hundred thousand identical counterparts. With fully liberalized right to buy and sell firearms, criminals and agents of privatized justice were not particularly concerned with attaining a new weapon after another was used once then disposed of.

"Your campaign Headquarters in South Dradzik is being raided as we speak, Posavski wants to pin conspiracy to sell state secrets to Oikawa on your Movement with planted evidence" Tom said, "Given his relationship with the Federation, the allegations will not rise above the state level".

Snow and ice posed to prevent Dav from leaving so quickly as he pushed the door open. He had already braced himself for the cold, it did not shock him in the slightest when it rushed to freeze his body in place, it was almost welcome to him and his bitter mind. "He's desperate, isn't he now Tom?" Kortori asked, "This is the last act of a tragic tyrant, to sneer and lash out at death". It was death that Radny Posavski was fending off, the sitting Civil Officer knew as well as Kortori and the mysterious Tom that Radny would not survive a day under the new regime. As much as Kortori cost Posavski alive, Posavski would cost Kortori every hour of every day. Politics in their environment had not matured enough quite yet for too polar opposites the habitat to survive one another. This state simply was not big enough for the two of them.

Throwing a flurry of snow behind itself, a white van quickly pulled up behind Kortori with its headlights out. His first instinct was to run, Dav's body was immediately jolted with enough adrenaline to do so, but the little voice in his ear was there to say "Stop and get in the van Mister Kortori", the little voice was Tom. Two silent pale faced men occupied front seats in the van, they did not so much as greet Dav as he nervously settled in to a middle seat in the van.

A Federal Investigation Bureau badge clunked in to Dav's chest from the front passengers seat, quickly dropping in to his lap for him to study skeptically. Dav's hands on experience with these types was limited, but reputation had a way of preceding Federal Agents. By the time Dav returned the heavy badge Tom had hung up, leaving a long awkward silence between his fellow Federalists as rubber met the road again.