The Land of Winter

[Pelasgia]

« Mon pays, ce n’est pas un pays, c’est l’hiver ! »
"My country is not a country; it's winter!"
- Unnamed Ottawan poet​

Beauport, Donnacona, The Ottawas

"Mr. Speaker, would the Honourable Member for Ladytown Centre be so kind as to honestly tell us whether he thinks that the Engellsh tongue is truly threatened in Westernesse?" inquired one the MLA*, before pausing for the live translation from Frankish to catch up. "If so, I would ask my honourable colleague to move north of the border—because it would seem that, to him, only Engellsh unilingualism can safeguard against this 'assimilation' that he so seems to fear!" A mix of applause and booing followed, along with cries by the Speaker for everyone to quiet down.
*Member of Legislative Assembly

On and on this tired conversation went, until, finally, the owner of the establishment had the good sense to change the channel to OTA SPORT—Ottawans' favourite channel for all things sports-related. At this decision, momentary applause followed, only to grow stronger once the establishment's patrons realised what was on screen: a thorough thrashing of the Point-du-loup Wolves, a small, insignificant hockey team of an equal small and insignificant town, by the famed Beauport Caribous. The match was not part of the national leagues, which is why it had flown under the radar—but, even a friendly game was better than watching the threatre of baboons known as the Estates General. Certainly, that was the view among those that frequented McConnor's Ivernish Pub, a staple of Beauport's vibrant university district, James Church, since 1985. One of the two university districts, that is, since Beauport hosted two world-renowned universities: the prestigious and well-funded University of James College (est. 1821), for the city's anglophone community; and the Université du Dannaconé à Beauport ("University of Dannacona in Beauport") or UDB, est. 1878, the flagship francophone Reformed university of the Province of Dannacona, and arguably the best francophone university in the Ottawas.

It was these universities that had attracted most of McConnor's regular costumers to the city, both from the Ottawas and the rest of Europe. Then again, on a fine summer day like this, one of the first of "true", sunny summer in this otherwise cold, grey and wintry country, attendance was not at all limited to students, many of whom had gone back home for the season. But it was still the case that the only handful of people in the pub not to cheer for the Caribous had come to Beauport to study.

"Maybe we should pretend to cheer a bit," said Lousie Marigny, the pale, gentle and rosy-cheeked girl with the reddish brown hair and blue eyes at the centre of the group. She looked like a personification Ottawas, and her reason for coming to the country's largest metropolis was just as stereotypical as her appearance: studying law at the University of James College. Sure, she was of pure Frankish stock for some 14 generations, but she had had the grades (and the Engellsh language skills) to make the better of the two universities... so why settle for UDB?

"You think they'll notice us otherwise?" asked her boyfriend, Jean Petrov. The son of political refugees from @Tarusa, the dark-haired and stern-faced 20-year old had only had the brains to make it into UDB for his engineering degree—though at least he had had the height and stamina to make the varsity swimming team, ensuring him a full scholarship throughout his studies. After all, everyone knew that UDB kicked James College's ass in every sport. Clearly, Petrov's priorities did not lie with the academic part of his scholarship...

"Oh, I bet they will," answered an even taller and even paler man to his Jean's right—his young brother by two years, Nicolas. "I mean," he added with a wide grin drawn on his face. "What will they do? Beat us?" He faced forward, exposing the red inscription on his all-white t-shirt: ROYAL OTTAWAN NAVY. Under the inscription was the emblem of the country's navy, which featured two heraldic dolphins and the Engell crown, among other symbols.

"Peaceful and compromising as always," Jean joked at his brother. They were big sure, and nobody would likely try to pick a fight with them... but, still, was it worth ruining their last day together before Nicolas headed down south to Saint James? "Do try not to be so confrontational once aboard your boat."

"When are you shipping off?" Louise interjected with honest curiosity. "Or aren't you allowed to tell us?"

"Oh, I don't see why I couldn't. I could just tell my brother, as my next of kin, and you could merely overhear us... Only, they haven't told me yet."

Nicolas had scarcely finished his sentence when a portion of battered cod landed landed just next to his head. "Hey, you, tallboy!" came the enraged explanation from the rotund, ginger man at the source of the unlikely projectile. "You going to cheer for the Caribous or what?"

"They're from Point-du-loup, the wolfie cubs!" cried his friend, somewhat skinnier and much darker-skinned.

Before Jean or Louise had a chance to deny it, Nicolas grabbed a beer bottle and stepped forward. "Yes, we are! Now throw something at me again, and I'll kick your butt harder than the Wolfs will kick your team's." Alas, Nicolas' grandstanding merely earned him a side of fries to the face.

"Now then!" came a voice from behind the bar. "I just repainted the this whole area, so don't you go throwing punches—or fish—in my store again! This here be fine maple wood, and quite aged and expensive maple wood too, so quiet down! Or else..." The elderly man pointed to a group of men at the edge of the establishment, who were all dressed suspiciously identical and boring officewear. "These fine lads will escort you to a cell, red uniform or not."

One of the men turned around and showed his badge, which identified him as one of the Royal Ottawan Constabulary—those famous officers whose ceremonial red uniforms and brown hats made them the emblem of the Ottawas even long after they had stopped riding around in horses. "Don't go around causing trouble, eh?" said the plain-clothes cop.

"Sorry!" said the two Caribous fanatics, before scrambling to pay and leave the bar.

"Thank you, sir!" a stunned Nicolas exclaimed. Jean and Louise were quick to join him.

Yet, the old man still seemed somewhat perturbed. "Oh, don't thank me yet, son," he announced, pointing to another of his patrons. "This here be Commander Kevin Cromwell, Royal Ottawan Navy. Now, I overheard your conversation with the young lady here, and I think you could use some education on dealing with classified information; eh?"​

 

[Pelasgia]

Beauport, Donnacona, The Ottawas

"Attention: The train to Saint James Central via Verlac South will be departing in 10 minutes from platform C16. All passengers are kindly requested to head to their platform and que in an orderly fashion." The message echoed through the massive, palatial halls of Beauport's Dominion Station, bouncing between the coffered ceiling and the long colonnade of tall, corinthian pillars that formed the monumental interior of the edifice. Before the echo had even subsided, the message repeated, this time in Frankish. "Attention : Le train pour Saint-Jacques-Central..."

At the centre of Beauport's central railway station, right under the large panel which indicated the arrival and departure times, platforms, origins, and destinations of the various trains going through the Ottawas' busiest railway hub, a small sea of men dressed in blue uniforms had formed. On their uniforms and bags figured a pair of dolphins surmounted by the Royal Crown of Great Engellex—the symbol of the Royal Ottawan Navy. On their chests were attached labels with their respective names; and one of these was inscribed "PETROV", after a certain Acting Sub-Lieutenant Nicolas Petrov, of Point-du-Loup, HL.

"Now then," warned the short, curvy figure of Louise Marigny, all the while waiving a finger at the young naval officer. "Don't you even think of getting yourself killed or in trouble. You hear me? Your brother won't be able to live without you."

"Yeah, yeah," came the retort from a slightly bored Nicolas Petrov. His mind was understandably fixed on the excitement of all the lay ahead—his first ship, the start of his commission, meeting his crewmates and commander; all of which was rather important to a young man fresh from the Royal Naval Academy in Hull—such that he lacked even the slightest patience for warnings that had been repeated ad nauseam. "I'll also make sure to eat well and wash my teeth, mom."

Jean, Nicolas' brother, roared with hearty laughter, doubly so for Louise's blushing. "Just make sure to call me or write me every now and then, alright? When they let you that is."

"You got it, big bro. And, Louise, watch him for me, will you? He's got a thick head, only good for diving into water."

Louise considered answering in jest, but decided otherwise, given that there was a good chance they would not speak for a while. "I will—you just find someone to watch after you. Your own thick head isn't that much better."

"Is your cousin single yet?" Nicolas shot back, making Louise red like a tomato. She really should have answered in jest.

A few hugs, kisses to the cheeks, and heartfelt goodbyes and pleasantries later, Nicolas had boarded the train along with his fellow men of the seas, and was preparing to depart for Saint James, close to the southernmost point in the country. Under normal circumstances, Louise would have also boarded a train a couple of hours later, to head back to Point-du-Loup to spend a few weeks of the summer with her kin; only, her tie with Jean had started to get serious, and she decided to spend the summer in Beauport, by his side, where he was obliged to stay both by reason of his athletic contract and for work. They were, after all, twenty-something years old now, and it was common for people in the still rather religious society that was the Ottawas to marry around that age—preferably with what people in Westernesse called their "high school" or "college sweetheart", depending on their level of education. In the big cities, this was slowly changing... but neither Nicolas nor Louise were from a city, big or otherwise; they were from Point-du-Loup (population: 30,000; biggest attraction: either the old Reformed church, or the 19th ce. Central Post Office).

Unbeknownst to any of the trio from the small town in the Province of Hochelaga, and, indeed, entirely by coincidence, at the far end of the station stood a group of men between thirty and forty years of age, all dressed in civilian clothes, which were both so similar and boring as to nearly arouse suspicion. The authors of this forced and eerie attempted at unremarkability were none other than a half dozen plain-clothes officers of the Royal Ottawan Constabulary (ROC*), the Dominion's federal police service—the same half dozen officers, that is, whose presence had extricated the friends from Point-du-Loup from what, in all likelihood, would have been a rather bloody altercation at McConnor's Ivernish Pub a few days earlier.
*In Frankish, Maréchaussé royale des Outaouais (MRO).

The demeanour of the officers, however, was anything but like that of the other three patrons of McConnor's who had entered the station that day.

"Fucking Radillans," said one Constable Thomas Atkins, a pale, dark-haired native of Ladytown who seemed like the poster boy for the entire Engell Catholic minority. "We should have never let them into the country."

"Easy there, border patrol," answered Sergeant Jeanne Beaudoin, whose deep blue eyes seemed to almost match the royal blue of old Burgundy, whence her ancestors had first settled Lower Ottawa in 1608. "Mafiosi from @Radilo put traitors in cement; you Westerners bury them in mines. Big difference."

This half-hearted back and forth was interrupted by the stern voice of the group's commander, who had been previously examining the time of arrival for the train from Hull, the nation's capital. "I don't care about a single scummy criminal," said Inspector James Andrews, his clean-shaved head shining under the light penetrating the station's large windows. "He got what was coming to him. What I do care about is the information he had—information which we'll have to get somehow else now."

"It seems to me that you've got an idea," pointed out a tall man, with a polite, round face and skin almost as black as the frame of his glasses. It was none other than Inspector Robert Dickson, a proud descendant of the community of former slaves who had settled in the country after escaping @Natal in the 19th century. They were called the "Nethian Loyalists"—and the sheer number of the community's members who entered the Crown's service in one way or another surely lived up to that name. "Don't you?"

"I do," answered Andrews, as he started for the gate leading to the train from Hull, whose passengers had now started to trickle out into the main station. "But, as always, I doubt you'd approve of my methods." He grabbed one of the passengers exiting the train and shouted out loud. "Halt there, ROC! You don't want us to put you in cuffs, do you?"​

 

[Radilo]

Petite Radlie, Beauport
2:00 PM

It was a red sauce kinda joint: checkered table cloths, decent pizza and pasta, and cheap Birra Moretti on draft.

Historically, most Radilan immigrants to the New World left because of the extreme inequality in their homeland. Upward mobility was an attractive offer to many peasants, especially in the years before the Great War. It was less of an issue now, with most recent émigrés coming for... other economic opportunities.

"So you dealt with the rat?" said Guido, lighting a cigarette.

"Yea, we took care of it," said Mario, shoveling spaghetti into his mouth, he wiped his lips with a napkin, "that particular stream of intelligence is no more."

"Good. Un bicer d'ombra, grassie," he said, to a passing waitress, who nodded in recognition.

"The cops around here are getting kinda jumpy," he said, taking another bite.

"As we thought they would. The old royal Constabulary is known for their lack of humor."

"I'll be honest, I don't think that cocaine is all that funny either..."

"Depends on your perspective, the rich coke feins here should be grateful that we get the family and friends discount... the junkies even more so."

The waitress, a young woman with strong Meridian features, set a glass of red wine on the table.

"Grassie," the legitimate businessman said.

"Prego," she faked a smiled, knowing who he and his dining companion were. Once she was out of their sight, she scowled at them. They were the reason she got so much abuse. Her grandparents immigrated to the New World before the Great War, looking for new opportunities.

She felt ashamed, as she was still what her grandparents sought to avoid--working as a servant to rich pricks skirting the law. And she still had to take abuse, from the police and everyone else, because Radilans couldn't give up their addiction to the Mafia. She had never even been to Radilo, and she never wanted to. She could hide behind her Frankish first name everywhere else but here... at work she was just another working class Radilanne-Outaouaise lass--Élise...

"Isabella, tableau quatre," her manager shouted. She sighed, and went about her work.

 

[Pelasgia]

Hull International Airport, Hull, Danaconna

“And that one?” said Lily, pointing to a long, light green plane, whose tail and wings were decorated with olive branch motifs.

“That one’s with Pelasgian Airways,” answered Emma, drawing her younger sister closer. “It’s probably come here from across the Thaumatic.”

That last comment produced a wide-mouthed ‘wow’ from the younger of the two Basso girls—followed by a long pause “The Thaumatic, eh?” Lily wondered, scanning the airplane from front to tail and back. “That’s where daddy is, right?”

Emma drew her closer, like a pelican shields her young under her wings. “Yeah. Don’t worry, he’ll be back soon; he always is.”

To this, Lily offered no retort. Then, as if possessed by Lord-knows-what, she jumped up and pointed out another plane, this one white on top and navy blue in the bottom, the two separated by a maroon line. “That one’s Ottawan Airlines, right?!”

“Yes!” Emma announced. “That’s our plane alright.”

—

Somewhere deep under international waters in the central Thaumatic Ocean

“First deployment, sailor?” asked Petty Officer 2nd Class Jacob Basso, as he leaned through the corridors of the submarine. He was a tall man, in spite of his Zaran name, which meant “short”—about the only heritage his family had left since they had migrated to @Corrientes a century ago, and then to the Ottawas two generations later.

“Yes, sir,” Nicolas Petrov answered, before mimicking his superior’s motion. He was anxious and stressed, and try as he did to mask it, he could not.

“You’re in luck,” Basso commented, before pausing in front of the sonar console. “This here is the newest submarine in the whole fleet—the HMOS Hunter. Anybody else wouldn’t have been allowed on board without such performance, so I hope you’re as good of a sonar operator as your instructors said.”

“I won’t fail you, sir,” Nicolas said as he took a seat and put on the headset the man he had just relieved—Sailor 1st Class Peter Johnson—had set aside.

Basso would have laughed, but he knew not to, being a submariner and therefore as committed to keeping his boat silent as he was to his daughters’ virtue. “It’s not me you have to impress, young Nic; it’s Commander Cromwell. He’s the one who vouched for you, after your little run-in at that bar.”

The pale, wide-shouldered native of Point-du-Loup blushed—and then he activated his headset and started to listen. A sharp, shrieking noise, almost like the singing of a whale or a dolphin but mechanical a d lifeless filled his ears, as it filled the sea around him.

“Active sonar,” he said after a few instants more. “Type 16B, slightly dated model—Justosian. Imperio-class cruiser if I have to guess. They’re scanning, but they can’t find us, not at this depth and distance. They’re moving away anyway, and we’re almost behind their bow.”

“Those Justosians should really invest in a towed array,” said Basso, smiling. “Not that it’d be much use in international waters like this, but still.”

“Today’s international waters are tomorrow’s battlefield,” said the pale man of average stature with the dark brown and closely-cut hair who emerged from behind Basso. His deep, authoritative voice matched his rank.

“Commander, sir!” Basso said in a hushed but rushed tone, saluting without beating attention to avoid making noise.

“At ease, Basso,” Commander Kevin Cromwell ordered, before turning his deep brown eyes on Nicolas Petrov. “The boy’s good—very good. Let’s hope we don’t have to use his skills outside of drills.”

“Thank you, sir,” Nicolas said, before realisong he’d spoken out of turn and staring like a wide-eyed owl.

“Easy, sailor,” the Commander said, with a rare smile. “This isn’t a surface vessel—we’re more informal down here.” With that he turned and started for the door. “Basso, I want everyone prepped. We’re heading home soon, and I want to test just what this boat can do without getting detected.”​