War in the Jungle

[Monkecia]

26th October

Around Monkecia time ebbed, and never flowed. Ebbs and eddies, swirls and counter-swirls, never moving straight for more than a crooked second, never settling, never steady. Until tonight.

Tonight, time stopped ebbing and started flowing. First it was a blazing torrent washing everything away, then a gush cleaning, scrubbing, fixing and sorting, then time was a flow, supporting, nurturing, reviving.

Tonight, the clocks went back.

And what once was, was no longer;what may have been, now won't be; and what should be, again is.

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was gone, the time - the straight time, this time - was 1953. And everything was resolved. In a flash, the smallest parcel of time, Monkecia was restored, time became time again, the years could be counted, normality returned.

Monkecia had grown up. Though, ironically, the first day in Monkecia's history that was exactly 24 hours long should have been 25; but that's another story. "Tempus mortales subsannavit".

And where does that leave Monkecia and her bewildered, battered, starving population? Let's recap and work out where time has taken us...


Many long years ago Monkecia was a little, virtually unheard of backwater. A blot on the map. Almost entirely uninfluential, ignored and avoided since ships no longer needed to stop on a trade route by the early 19th century, Monkecia's fierce and noble population lived and breathed as the lowest population in the world. Owned by rich nations, mined by the glorious and trodden by the powerful, this was a little country, the butt of a great empire, Monkecians sweated away making, but never enjoying, luxurious products sold for high prices. In another world, this might have been called a slave colony. The diamonds and gold produced was held for never more than a week before it was taken away to be sold. The fine cigars were never smoked, the exotic fruit and sugar grown never sold in the local shops.

That all changed in 1940. Vivo sub los revolucia. Liberatio Moncesya! The socialists swept to power and the nation found a backbone. A very small one, but after kneeling for so long, this was progress. Schools were built. Hospitals opened up. Workers took control of the mines and factories again. The refined culture the rich landowners surrounded themselves with in their fortress settlements was distributed to the factory workers, the pit heavers, the diamond cutters. Slowly and surely, Monkecia joined the modern world.

And at the helm? Antonius Vladimir Ffyllos. Philosopher. Artisan. Politician. Fighter. Ruling with the gun in one hand an a bill of rights in the other, he was the government. Those who had a lot and found themselves much poorer hated him. And those who had nothing and now found themselves with something loved him. The loathers left and returned to their European homelands. And plotted. And plotted. And plotted.

1947. "The year of the Red Horse". It took less than 45 days for all but two of the cities to fall. The socialists retreated back to the mountainous jungles, back to the rural parts where the people loved them the most. The cities were governed by one administration, the country by another. City vs country. Brother vs brother. A barbaric civil war, neither side able to win, neither side willing to lose. Colossal support from the old world propped up the invaders in the cities, themselves under constant attack from the enemy that could do so much with so little. A bombing here. A shooting there. Chaos, confusion and strife reigned.

And then invaders realised that the old world had moved on. The search for gold had become the search for oil. The powers that be realised they'd never make the money they once did, that everything had changed, that the people were never going to be controlled again. The support stopped. Those that were left created barricades around their self-inflicted rich-man ghettos. The civilian government stumbles on with the little help it can get. The socialists are relentless, but lack the weaponry and international support to finish the job to retake the islands. The war drones on and on, and for five long years the brutality and carnage has sucked the life of the islands, banished thoughts of peace, extinguished almost every flicker of hope the people have...

 

[Monkecia]

The Night The Clocks Went Back

A lighter flickers. He fiddles with it again, more sparks flly into the warm, humid night air, but the wick doesn't take. Again he flicks the tiny drum, a third and fourth time sparks flare, briefly illuminating the pitch blackness but not lighting the cotton pinch. Shadows leap around Campo Moncesya, Camp Monkecia, or, as it is officially known, the Headquarters of the Free People of Monkecia. A casual observer might briefly see a sagging trestle table, adorned with some papers and an ancient, barely working radio transmission set, with two smartly dressed girls sitting behind microphones, earphones tightly against their heads. Maybe too would the observer see the heavy canvas of the tent gently flapping in the night air around them, defining the tiny, cramped space. Or maybe maybe he'd hear the jungle sound of crickets and other animal noises occasionally heard distantly through the night air. Or maybe the casual observer would see a man sitting on a wooden stool, clutching a lighter in one hand, a microphone in the other, holding a cigar in his mouth whilst balancing a porcelain coffee mug on his knee. There are no casual observers here, of course. One doesn't get to glimpse Antonius Ffyllos without reason, and certainly no one bothers him just before a radio broadcast.

"Damn," the man curses the lighter and throws it onto the trestle. "Accursed thing. Can't a man get a smoke these days? I sound much better on the radio." He states matter of factly, scowling at one of the girls.

"Five minutes," she says back even more plainly, not responding to her father's frustrations. "K-cell is connecting to us now." The other girl, who looks almost identical to the first, speaks quickly into a microphone, evidentially sending a sound test. "Blasted thing," she says after a few seconds, careful not to swear in front of her father either, "The transmitter at South Close'ath's down . Nothing coming back through the loop. Preaching to the converted tonight, papa. Postpone?"

Ffyllos grunts and stands up. As he turns, his pistol, always kept within reach at his belt, knocks over the microphone. A wire comes loose, and in the darkness, no one sees. It would be fixed in the morning, most likely, but tonight the propaganda machine will be silent, a man reading communist manuscripts into a dead transmission set. Ffyllos strides away, sipping his coffee, pushing the cigar back into his shirt pocket. And now he's at the door, and at six foot six he has to duck under the flap. His silhouette disappears into the camp. There's the sound of boots stamping as soldiers stand to attention in unison. The girls share a glance and let out very small giggles. He's boss to a ten thousand troops, the iron commander, the man they all fight and die in droves for, but to them, he's still just daddy.

Outside, a light flares for a moment. Ffyllos has found someone with a working lighter. They hear him sigh slowly as he exhales. Around the camp, work of the Free People continues.

***

Nuns robes, she thinks, it's always nuns robes. Heavy, damp, impractical. And you can't wear boots with a nun disguise, lets the footprints give it away. So Tanya's wearing sandals, with her slightly more sturdy shoes strapped to her ankles. Still, it would take a brave man to try to search a nun, and Tanya has every reason not to be searched. Under the robes, she's also carrying a charge of C4, and two colt 45's, loaded, and a heap of spare cartridges. Tonight, she's a very fat nun.

"May I go through?" She asks in her thick, Monkecian accent. "A gift for his grace. His supper!" Tanya lets out a small laugh.

"Oh... of course!" the soldier replies, and begins to pull back a bolt. "This way, reverend sister..."

"Reverend mother," she snaps, taking a liberty with the young man, pushing her luck.

He blushes. "I'm sorry. Ugh. May god forgive me--" Tanya's already through the door and has swung it closed behind her. She rolls her eyes. She believes in God, but doesn't think he's too concerned with someone getting a fictional title wrong.

She's now inside the residence, the long halls of the Archbishop's complex, and somewhere in the building is her target. Within a few minutes she's back in her fighting gear, the baggy robes hidden behind a statue of the holy mother. She finds herself reaching to the statue, touching the baby's small body with her trigger finger. "May God forgive me," she says very, very quietly, and then she begins her mission. Her bag on her back, her guns in her hands, she stalks through the halls, as quietly as a cat stalking a mouse. Her safeties are off - they are always off - her fingers always ready to pull the trigger and end some unlucky fucker's life. She turns right, then left, powers up a flight of stairs, her boots making no noise against the lush, thick red carpet. There's a light on up behind a door ahead, and Tanya can gently hear the crackly, sweet tunes of a turn-table. An Tiburian number, a woman with a soft voice is singing about a rose garden. Or some other horse shit like that, she thinks, and creeps forward towards the light.

It's the bathroom. She slides past the an open door to a bedroom where a junior priest is arranging towels presumably for his boss. He doesn't even hear her, let alone see her ghost past. Then she's up against the door, her pistols up and ready for their morbid work. Inside, the sound of the gramophone is joined by the sounds of the Archbishop enjoying a bath. God... she thinks, I hope he's not beating off...

Tanya pushes open the door and slips inside...

 

[Monkecia]

She closes the door behind her by pushing the barrel of one of her .45's against it. There's a satisfying click as the latch shuts, and she quickly turns the key to lock the bathroom. The other colt is pointing into the room, and she's scanned it already, identifying no one else but elderly, rather shocked, wet Archbishop himself. Soap covers everything below his chest including his hands and Tanya draws a bead on him with both her pistols as she approaches. "Hands up, papa," she says, though softly, almost respectfully.

"You're early. And..."

"Agents of the Free Republic arrive exactly when they need to. Not a moment before or after." Now that time had settled and stopped being so silly this might not be true, but Tanya wouldn't know that. Not yet, anyway.

Archbishop Xander Lucius Tyb is almost 80; over three times Tanya's age of 25. He's wise and gently raises his hands. "I won't harm you, child. Would you put those down, please?"

She answers with a frown and motions him to get out of the bath. When he hesitates, she snipes at him. "Don't be shy. Your mother wasn't." His shoulder drop slightly and he hesitates again. "I've seen it all before," she says more gently. Reluctantly he gets out of the bath, sighing quietly. Water runs from his body down onto the polished, tiled floor around the free standing luxury bath. The residence is one of the four palaces around Red Square, and it's magnificent. Built with the wealth ground from Monkecian gold and diamond mines in the mid 19th century, it's stunning, and neo-Gothic majesty is built into every feature. And it's recently been refurbished after the Red Horse invasion almost gutted it during the aerial bombing of Red Square.

Tanya throws the man a plush white towel and turns away, but only once she's sure he's unarmed. She catches a glimpse of Red Square through the slightly open window, and is hooked. She stares out, mouth open slightly. What a view! It's mostly empty now, the curfew keeping all but the small unit of tanks and multitudes of guards away. Dim gas-fired lampposts circle round it, illuminating it against the noise of the war-weary city. Beyond, in the gaps between the other mighty buildings, Tanya can see the lights of the harbour and just make out a rusting, stranded aircraft carrier in the bay.

"Beautiful, isn't it? Peace Square," Tyb says softly behind her. "Are you sure you want to blow part of it up?"

The agent turns to him slowly and she speaks even more softly. "Of course not. It sickens me. But I have a mission and that mission is part of a bigger picture. A demonstration bombing in the heart of the Green Zone will shake the regime. Look-- " Tyb had sighed and had begun to turn away, "I want this war ended too, Papa. You think I don't want to have children and bring them up in peace?"

He takes a long time to answer. "I wasn't expecting someone so young," he finally says. "I see there's no reasoning a babe. They are full of passion and lack love or reason. I'll set this... device. This... bomb. You understand my condition."

Tanya nods. "No one gets hurt, no one, nada, not a soul," she really does lie very easily, "and in return Comrade Ffyllos will ensure that the Catholic church continues well in the future and is a key pillar of post-war reconstruction. And of course the safety of my... good friends the priests who lead the faithful in the Free towns and villages remains guaranteed." She stops speaking as the music on the gramophone finishes, resets the needle and then smiles lightly as the singing begins again.

"What's your name, my child?" Tyb catches her slightly off-guard.

"Comrade Adams," she says flatly. "You don't get a first first name." She sees him bristle hearing her name. The Monkecian Horn, the rag-newspaper of the regime has 'Comrade Adams' down as a maniac mass murderer, serial child killer, torturer, beheader, bomber, demon worshiper, whore. And those are the compliments.

"Tanya, the newspapers say you are?" She lifts her pistols slightly and he smiles. "Miss Adams, then. You'd better show me what to do."

She nods and slips her backpack to the floor, bending over. She blushes slightly as he gets an eyeful from her low cut tank-top. "It's simple. This is called Combination Four. It's like plasticine. It's very safe. You mold it and then you push the mechanism into it, so the pins are about half way through. You set the timer and slide this this green pin down here. That starts the timer. When the timer gets to five minutes, don't hang around. You know where you'll set it?"

"Yes," he says, his sparkling, alert eyes watching her. "Near your master's old office, top floor, there's a... toilet along from where I'll speak to him. I'll make my excuses and time it for midnight. The building will be empty then."

"Good papa," she says, smiling lightly. "I will stay in a guest tonight to... ensure the package's safety. Now, let me show you once more..."

She explained again, and then again, just to make sure. She didn't explain about the remote detonation device she had still inside the bag, or the real reason she was staying over. Kids, papa ain't coming home.

 

[Monkecia]

The Next Morning, about 9.30. Red Square, Deep Monkton

Comrade Adams watches the motorcars through her binoculars, through a small crack in the tiles on one of the many roofs from the palace's many lofts. She squints through the lenses as she sees the Archbishop gets out of the Rolls Royce in front of the Red Palace, or the National Residence, as it's now known, having made the short trip from the building she's in. The Archbishop is holding the briefcase, a little nervously, she notes, gripping it with a hand that's turned white with the pressure of squeezing so tightly. Next to Tanya is her bag, and also the remote detonation device. She hopes the radio technicians calculated correctly the distances involved.

The palace gates are open and the Archbishop walks forward. The Prime Minister, this Creedo bastard who's the central pawn in the Great Game of Monkecia, emerges from the building and walks towards him. A few press are gathered, their cameras ready, getting into the best positions to snap the handshake for tomorrow's front pages. And what front pages they will be!

Tanya reaches for the trigger mechanism. Her fingers twitch over the button.

Not yet... not yet.

She's watching and waiting. For a movement from the Archbishop. Anything which a witness can say "I saw him pull a cord," or, "it was him, I'm sure." And she's got to wait until they are in the clear, as alone as possible, so no one can claim a grenade was thrown, or, that someone else was involved. It's got to be in front of the small crowd, where everyone can see the Archbishop doing his duty to God and Monkecia and taking Creedo straight to hell with a suicide bomb in his briefcase.

Not yet...

She watches them shake hands. They smile for the camera. Archbishop and fake ruler. God's representative and the serpent-devil himself.

There! He moved! Now!

Her fingers are down on the trigger in an instant. Tanya's heart skips a beat. Invisible radio waves extend outwards in all directions to trigger the bomb.

For a second nothing happens. Then Tanya's world explodes around her. The explosion's not directly below her, about 30 metres away, but her vision is filled with fire, shards of glass, smoke, splinters of wood, and then she's falling, falling, falling to Red Square down below. She loses consciousness before she lands, and within 10 minutes she's scooped up... scraped up... by an ambulance team.

Double crossed by a vicar. That'll piss her off when she wakes.

If she wakes.

And tomorrow's front pages? Rebel Corps Attack Archbishop... Socialists Declare War On God... Ffyllos Hates God... and so on and so on.

That will really piss her off when she finds out.

If she finds out.

 

[Monkecia]

Damage Control
Midday Yesterday

Ffyllos was in a foul mood as the ancient, open-topped jeep bumped along the dusty, stoney track. His held his felt beret against his face to breathe through, squinting through dark sunglasses in the sun. The rain would start in about two hours, and now the ground was dry and baked. The three jeeps in front of his kicked up a huge cloud of dust, covering him as they drove. In his other hand he held a hastily-typed report which, only an hour earlier, had been typed by one of the many secretaries in Camp Monkecia, painstakingly taking forty minutes to get the entire message by SOS, one character at a time. The report had been rushed up the command chain immediately. And now the leader was speeding back to Monkecia City, with his entourage.

Eventually the dust clouds began to thin as the convoy bounced onto a tarmac road. Now, the incline was less steep and they were winding down through plantations of bananas, coconuts, and tobacco. The convoys swept past old tractors, unused and useless without fuel, past scores of farmers, men and women with their children tending their crops and dragging produce down on carts and laden-mules. They squeezed past overloaded wagons, tethered to hot, annoyed horses. As they past, everyone waved. Some cheered. Children ran to try to keep up, shouting support for him. And whenever he was going slow enough, Ffyllos stood up, his fist against his chest, beret on, his free hand holding high the country's red flag.

The convoy now could pick up speed as they whistled into the outlying settlements. From every roof top, balcony, and chimney stack, from every tiny, tin hovel or concrete dwelling, from every possible building, the red flags were hung. Either the red flag of Monkecia, with the circle of progress motif in the corner, or the red flag with Ffyllos' iconic face imprinted on it, the population under socialist control showed their support however they could. They loved him; this was the people's revolution.

As he descended into the sprawling, ramshackle shanty-town of Monkecia City's suburbs, Ffyllos was almost feeling better. He'd be showered within the hour, and then, it was time for the nursery.


*****

He sat at one end of the table, leaning back, looking fairly relaxed, hiding his mood well. Now his uniform was clean, his hair dust-free and brushed, his beard roughly trimmed after a month in the forests. A proper cigar in one hand, and a glass of rum on the table in front of him also helped. Unfortunately, the paperwork between him and the drink had to be sorted before he'd allow himself a sip. One of his ideas was to have the rum on the table, so that the committee didn't talk for too long. Tea was served before, not during the meeting. He didn't want the children arguing for a moment longer that.

"Comrades," he said loudly, and the din of argument, discussion, negotiation and affray quietened immediately. "Committee sits."

The 15 men and three women of the National Committee sat along the long mahogany table. The sound of chairs gently sliding over plush carpet, the fidgeting of people getting comfy, the sound of papers turning and moving fills the room.

Ffyllos surveyed the people briefly, once they'd become still enough to continue. After the Consul himself, the biggest boy in the nursery was Benjamin Franko, sitting two places away. Head of Monkecia's Internal Security, he ran the police and security forces inside socialist controlled territory. He was almost as tall as Ffyllos himself, but Franko was much older, fatter and probably tougher all over. Franko wasn't known for taking prisoners, he was brutal, and there were rumours he went far too far sometimes; torturing prisoners for information, heavy bondage sessions with barely legal girls, police brutality, that sort of thing. He was the iron fist of the party, the man most feared. Ffyllos knew Franko wanted he top job too, and so kept him very close, and gave him lots of tasks to keep him occupied. Ffyllos had to keep him in the nursery because he was very well respected by some of the international heavyweight backers and the older, richer guard of the communist groupings in Monkecia, those who kept the donations coming in and the war effort financed. And, he was also pretty good at his job, all in all.

The man Franko feared was Lime Garcia, Monkecia's spymaster. He was six foot, and very good looking. Ffyllos knew he had a big cock and according to some of the secretaries, knew how to use it to maximum advantage, a useful skill at turning women. Garcia scared both Franko and Ffyllos, he was very clever, very subtle, and when he spoke, he paused now and again, only briefly, but one got the impression he was calculating every possible variable inside his head, working out every scenario, working out exactly what levers would need to be pulled and how. Still he seemed to be very much on message and Ffyllos relied on him heavily. The bishop bombing plan had been Garcia's, and he was very quiet today, more so than usual. Whether he feared he was about to get dressed down at Committee, or something else (Ffyllos suspected Garcia was sleeping with one, or both, of his own twin daughters, possibly together; Garcia knew his boss would kill him if he caught them, but was far too smart to ever get caught, so the game continued), he'd kept his mouth shut during the pre-meeting babble.

The only other man dressed in military uniform was General Drake or "Boots" as he was known. Boots was the red's second in command in the military. An inspiring planner, though unsuitable for front-line duties due to having both his feet blown off by a landmine, Boots was one of Monkecia's most decorated war heroes. He knew his shit about fighting, too. Whereas Ffyllos was the aggressive, daring, striking commander, Boots was the resources man, planning, analysising, sorting, covering his master's schemes and putting reality back into the boss's cunning plans. Boots was also easy to control, being a military man, was more loyal than anyone else Ffyllos knew. He couldn't always work the general out, but was pretty sure he'd be the last person to be engaging in the political games and back-stabbing which went on in the nursery and beyond.

Chloe Garcia was Lime's daughter, although just fifteen years separated them. Not that this was too unusual in Monkecia of course; but the pair of them rising through the party ranks together was notable. She was feisty and bold, and at 32 she was one of the youngest women in the world to be in charge of a city. She was an excellent civilian politician. She knew exactly how to get what she wanted, and didn't ever need to flirt with men or sell herself out to do it. Under her four year grip of Monkecia City, the markets were full of goods, shops were open, buses just about ran on time, and all this despite a massive economic problem. Her top ability was to pick and then control the brightest minds; Ffyllos suspected she didn't really care about the specifics of the city itself, but more about managing well those who did. One of the best assets the nursery had, but she was very ambitious, and Ffyllos knew one day, he'd probably have to take her down a peg or two. For now, she was a huge asset, someone to be trusted to manage well in difficult circumstances.

***

There are other men and women in the nursery, but for now, Ffyllos bangs his fist on the table to bring them altogether and fires a sharp look to his left. Garcia takes his usual half-second to think, then weakly smiles and leans forward.

"We didn't foresee this. Getting crossed by a geriatric priest was simply not entertained. That is, if there wasn't some sort of technical fault or..."

Boots cuts him off. "The equipment worked well, according to your own reports from Rebel Corps at the scene afterwards."

Again, Garcia takes a small breath, briefly glances at his daughter and continues, "We have immediately enacted reserve measures to limit damage. We can control some of the organisation, certainly all the priests within our control won't dare to..."

Ffyllos cut him off. "They are priests. They do not drink, they do not care about money, they do not serve this country but their god, and they do not sleep with your agents. We have no control over them, other than to shoot them or threaten them. And we will not be going down that route!" He slams his fist onto the table again. There is silence. "You fucked up, Lime. Big time."

Ffyllos' problem was this; although hugely supported across the country, ideological support only went so far. Getting a boy or girl to wave a flag, send some money, or leave some food out for the local Rebel Corp unit is all very well; getting that boy or girl to leave mama and papa and their nice beds, to be eaten alive in the jungles by flies the size of a coin, to be shot at, to be half-starved and made to walk hundreds of miles hauling heavy equipment through hot, humid jungles was very different. At the start of every rainy season, Ffyllos had to send about two thirds of his soldiers home to help with the harvest and replanting, and in November he hoped roughly the same number would return. The last two years had seen a steady decline and, mid-way through the harvest season now, the young workers' thoughts would be turning to another winter and dangerous spring in the jungle. Every single thing which painted the socialists badly hurt them more than he dared to think. In the summer, Ffyllos organised high-profile, strategic attacks, bombings in the Green Zones, big things to grab attention and convince veterans and new recruits to come back and finish the war. Which was why the plan seems so good. When Garcia had told Ffyllos and then the nursery he could turn the archbishop, everyone was eager to push that as far as they could. The head of the catholic church suicide bombing the prime minister deep inside the safest place in the country would have been magnificent coup. And now they were in the shit, paddles long gone. A socialist attack, with the top agent caught red-handed, on the very church that was helping them run the country... it was a disaster of all proportions.

"Boots," Ffyllos turns to the general. "Port Troy. Can we launch tonight?"

Before the general can answer, at least ten people are speaking and trying to be heard. Madness! No way! Not ready yet! We'd lose everything!

Ffyllos raises his hand again. "Shut. Up." he commands. The hubub settles. A few of the secretaries on the table behind him, taping away at their typewriters exchange worried glances. Ffyllos is always armed. And he's rarely so annoyed.

Boots leans forward. His manners are impeccable. "Comrade-Consul, sir, we can go when we're ready. Intelligence suggests hitting them now will be most unexpected. They do not believe we have the troops in the area. Of course, it will mean deploying virtually all our reserves." That meant they will be weak elsewhere.

Franko speaks for the first time. "It is time we acted, though. Or do we intend to sit here another year?" Another mumour goes around the room, but this time much quieter now Franko had spoken. Clearly most of the others are scared of him.

"I do not like being forced to play my hand," Ffyllos says slowly. "But we do need to push on. If we can take Port Troy in two weeks, we will have the war by Christmas." He strokes his beard and draws on his cigar. "Everything else waits. General Boots, begin tonight at 2200 hrs. That will give me enough time to get there by morning. Mister Garcia, get your agent Adams out of prison. Mister Franko, lock down everything you can. Time to pull in all enemy spies you know of. Everything else waits."

That annoys virtually everyone else in the room who have other matters to bring up; City funding, education programmes, health programmes, harvest predictions, something called a trade deficit, and so on and so forth.

"Comrades," he speaks softly, grabbing everyone's attention again. "We go to war. Run your departments yourselves as best you will. I'll see you all in five weeks. With any luck we'll meet again in Deep Monkton by February."

Everyone still looks unhappy and a bit worried. And he knows why; he's dragged some of them hundreds of miles across the country to bring up their issues at the monthly meeting of senior government figures. Some of these issues are crucial and he does care about too; just not as much as winning the war.

Ffyllos stands. "Alright. In my absence... " his eyes glance around the room and then settle on Chloe. She's pretty as well as smart, he thinks. "Committee will continue. Boots, Garcia and Franko will come with me back to HQ. Chl... comrade Miss Garcia, you will be in charge of the country in my absence. Chair the meeting as you see fit."

The three other men stand and briefly smile to the room; the party leaders and military men are parting for what may be the last time. They're all friends and have been together as a group for roughly 15 years now in some way or other.

Ffyllos lifts his glass as the din rises back up. Chloe is already being talked at by four different people at once. He loudly toasts. "Comrades,... to Monkecia."

The rum glasses are emptied quickly.

Within ten minutes the convoy is making its way back out of the city, back towards camp. Ffyllos is heading to battle with the war cabinet of the Free People of Monkecia. It was now time to do or die. Win or fail. Six years of stalemate, slowly planning, slowing regaining the advantage, slowly getting into position. And now Ffyllos was about ignite the fighting once again.

Time to kill the damned Red Horse.

 

[Monkecia]

Blood
Dusk

It was a full moon, and on the eve of battle, Antonius Ffyllos sacrificed a goat to the Moonztcoctl god of war. Down below the pyramid-temple, on the edge of the clearing at a respectable distance, Garcia and Franko grinned sheepishly behind dark sunglasses as Monkecia's light faded.

It was always a tense relationship and one never knew how far to indulge the ancient traditions. Ffyllos generally did whatever it took to ensure the respectful use of the trails, and to ensure the elders and rulers ordered thousands of young natives to war on his side. In 1933 Ffyllos had become leader of the revolution; through his political prowess and deal-making by 1937 he was the fabled, prophesied "Red King". He never compromised on his core beliefs; he wasn't going to sacrifice a child or take a slavegirl or marry one of their daughters (and least of all Jessica!), but he would kill a goat now and again, and would preside over the yearly festival and games, acting, and sometimes dressing like the Moonztcoctl King. Of course, the fact he'd also promised a lot of land back to the tribes, something of a reserve, and also one of his daughters to one of the elders, had nothing to do with that. He did sometimes wonder quite how things would pan out.

The ceremony was finished by the time the shadows merged with general darkness and he descended the pyramid, two elders on each side of him, the princess behind him. He got to the ground level and walked towards the trail that led back to Garcia and Franko, back to the ancient jeeps that had chugged them all the way to Moonztacia, the war-temple. The procession walked passed a large gathering of Moonztan fighters, gently chanting their battle songs and passing a bucket of goat blood around to mark their faces with. They'd have to walk for days to the front lines, Ffyllos planned for the fighting at Port Troy to be done by then, but he'd used them for the next push after that towards Close'ath. They were very fast and very vicious, and what they lacked in tactical know-how they made up for in bravery and courage. He gently smiled as he surveyed them. Tall, muscular lads stood to attention in front of him, unable to decide whether to bow to their king or salute him as their brief army instruction under Boots had taught them. Some younger women were there too, looking about 20 or so, ready for battle as much as the men. And Ffyllos estimated there was about one third of the kit required for the unit; some had boots, others had combat trousers of jackets, some had ancient tin helmets; and some had any combination of the items. All had rifles, all had bags with spare ammo. And all looked ready to kill.

Within two hours, the battle for Port Tory would begin in all its smoke and mirror and bloody glory.

****

The Gay Ploughman was always under surveillance by them. Deep Monkton, occupied half a year after Operation Red Horse began when the socialists suffered their heaviest defeat, sprawled out from the harbour area in every direction it could; suburbs built on the steep slopes of surrounding mountains, every patch of ground built on, twisting, clumped, crammed buildings far too close together. Winding, narrow streets led through the city. This was not a city built for motorcars but donkeys, horses and red unicorns. The Gay Ploughman was accessible only by foot. It was far too dangerous for the regime to station soldiers nearby, so they sent their spies, and although they were far too obvious, the insurgents couldn't really afford to continually kill them. Bar fights every night tend to ruin the atmosphere and lead to a raid. And so the strange game of a standoff continued, the Gay Ploughman, renowned pub of the left where revolutionaries came to eat seafood and plot and scheme survived; the reds kept coming, and the spies always tried to listen; intricate plots were played out by spies who thought they were far too clever for their own good; people were sometimes murdered, more commonly just given a good beating and sent home. The whole setup was daft, but in the heat of war, the scheming, counter-scheming and foolery seemed almost peaceful.

Maximillian "Max" Hardcourt was the strongest man in Monkecia and had killed more invaders than he could remember. Every night he slept and dreamed of killing and more carnage; he dreamed of future weaponry, so awesome in power he could kill aircraft with a hand-held. He dreamed it was called a gattling gun. He dreamed of killing hundreds, thousands on a single operation with it; of single-handedly stopping and turning back the invasion. His dreams always finished with a fantasy of him in an exotic three-some with Ffyllos' twin daughters wearing something called bikinis. The same dream for seven years, over and over. He loved it.

Except for last night. Last night he dreamed for the first time every that a large red beast, a monstrous horse, was running at an unimaginable speed towards him, a speed so quick that only a dream could fathom it. And he hit the horse, thumped him, right between the eyes, and it died, rolling over and bursting into a flower meadow, where children played happily, Moonztan and Monkecian, side by side in harmony. He'd woken with a cold sweat...

... and he wobbled as he saw her, the five women he was lifting on a plank screamed quietly and grasps and grabbed for the safety rob as he almost dropped them off the stage onto the cabaret tables. Had he been day dreaming? Damn - he had another two mostly-naked beauties to add to the plank, he couldn't afford to day dream... but was that Grace Tztle, his old flame, who'd walked in and flashed her eye lashes at him, blown him a kiss, then moved to the bar and ordered a vodka Martini? Damn-- it was!

He wobbled again and smiled at his audience, a few disintered people sat around tightly packed tables. Few paid him attention and certainly no one was listening to the music being played as he performed his strongman act. Apparently lifting seven women, skinny though they were, wasn't something people really wanted to see. He grunted at the girls on the plank, and slowly knelt, ordering them off. The stage announcer look furious, but Max knew he'd got more important things to do.

After he'd toweled himself down, ensured his mustache was neat and brushed back his hair, he casually slid up to Grace at the bar.

"Maxamillion," she said sweetly, smiling again at him. "What a pleasant surprise. Still drink rum? Here."

"Err... yeah," the hard-man replied, taking the glass. "I, err, didn't expect to see you here."

"No? Who did you expect?" she said casually, turning to face him. "Antonius Ffyllos himself?"

A small hush dropped in the immediate vicinity, and a man in a black suit and tall hat moved towards them as the din picked back up again. One doesn't mention Ffyllos in open conversation in occupied Monkecia.

Max was speechless. Grace looked lovely and held all his attention. A long black dress, a fur shoulder drape and a fastinator holding her hair up. In rotten Monkecia, in rotten Deep Monkton, in the rotten, smokey, broken and useless den of the left, she just didn't fit in. "You look, err, lovely. Stunning..." he clearly hadn't noticed the man.

"Always a charmer. Anyway... I'm here on business. Would you mind?" she nodded towards the dark suit. Max smiled, realising and shot out a fist. Seconds later the man was a heap on the floor, whether it was the wall or fist that knocked him unconscious. Immediately someone else began to move towards them, drawing a pistol. Grace had him with a Moonztcoctl poison dart before he got close to letting off a round.

"Bad company here, Grace. This place has gone down hill. May I escort you home?"

She agreed. They steeped over two unconscious men and into the cool night air.

***

"Back? I told them, never again. There's only so many lives a man can take. I don't do that anymore."

"We wouldn't normally ask," she replied. "It's Tanya Adams. An emergency. You've heard of her situation." He had. "Just this last time," she pleaded. They walked quickly through the twisting, turning, narrow cobbled streets of the older part of Deep Monkton's oldest area. Max constantly looked around for trouble; there'd been a guard outside who got the treatment also. His huge, bulky commando frame next to the slim, short, beautifully dressed brunette as he escorted her through the city.

"I've not fired a gun in four years," he replied in protest. That wasn't strictly true; he regularly shot apples of children's heads and a whole host of other things as part of his acts.

"I thought you'd say that. We've got you a new toy. It's called an AK. It's an automatic, the reload is based on the gas propellent recoiling." She could see Max's eyes glaze a little. Girls and guns. Garcia's intelligence service always found a way! she thought. "We got the first shipment last month. You've heard of this weapon of legend?"

He had. And he was promised two, so Max Hardcourt signed back in the army there and then.

"When?"

"She's due to be shot at dawn tomorrow. Preparations for your mission begin in 30 minutes. I trust you slept well last night?"

He hadn't, but it didn't matter. Later on, when he saw the shiny new AK's, he'd exclaim Max... Max Hardcourt! And there would be carnage in the morning!

 

[Monkecia]

Allegiance
2158 hrs. The Battle For Port Troy Begins

Antonius Ffyllos surveyed the situation in front of him through heavy, bulky brass binoculars. Below him the lights of Port Troy shone like a beacon in the pitch black sky. Heavy clouds blotted out the moon and stars, there were no reflections from the calm sea. He could see the barracks, the lit-up factories, the huge dock facility which provided almost 80% of the country's external channels. He sees the camps of international forces, presumably there under various "peace missions," or "stabilisation" banners. He couldn't really care about them, they'll leave or stay regardless of what happens tonight. Potential friends are not his enemies, and his lads all have very strict orders not to engage foreign forces.

What does worry him are the machine gun trenches he know are there, somewhere, in the darkness in front of him.

"Tis a heavy night to die," General Boots said bruffly to him. "But I think we have this one. If Lime comes through."

"Lime will come through," came the reply.

There was silence between the two men for a minute or so. Ffyllos picked some tough goat meat from out of his teeth.

They waited. 2359...

And then, at exactly 2200 hrs, a tiny, unheard flare joined the plethora of lights below them. It lasted just five seconds or so, but both men smiles when they saw it.

Moments later, the lights that represented the town of Vibbralsea, the richer suburb of the city, went pitch black. A perfectly timed explosion, taking down the power grid at exactly the right place.

"And so it begins," Ffyllos said.

Ffyllos stood up first. The tiny bund line they were sheltered behind harboured an entire company. There was no doubt that the soldiers would have begun their slow walk towards Vibralsea's machine gun nests anyway, but today, the leader showed his metal.


***


Vibralsea front lines
1600 metres away

"And so it begins." Major Xecot Furness was officer in command that night. His company was deployed at the very front of enemy lines. 130 men, armed to the teeth, stood between the reds and the city. Of course they had support, but their job was to slow the enemy down first.

It was as quick as that; no shelling, no sounds of fire, no rounds hitting his lines. Just pitch blackness as the electricity went off. That made little difference to his men in their bunkers, of course, who were laid down, guns pointing up towards enemy positions above them; towards the trees, towards the shadows.

Furness hesitated. It now all depended on him. He knew the enemy were coming. Five years had trained him for this. Five years of help from foreign forces, firstly supporting and fighting with "New Monkecian Army", pushing the reds back into the jungles; then, as international support waned and victories became rarer and rarer, being mentored, and finally the help amounted to little more than crates of ammunition for the machine guns. All his training, all his army career, pointed to his one moment.

Furness gently turned his battle-group radio off and switched it to company net. "Hello all units, this is Charlie Zero. All units to hold fire, repeat, hold fire. No one fires without explicit orders from me."

The three platoon commanders radioed in confirming orders. The radios clicked as his men then switched to their platoon level radios and repeated the orders.

Xecot wasn't going to die tonight. And he was damned sure his men weren't either. The reds were coming. And he was one of them.

****

Ffyllos led the men down towards the machine gun nest. The was silently praying that his intelligence chief was right; that the commanders had all been turned, that the men in front of him viewed as brothers the men behind. He'd already had two younger men refuse to continue; walking-- walking, not running or assaulting-- towards enemy machine guns took the stomach of a horse. His own leg was shaking, jitters up and down his spine. He had to show no fear. The slightest wobble and his men would be running and shooting and fighting and that meant hell for everyone. Every dreaded step closer could be his last. Every time he gained a yard, a foot, an inch, he could be moving closer to death.

He walked on.

****

They saw him coming. They didn't know it was him, the leader in their machine-gun sights. They could just see shadows. Night-time equipment wasn't available, only bullets were.

Fingers on triggers. The soldiers charged with killing reds could see them in their sights now.

****

Ffyllos walked on. Inch by inch now. Every man could hear his or heart beating. He wondered if any of his men behind him wasn't praying...

****

100 metres... 50 metres... they waited silently, patiently. Hands shook. Fingers itched over triggers. Lines of ammunition lay waiting to slaughter the life in front of them.

****

20 metres now. Ffyllos could now make out the trench positions and the men inside them. His hand was on his rifle. Slowly, very slowly, he raised the rifle above his head. Carrying the weapon, pointing it upwards.

And now a shadow comes towards them... armed and dangerous.

****

The serjeant isn't going to let anyone die tonight either. Not just because the sex with his girlfriend is so good and she's told him what to do; he now does actually believe these men are his brothers, his country men, his comrades. He fully knows he's been played by the red agents, he no longer cares.

He coughs. "Ah... sir..." his voice breaks the silence over the humid, warm night air.

"Easy, soldier", Ffyllos replies. "We're all in this together." In the darkness, five metres apart, in between a hundred heavily armed men on one side and a thousand lightly armed rebels on the other, the two salute each other.

"Y... yes... sir... this way."

****

Silently, without a single shot being fired. Vibbralsea was taken. Port Troy, a thousand times as big with ten thousand soldiers within, is next.

Fifteen minutes later Ffyllos looks down the road towards the city. It's three miles and the road is at least concreted. There's only one check point to the proper defences, so they should still have surprise. In the ever-cooling air, his breath is visible as he sups a cup of tea on of the soldiers made him. He slowly exhales. It's 2233 now and he wants to have finished by morning.

Turning, he looks to his nearest company commander. "You know what to do. Go."

A few other brief words of command and the first platoons being moving towards the city.

 

[Monkecia]

Allegiance II
Later That Night

"Consul" Antonius Ffyllos wondered when his luck would run out. That, or he clearly wasn't paying spy master Lime Garcia enough.

Port Troy had around 16,000 defenders, not including the foreign soldiers stationed for various reasons around the islands. The army was comprised mostly of Monkecian nationals who'd signed up to get a decent wage and three square meals a day. Armed with big, powerful weapons from lands afar, the lads had, night after night, day after day, week after week, dug deeper and deeper into the outskirts of the city. Trenches, tunnels, supply chains, and quick routes to re-enforce. The fields around the city were a defender's pleasure and an attacker's nightmare. With the weaponry Ffyllos had, there was simply never going to be a way to fight through.

And so, the five thousand men Ffyllos led, the seven core battle groups the socialists principally relied on, simply walked up to one of the concrete-clad, machine-gun bearing, barbed-wire surrounded gates into the city and asked to come in.

Of course, in national guard uniforms, quickly gained from those who'd defected at Vibbralsea, this was slightly easier than it had sounded at first. With the correct passwords and radio frequencies, the troops had literally walked up to the gate and then the men of One-One commando, nick-named, the Mist, had taken the gate easily, quickly, and without the spilling of a single drop of blood. And certainly with no shooting.

Standing on the top of the concrete bunker which overlooked the gate-post, Ffyllos surveyed his troops as they entered the city. Each unit had a target. Inside the city, rebel corp members were directing and leading the troops to their targets. Each corper had prepared and rehearsed in the months before the trip, the gran plan slowly coming together, orchestrated and controlled perfectly by the reds. The gatepost controlled only a small entrance to the city, and there was a lot of work to do to break through. Unit after unit, platoon after platoon, jogged into the city from along the coastal road they'd come from.

At three thirty, almost exactly, the unmistakable roar of a Browning machine gun woke the city's defenders up. Within fifteen minutes intense fighting had broken out along in just about every suburb and province of Port Tory. The docks, the financial area, the old town, the green zone, the international quarter, the airport and across the sprawling residential districts all hosted fierce, deadly battle bursts. At first the street lights provided some illumination, but once the main grid was down, intentionally or not, it was pitch black. Intense, hand to hand fighting, machine guns, rockets, grenades, explosions, round after round teared between the opposing forces in the inky pitch darkness. With heavy cloud and no man-made light, the city was lit up only with muzzle flashes, or the constant, deafening explosions from grenades or from the artillery rounds fired from above the city, ramming and exploding against the deep trenches of the front lines.

To the defenders, who'd for years sat with little to do but smoke and play cards in their bunkers, the enemy seemed to come from everywhere at once; from the mountains the shells of light artillery rained down into their positions, from the city behind them the infantry assaulted. It was as if the hells themselves had come to swallow them up.

And for some reason HQ wasn't answering...

***

GENERAL Gavin Marks was only a two-star but was in command of Port Tory. When the first radio reports came in, Marks had dismissed them as a minor assault and nothing the defenders couldn't handle. Indeed, he'd joked with his number two, a Lt-Colonel "Zac" Xaxt that the rebels would need more than rifles to take his city. He'd ordered as a result a five-minute radio silence to stop the reports coming in and give commanders time to think and clear skirmish areas; the silence lasted just two minutes before commanders broke it saying they were under heavy attack across the city.

Marks had quickly leapt to command the situation; the big map of the city, spread over the table in the middle of the command centre, was now covered in notes, pins and arrows. Radio operators around the edges of the room, working ancient equipment on sagging benches, had listened to every command and utterance their commanders gave as it became clear they'd been caught massively off-guard. Orders went out, reports came in, and Marks was at the heart of the battle and controlled it well. Waking up reserves, getting them into the right areas in under an hour, getting ammunition and heavy weaponry into the right places. Marks had been capable and clever and knew the well-rehearsed plans. Surprised at first, overwhelmed in areas, but hanging on well enough to drain the rebels of bullets and lives long enough to survive till morning.

Unfortunately for Marks, Xaxt had been turned several years ago. No one had ever checked for the tiny red badge Xaxt wore under his shirt, never in three years had anyone noticed nor suspected. So sophisticated was the socialist intelligence that those who were meant to root out traitors or enemy agents were working for the reds themselves; indeed, Garcia had once thought he controlled every enemy agent within socialism's borders and at least half of the counter-espionage agents too.

No one even noticed Xaxt and three others leave quietly the control room during the crowded, loud, confused situation. No one saw them re-enter armed with Thompson sub-machine guns. No one really noticed until the bullets were flying and the bodies were falling; the operators, the subalterns, the sergeants all taking orders and administrating the war effort died quickly and without fuss and with no resistance. The deafening sound of automatic weaponry seemed to reverberate round and round the room, threatening to take the very roof off, before the roar and bullets stopped and for a moment, all was at peace.

Gavin Marks was almost dead and in his last breath he tried to ask Xaxt "why?" He never heard the response.

"Check they are dead," Xaxt commanded in thick Monkecian. "Use your pistols, shoot in the head even if they seem dead. Work your way around. Now... where were we...?"

Looking at the map, Xaxt worked out what to do. Within five minutes, contradictory and confusing orders were being issued out, units asked to go to areas in rebel hands, units asked to suppress other national guard units, or asked to withdraw completely. They would figure it out within fifteen minutes, by then the city would be about won by the reds.

"Get me frequency 456," Xaxt said, sitting on the general's chair. By now, severe efforts were being made to break down the locked door to the command centre by troops outside. The radio whined as another heavy blow of a steel battering ram hit the locked and barred doors. "Rebel Command... this is Xaxt. Consul Ffyllos, I presume? Listen, sir, I don't have much time..."

***

Although a seasoned veteran fighter of not one but two guerrilla wars, Ffyllos felt sick by the carnage. Monkecian vs Monkecian was the worst for him, the knot deep within his belly almost crippled him, the smell of bile intoxicated his breath as he fought to keep dinner down.

He was sick when he heard Xaxt being shot as they spoke. Ffyllos wretched, again and again over the side of the small bunker which now served as the command post for the effort. He wasn't a socialist to kill; he believed in civil rights and brotherhood, not mass murder and setting people on fire. The weight of the war crushed down on him. Responsibility beared down on weary shoulders.

When his stomach was so empty he threw traces of blood up, the feeling slightly settled long enough for him to regain composure, enough for him to wipe away the streams of thick, stinking snotty-sick from his face and neck.

"How much longer?" he asked weakly.

"Three hours or so. It's almost over, now, Consul," came Boots' calm, stern reply. "We have every main road and control the battles now. It is a matter of time. We've won, Consul." A hint of a smile.

Ffyllos didn't feel like celebrating. "Three hours. Signal Franko. There's a lot of work to do by the morning."

"Sir," came the reply. Franko would run the city in his ultra-secure fashion for a few days whilst everything settled back down. Ffyllos wondered how many more people would be killed in the next week as order was restored. Yet as he pondered, machine gun fire erupted close by, followed by more and more guns opening to suppress the first. When the bullets stopped hitting the bunker Ffyllos realised Boots was dead, and he'd been inches from death himself.

With a heavy sigh, Ffyllos gave more orders. Inch by inch, the city turned red. And Monkecian got ever-darker.

***

Dawn began. The first rays of light lit up the sky, red cloud was just visible on the horizon. Within an hour the burning orb would light up the city. As the sun rose, the city slowly came back to life; plumes of smoke faded as fires were put out, from shattered houses and bullet-ridden buildings emerged Port Troy's population. Nothing worked, no electricity, no trams, no factories, no buses. Bodies, broken glass, smashed equipment littered the streets. And although intense bursts of fighting lasted until midday, with some units simply not giving up and many units simply surrendering at dawn, peace finally broke out from the early afternoon.

And then the body count began.

 

[Monkecia]

Port Troy
12th November

It had been a week since Port Troy was liberated, and to be fair to the socialists they'd done a reasonable job of re-starting the city. Within four days the markets opened again, with five days the banks had been again re-orientated and day six saw the last of any of the intense, sporadic bursts of fighting between those still loyal, or those just seeking to avenge a family member, and the new owners of the Port Troy estate. Efforts to rebuild were underway. The reds couldn't believe the resources in the city; concrete, steel, granite, materials they'd dreamed of for so many years!

Ffyllos had followed up the win with a massive land grab along the coast and had inland reserve forces encircle towns further up past those as well. At choosing, he could now strike at either Vampton or Monkopolis, key towns in the way to re-take Close'ath and then finally Lhasra and Deep Monkton itself. But his forces needed to re-group, his men were spent for the time being, nursing wounds, re-organising, sorting out supplies and sharing out the simply vast cache of weaponry they'd liberated from enemy forces. And all this re-organising witho his right hand man, General Boots, dead and buried. The reds were in no position to exploit further, and likely wouldn't be for some weeks.

From the intelligence he was receiving from enemy held cities, Creedo's lot had a mass of problems too. Mass desertion from the economic conscripts of his army who didn't fancy squaring up to the reds now. The left-leaning political bodies, with the trades unions he'd established during the socialist rule, were closing the cities and towns down one factory at a time. Supplies that should have fuelled Creedo's war effort weren't ever going to make it through now that Port Troy was red (indeed the amount of treasure and loot they'd recovered from supply depots and ships, docked or at anchoring in the harbour, was fantastic; Ffyllos was probably now the most profitable pirate in the world in the last fifty years). The momentum was, for the first time in years, with socialism's great advance, and that was playing havoc militarily, logistically and civilly on those in its way.

***

As Ffyllos surveyed the city from a rooftop inside what had been the city's Green Zone, he smiled, taking in the nice, well-built part of the city where the rich had built for themselves something of a paradise, and had fortified during the war. The city beyond was re-ordering and re-building. There had been far lower civilian casualties than predicted, and his men had been as restrained as could be expected. Indeed, the main fighting had been over in about five hours or thereabouts, the plan having worked absolutely perfectly. His mind wandered... then a voice brought him back to the ugly business of the evening.

Benjamin Franko, Ffyllos' security boss, stood next to him, along with both Chloe and Lime Garcia. "Three minutes," Franko said smugly, wearing his sun glass and the rough, leather fedora-style hat. "Maybe you should go inside, Comrade Miss Garcia?"

Comrade Miss Garcia scowled at him. "I've seen executions before." She paused, and then added, "Fucking bastard men."

Ffyllos smiled wryly. "We will abolish the death penalty within five years," he said flatly, watching the scene below also through dark sunglasses. Six men wearing military uniforms were being blindfolded, having already had their hands tightly bound to posts behind them. A priest was talking, they were too far away to catch the words. Then a drum banged and the men were given two minutes of peace. Ffyllos sighed a little. He truly hated all this killing.

Franko seemed to be smiling. He loved it. Ruling the city with an iron fist was his job, and the city would need a lot of his special attention for weeks, possibly months, as discipline was restored. The slender little blonde to his right would run the city's buses or something, he'd own anyone who stepped out of line, and through public examples of justice in action, he'd rule the city too.

Lime Garcia broke the silence. "We're sure? Every loss just creates more... hassle... for us. They have families."

"I'm sure. And they were tried correctly. They wouldn't answer why they were alone with the victim, nor why they didn't notice someone else attacking her in the next room, as their defence went. She identified a tattoo on one of them, for God's sake. Clear cut," Franko said very quickly and strongly.

Another pause. Lime again spoke, "the penalty for rape is normally 11 years in a penal reformatory."

Franko answered after a few seconds, and spoke very slowly with lots of emphasis. "Normally, yes."

Lime was about to open his mouth to speak again when the automatic rifles in the square below finished the debate. Before the five seconds of rapid-fie was over, Ffyllos had already turned to leave.

"Chloe," he said as he walked along the balcony. "I need a conference organising. Your father will help get invitations out. I need the city to host the commander or principal of every foreign force in the country. Can you do it in two days' time, security-wise?"

Chloe Garcia followed him back into the maintenance door and into the roof. "Of course we can, it'll be a push but security should allow it."

"Good," the Consul replied, but was then interrupted by Franko following behind them. "With respect, 'F', the best thing we can do now is take another 150 miles and be in Close'ath by next week. We'll have walked into Deep Monkton by Christmas. We'll be back in control of the country..."

"The cost will be too much," Ffyllos sharply stated. "We want to build a country, Ben. Winning the war is only part of that. We need to look beyond a military victory. We're after a peace victory, hmm? If we can achieve the same result without shedding more blood, the country will be much easier to restore in the future. No... We'll see what our foreign friends have to say for themselves now." He turned back, now in a proper corridor, and addressed them again. "We'll throw them some bones. I'd rather they were working for us than Creedo, and least of all we want groups of foreign soldiers sitting bored with big guns doing jack shit in our beauty spots. Idle hands and all that. Bridge building time, maybe we fucked up back in the Glory, we won't fuck up the same twice. Understood?"

At that moment, a junior aide quickly ascended the stairs, her knee-high boots climbing two steps at a time, with a realm of paper on a clipboard, her knee-length pleated skirt bouncing as she panted up to the group. She wore the usual red-tie on a grey shirt and a black beret of the Internal Service, adorned with cap badge consisting of a red star and the letters in silvery metal "S.L.E.M" - Socialism, Liberty, Equality, Monkecia - underneath. She stood to attention in front of Ffyllos.

"Comrade?"

"Comrade-consul, a matter most urgent, maximum security, eyes-only. "She glanced behind up up the corridor and blushed when she saw how many of the top table where there. "Security say they've just detained the family of comrade-princess Jessica's uncle whilst they attempted to escape from a hotel in the St George district." She paused for breath, then smiled. "The royal family, sir, we've got them!" She was clearly very happy with the news.

Ffyllos wheeled round to Franko, who was already moving quickly down the stairs. "Your personal protection, Ben, your personal protection! Get them in now!" He turned back to face the aide. "Well done. Not a hair is to be harmed on them, understand? Make it happen. Dismissed." And then he barked at Chloe and Lime. "International forces, I don't care what fucking colour, here, now!"

 

[Monkecia]

A break for dinner

THE consolidation of socialist and capitalist forces alike provided a much needed lull in fighting. And so, as all Occidentians enjoy and indeed especially Monkecians love, Consul Ffyllos hosted his dinner for "Friends International."

In the heart of the secure Green Zone in Port Troy, a lush green square, lined with palm trees, with little boutique shops and restaurants, stands out against the cramped, narrow cobbled streets of the city outside. On the lawn fetes and fairs used to visit to provide the rich and well-to-do with entertainment. Pitch and put had been played, or, in the intense heat of the summer, sunshades had sheltered rich women lying idly near children-filled paddling pools.

Today was the first day it hadn't rained in the afternoon. Skies were a rich azure blue. In the shade of coconut tree, by a restaurant called Totolin's, Consul Ffyllos stood tall waiting for his guests. He was hot, sweat dripped down from his head under his black beret, adorned with the red star. His fresh shirt was clear of sweat for now, the Consul's sleeves were rolled up.

Slightly nervously, Ffyllos watched his first guests arrive...

{OOC: [MENTION=16]Lisse[/MENTION] [MENTION=295]Andaluz[/MENTION] [MENTION=7]Tyrrhenia[/MENTION] [MENTION=3]Kyiv[/MENTION] [MENTION=1209]Auraria[/MENTION] [MENTION=67]Frescania[/MENTION] [MENTION=125]Cathiopia[/MENTION] - you have been invited to send some diplomats for dinner. Ignore if you don't want to take part. Essentially, Ffyllos is seeking to get together the commanders of foreign forces in his country, to establish something of an alliance, and also his socialist friends / backers. Please assume security vetting - no pulling out .45s and having a blast, please )

 

[Monkecia]

Consolidation

Today's Nursery session had gone all from eight in the morning until five thirty in the afternoon. The usual bickering had taken place, and with an almighty agenda, mainly concerning the division of loot from Port Troy around the country, and specifically which part of government would get which resources, it had been long, slow and very painful. Almost nine years ago Ffyllos had been elected by the whole country, and thus he had chosen his advisors and senior leaders to run the country. Now, nine years on, those same people were still arguing about the same old things. Sometimes Ffyllos wished he could just get rid of them all and do it himself.

Ffyllos sat with his closest friends, party colleagues, and top advisors, watching the sun setting over the sea. The people around him were, 27 year old Itotia Ixchel, aka Jessica, the traditional princess-priestess of the native Moonztan people, who had a wicked sense of humour, wasn't, in Ffyllos' eyes, the brightest girl he'd met, made great tea and was pretty to look at but whose presence united new socialist and ancient Moonztan traditions; Lime Garcia, 47, the spy-master general who was incredibly bright and to whom Ffyllos probably owed survival of the civil war to, who nevertheless was sleeping with one of the Consul's twin girls in secret; Lime's daughter, Chloe, 32, knocking her rum back like a veteran, laughing loudly and easily and generally keeping the proceedings happy by mocking Ffyllos; and the recently appointed new Free Army General, Emillia Smith, or Milly, who was 31, had joined the revolution 15 years ago as a child soldier, had shown great leadership and skill and in just 15 short years was now the top brass in the country, promoted up a rank after General Boot's recent death in Port Troy.

Ffyllos' inner circle, two men, three women. Reporters often asked if that was because Ffyllos was a feminist, or because he was a chauvinist who liked pretty girls around him. Most agreed it was a mix of both. Regardless, it went down well with women voters in the country.


Ffyllos exhaled, sending a stream of thick smoke from his lungs up into the still night air. "That was some day."

"It's been some fortnight," Chloe answered. "For all of us. And you had it easiest!" She giggled a little bit.

Ffyllos turned to look at her, grinning a little. "Oh, how so? Do humour me, mm?"

"Well, I got given a city to restore order to after you blew a lot of it up. Emilia now has an army to run. Pa's got the next invasion to plan. And Jess is now princess of half a million more people. All you had to do was ride around the city in a jeep, high-fiving children, throwing out sweets and shouting slogans at bearded men!" She giggled again, adding "You didn't even have to meet those foreigners, eh!" They all laughed at that, Ffyllos a little less as the snub clearly still hurt him a little.

"Oh, come on now, Ant, get over it," chipped in Jessica. "It's not like you were going to ask them to do anything important. You'd only prepared goat kebabs for them anyway!"

This time, Ffyllos did laugh quite loudly. "True enough. Still, I stood in that damn square for five hours..."

"We'll take that off your holiday time, then, eh?" Lime Garcia smiled and leaned forward to refill the boss's rum glass. "Another, Ant?"

"Why not... " Ffyllos exhaled again, then put his fat cigar down on an ash tray and scrapped his chair round a bit to face Jessica. He paused a little, indicating a change to more serious matters.

"Three days ago we arrested your cousin's wife and family," he said slowly and softly. "It's top secret as we don't want any reprisals. Ben's looking after them, god help them, but they are safe enough. Problem is, I have no idea what to do with them."

"Victoria, James and George..." she answered slowly. "And my cousin himself? Lime?"

"Still in Deep Monkton. No word on his injuries. Last report said he'd be lucky to last a night. Both legs right off."

Jessica winced. "Poor soul. Still, he was no king. Only related to me by some hideously complex marriage. Even for us."

Ffyllos and Emilia grinned lightly. Moonxtan marriages were complex affairs, often worked out years before taking place, and when combined with the rituals of Moonztcoctl, they were frankly ridiculous. And even more so when Engellex's complicated system of peerages, princeships and lordships had intertwined with the native tribes over the centuries. There was a joke that most property lawyers supported the socialists simply to clear up land ownership issues.

"The point is, we can't keep them, we can't exile them, and we won't kill them," said Smith slowly. "What do you think, Jessica?"

"I don't know," she sort of shrugged, "I guess I shouldn't allow them to be sacrificed." Jessica often felt a little overwhelmed in these situations. Her life before the civil war had mainly consisted of training to be the high priestess, a role which was essentially Moonztan nobles' head match-maker, and to ensure goats were killed at the right time of the year, by the right people, with the right knife for that day. She did a bit of charity work too, especially with pregnancy and new-born baby facilities, but most other things were lost on her. "I'm glad they're safe. May I visit them?"

"No reason why not," Ffyllos cut over Garcia who was about to say no. "Find out if they have any friends with big estates in the world where they can live low for a long time. Fennia, Ivernia, somewhere like that, mm?"

Jessica nodded. Then Chloe said, "Antony, I think that's a job for you, after all, you're such a dab hand at this international diplomacy stuff! You silver tongue, you!" That brought more laughter.

Ffyllos grinned again, more so as he was now a bit drunker. Picking up some spiced chocolate, a Monkecian delicacy along with his cigar and fine rum, he spoke softly. "Bastards ignored me. They won't be ignoring me for long. Without help, there's little chance to depose Creedo without a fight. Monkopolis will likely be abandoned to us tomorrow or the next day, our forces will liberate Vampton within a fortnight. After that, we'll rapidly advance to Subrio and split the Deep from Close'ath." He bite the chocolate hard.

Lime smiled a little. "Close'ath will joins us very quickly. The city is in a state of uprising as it is. But once we take Vampton, Creedo will pull all his forces back to Deep Monkton."

There was a pause. Jessica spoke first. "How many will die, do you think?"

"Depends," Smith answered. "Depends on whether or not we can get enough momentum for a general mutiny with his army." The key problems were that Creedo's regime, dying though it was, had a huge bank account and paid its soldiers well; that getting information into the army units were very difficult in Deep Monkton, and that Creedo's army never put soldiers to serve in places they were from, so that their families could be arrested and threatened should a soldier step out of line. Port Troy had been very easy to turn due to the distance from Deep Monkton and the relative freedom of movement in and out of the city made necessary by international trade. The key parts of Deep Monkton was virtually locked down.

"Roughly? How many graves?"

"Under ten thousand," Ffyllos replied sternly to her. "That's our intention. We'll need to pray for as few as that, though."

Jessica clearly took that very literally, and looked back out to sea to see the orange disk finally dip below the horizon. "Of course. I'll have fifty goats brought to Moonztacia for a dawn ritual tomorrow."

Emilia and Chloe shared a silent giggle as Ffyllos made a mental note not to let her visit her captured relatives. "Tomorrow morning you need to visit your cousin, mm?" he said gently.

"Oh, no, the goats and the battle is more important," she replied absentmindedly. "Tell Ben to get rid of them, mm?"

There was a pause whilst they individually considered her statement, Ben being the rather brutal security minister for the revolution, Benjamin Franko , and then Chloe spoke again to change the topic to more pressing matters: they nominated then voted that Ffyllos should get the next bottle of rum from the fridge, on the basis he was so impressive at hosting parties he should really host every party from now on, no matter how small. He duly did so and a lot of rum was drunk that evening.

 

[Monkecia]

Regime change

EVENTS moved faster than anyone was expecting and the popular uprisings in the smaller coastal towns of Monkopolis and Vampton, along with the massive uprising in the country's 3rd city of Close'ath, surprised everyone, not least Consul Ffyllos and spymaster Garcia who were organising it all. It had taken almost two years since the momentum shifted to the reds and the plans to bring the regime down like a pack of cards had been put into action; now things were moving so quickly that it was only the mass defections of National Guard units to the socialist cause that allowed Ffyllos to maintain control of the situation.

It was therefore six days after the slightly drunken rum evening that Ffyllos was eventually able to return to Port Troy, having visiting the ever-changing front lines, having installed Emilia Smith as the new general of the Free Army, having given a speech in the two towns to rally support, and now, back in Troy, he had a great deal of work to do. Benjamin Franko's security men were by all accounts going wild around the city, there were rumours of summary executions, mass arrests, torture and public beatings. That wasn't what Ffyllos was fighting for and he couldn't allow it to continue. He also had a personal involvement now; his wife, from deep in the jungle fortress of Camp Monkecia, the head quarters of the war effort, had telegrammed him. One of his seventeen year old twin daughters, Bethany, was pregnant, and if that wasn't enough, she'd named Franko as the father.

So, at the first opportunity, Ffyllos had his jeep drop him off at the large hotel where the socialist leaders were now running the city from; a temporary, rather splendid HQ that had once served as a colonial fortress for Engellex aristocrats to drink and socialise was now home to the efforts to rebuild, and more importantly, re-orientate the city towards socialism's lofty principles.

Before the jeep had shuddered to a stop, Ffyllos' black boots had landed on the ground and the man strode into the building, whipping off his dark sunglasses and beret as he entered. Several young orderlies and internal service officers were milling around, they immediately stood to attention and saluted, none of them got even a slight response as the tall man swept passed them at great speed. He ascended the grand marble stairs two at a time, striding so purposefully that the guard stationed to a secure corridor only just managed to open the door in time. He got a grunt of thanks as Ffyllos swept past him.

Ffyllos didn't knock on Franko's door, he burst in, observed Franko was sitting behind his desk and noted two rather startled guests were looking at him from their chairs. "Out," Ffyllos commanded loudly, sending the two of them scurrying away hastily. Once the door had clicked shut behind him, he addressed Franko, who was looking a little smug from behind the desk, grinning a little too.

"You prick," Ffyllos started immediately. "How long had I known you? Eleven years? Longer? Thirteen? Fuck me... my own daughter?" he said fairly slowly, precisely and sharply.

"Oh calm yourself down," Franko said, picking up a lit cigar from an ash tray. "Worse things happen in a jungle. I think Lime's doing your other one, no? Anyway, want me to marry her?"

"There is no way you are marrying any of my family," the Consul replied sharply. "No, you will pay the dowry but you will not marry her. Never." He stood, fuming in front of the man who casually sat behind his large desk. "Bastard. Now then, what's this I hear about police brutality?"

Franko took an age to respond, seeming unbothered. "We keep the peace and arrest trai..."

"You will have on my desk by tomorrow morning a full report including details of every one of your officers, their men, their missions, who they arrested, why, and an account of every round of ammunition fired, why, where and what the result was. By seven am tomorrow. Do not lie to me. Do you understand?"

Again, Franko took his time, choosing to draw in the cigar, exhale towards the open window and then reply. "That's not going to be possible. For a start, we won't want all that written down. And anyway, knives are a lot less messy than bullets."

Was this man sneering at Ffyllos? The Consul turned even redder as he heard Franko speak. He began to answer, "What... the fu--" when Franko cut him off again.

"Look, you know what I do. You've been cool with it for years. We all try to make it as painless as possible but don't pretend you don't know what your security services do. I solve problems. For instance, that lick-spittle capitalist cunt claiming to be some sort of queen and her horrible Engellex imperial family we picked up last week. Jess asked me to get rid of them. So I did. Problem solved."

Ffyllos was taken aback, not least because he hadn't mentioned anything to Franko about the imposter royal family and had no idea the priestess had even spoken to Franko about it. He was speechless for a few seconds. "Jessica would not have asked you to kill them. Besides, your orders come from me in all circumstances," he said rather weakly, suddenly having the strange feeling he was losing the argument.

"And what would you have me do," Franko quickly replied. The head of security stood, flexed his muscles a little by stretching and walked to the drinks cabinet before continuing. "You'd have either exiled them where they would have undermined us for years, or had them tried and the trial would be a political nightmare. Not that they even did anything illegal. Now they have simply disappeared. A little fun with the woman, then a slit across the throat, and a trip to the harbour for disposal. As I said, I solve problems, and you know I'm right."

Ffyllos watched Franko pour himself a large glass of single malt. It was amazing now Ivernian whiskey got everywhere. He watched Franko move back over to his desk, and they stood, looking at each other across the desk. Finally, Ffyllos spoke.

"Benjamin Franko, you are removed from all your official duties as of this moment. " he spoke again precisely and clearly, but noticed Franko allow a slight grin across his face. "You will be arrested and charged for war crimes. I will give you two minutes to run before I alert..."

"Shut up, Antony," Franko lightly mocked him. "I'm not going anywhere. A trial? You want me to go on trial? In public? I would ruin your fucking life and this entire revolution. I would tell the world everything, my friend. You think me fucking your daughter is so bad compared to the shit you get up to? You want the world to know you fund the war effort on the back of cocaine sales to Europe's kids? Or how you sell out your ideals and turn a blind eye to the fucking 'Coctl's child abuse and murder they commit on spurious holy ceromonies? Or how you've promised to return half a city's worth of land back to the natives in return for their support, kicking millions out of their homes as you do so? No..." Franko smiled at Ffyllos and continued slowly, leaning towards his boss across the desk. "I am the keeper of your dirty secrets, my friend. You do not get rid of me. I will stay here doing my job. And you will pay me an extra... sixty thousand marks a month from now on, understand?"

The two men stood across the table, facing each other. In the silence that followed both men seemed to size up the other. Franko was shorter but looked much stronger; Ffyllos taller and faster but not as muscly.

"I understand."

Franko smiled, leaned back away from the desk and swigged his whiskey. "Good. You are a weak man, Antonius Ffyllos. You don't make decisions. You're the reason I cuddled your little girl for so many years in the jungle; you didn't make the hard choices required to end the war more quickly. And I humoured you because your girl was so nice. Not any more. Now don't you have work to do? Good day, Comrade-Consul."

Franko again smiled and put the glass to his lips, lifting the fine-cut crystal goblet to drain the liquid. Ffyllos gave him half a second to fill his mouth before he threw his fist at Franko's face. In an instant, the punch shattered the crystal, crushing shards of glass into Franko's cheeks and mouth as a satisfying crunch signaled a broken nose. Franko, his mouth fill of whiskey, stepped back, surprised at the sudden punch. Immediately Ffyllos followed the first punch with another, a left jab targeting the broken nose again. Franko whelped and then began to choke as he tried to breathe through the whiskey.

Blood and whiskey gushed from Franko's nose as he coughed and spluttered, glass shards and splitters dug in his eyes and cheeks. Clearly blinded, he tried to grab his phone, but Ffyllos slid it away from him. The Consul advanced again, rounding the end of the table and threw another strong punch right at Franko's face. The man didn't scream; he was a hard, tough veteran afterall. He tried to say "I'll kill you,'" but could barely speak through choking and the pain from his face.

Ffyllos unclipped his pistol from its position on his belt. He always carried it with him, no matter what the occasion. Franko's eyes went wide as he saw the revolver being lifted, then he seemed to smirk a little as he saw Ffyllos raise it high above his head. A great blow from the hand grip struck Franko's head, and a second blow knocked him unconscious; his limp body dropped down in a head on the floor. His head landed in a paper tray on the floor, and the blood ran into that rather than over the plush carpet.

"You horrible little bastard," Ffyllos said quietly, almost whispering to him as he holstered his pistol and reached to the other side of his belt where he unclipped the hunting knife that he also always carried. "I agree knives are more efficient." With that, Ffyllos shoved the blade into Franko's mouth, and a quick movement with the knife resulted in a squelching, sucking sort of sound. Ffyllos slide the blade again and then flicked the man's severed tongue out of his mouth into the paper tray. "We'll see whose tongue is lying now, you little shit."

He stood and for a few seconds watched the blood pour from Franko's face. Then, he reached for the phone and dialed the switchboard.

"This is Ffyllos. Lime Garcia's Office. Immediately."

"Yes Comrade-Consul," came the reply. After a few clicks the phone rang for a few seconds before a woman answered.

"Comrade Garcia's Office, this is Comrade H..."

"Ffyllos. I need to speak to Lime, now."

"Comrade-Consul, Lime is in a mee--"

"Then fucking get him out, Comrade!" he said sharply.

The line went quiet, like someone's hand had been put over the speaking part. He heard a few muffled tones.

"Antonius. Lime here, I hope..."

"I'm in Ben's office. I've just cut out his tongue."

Pause. "Oh, I see. Right. I guess he wanted to keep his job, then. Eh. Is he alive?"

"Barely."

"Do you want him dead?"

"Not at the moment."

Pause. "Okay. I'll have a team come down to you immediately. Does he have a freezer in his office?"

"Yes, why?"

"Pack his mouth with ice. I'll see you in ten minutes. Lock the door and do not answer the telephone if it rings." There was another small pause, and Ffyllos thought he heard Garcia say "get dressed" before the line went dead.

 

[Monkecia]

Fallen Principles

Ffyllos and Garcia were attempting to rescue the situation. Of immediate concern was medical treatment for the beaten, now permanently muted former Director of Internal Security, and allowing as few people as possible to know what had happened. Franko would be exiled from Monkecia on the next ship available. It was fairly normal for people to be taken to the better hospitals around Europe with severe injuries and especially so if they had money, and losing a tongue in such a way probably about counted. Franko certainly had cash, although Garcia emptied his account before he left leaving just enough for the thug to buy a farm somewhere in Auraria or Andaluz and live there until he died.

Next on the agenda was rearranging the cabinet. Ffyllos appointed himself as Director of Internal Security but required a deputy, someone who he could line up for the role longer term, someone independent who he could trust to reign in the operations of Franko's thugs. It would need to be a military person, someone loyal, trusted and very clean. Ffyllos was determined to at least start the new government with the full support of the people and not require any dirty tricks or human rights abuses to rule.

And although Ffyllos was working with Garcia, who was so good at sorting these situations, he didn't want the spy-master taking on any more responsibilities. With Chloe, Garcia's daughter, quickly establishing herself as a very useful figure, Ffyllos was likely going to make her the day-to-day ruler of the country once the war was ended, as vice-Consul. Failing that, he would give her a large portfolio to run, a big piece of government. Having her father as the hugely influential spy master would be tricky, with the possibility of a family dynasty being established. Balancing egos against skills and abilities was Ffyllos' strong point though; he'd not risen to the top for nothing.

"I think we will need to bring in new blood," he said, leaning back in his chair now that the messy part of the day was out of the way." Some younger, enthusiastic ones. Maybe fresh from graduate schools to act as deputies. Once who understand the modern world."

"You're going to need a hell of a lot of experience to run the security service," Garcia replied.

"Unless we depoliticise the post entirely?"

"Have the police run by a civil servant?" It was an interesting idea. "Reporting to who?"

"Me. Or Nick, maybe? He already runs the courts..."

Ffyllos was cut off by a smartly dressed young woman wearing the uniform and beret of the Internal Service who entered the room quickly. "Comrade-Consul!" she stood to attention and saluted. "A telegram from Comrade-General Smith!" A clean, crisp page of typed text was presented to him.

----

+EYES ONLY
FROM: **** Gnl E. Smith
To: Cnsl A. Ffyllos+

For Immediate Dispatch

Sir, I regret to inform you my position as general of Free Army is untenable. Moonztan forces refuse to fight under direct command of a woman. I have arranged temporary supply chain to front lines but situation is untenable. Without a big logistics team we won't continue fighting. Please accept my resignation forthwith and arrange male replacement.

Em.

PS. Maybe in 30 years.

END+
​

After Ffyllos had finished speaking, Garcia said, "Looks like you need to get back to the front lines. Gods, what a day it's been for you."

Ffyllos nodded and gave a wry smile. It was going to require a long journey in an old uncomfortably jeep. Although well used to it, now that the socialists actually had territory it was becoming a severe hassle to make all these long journies. "I'll take Jess. We'll see if their princess priestess can resolve the matters. Damn it. Do I have to allow this?"

Garcia smirked, finding the situation amusing. "You know this situation would always come up. A lot of the natives are very, very backwards. We can plan a cultural revolution or something. But not before the war is finished. Listen, I suspect you're the first head of state to appoint a female general. That's something to be proud about in of itself, no?"

"Even if she lasts six days? It'll just reinforce sexist nonsense if I replace her now."

"Lose the support of the natives and you'll lose the war, even from here. Careful how you tread."

Ffyllos grunted. He could have quite done without this now. "Sort out the Security service. You've got a big enough plate, don't be greedy. Split it up into local police administration and national security. Non exec head. Reports to me. Clear? And stop gangs of thugs killing my citizens, okay?"

Ffyllos was gone, heading back out into the jungles. From one mess to another. And it wasn't going to get any easier for a while...

 

[Monkecia]

Ceasefire

ANTONIUS Ffyllos had returned to the front lines just in time to avert a small mutiny and to begin the attack on Close'ath. Installing a woman - a fairly young one at that - as his army commander had been a bold and radical move, and had massively backfired. The traditionalist Moonztan warriors had refused to follow her orders, and no amount of reasoning in the short time frame Ffyllos had would bring the tribal folk into the modern world. Depending on the Moonztan for legitimacy of his leadership, for their logistical support, for their massed numbers of fierce warriors and mainly for access to their centuries old trails and foot-routes across the country, the modern socialists had no choice but to bow this time to their feudalistic partners.

With socialist forces pushing hard against the retreating, collapsing regime, supply lines had become a major issue. At the outskirts of Close'ath, fierce fighting broke out as socialists tried to break into residential areas to supply Rebel Corps units who'd taken control of parts of the city. Logistics for the National Guard were hugely difficult too, as they were finding it harder and harder to move freely within the city. Neither side had the heavy weapons needed for a decisive victory, both sides struggled to resupply and trapped in the city, over a million people sheltered in whatever they could find to stay out of the way. Lines of refugees poured from every road leading out of the city, the brave ones wore red bandanas and flew scraps of red from the luggage they could carry out. Despite destroying parts of the country, the socialist cause was widely popular amongst Monkecia's poor and working citizenry. The refugees flooded the road leading up towards the freshly liberated territories, further hampering red efforts to bring supply trucks from Port Troy.

Ffyllos was now in personal command of the army; they'd been no time to find a replacement for Emilia Smith as the battle for Close'ath broke out and become more and more fierce. For over seven days the sound of rifle fire, explosions, the occasional artillery shells and rocket blasts had droned on almost none-stop, through the day, through the night, through rain and sun.

And then, quite suddenly, to the amazement of soldier and citizen alike, the firing stopped at midday on the 27th of November. Minutes later, through the broadcasting towers, came the sound of Ffyllos' voice.

"Attention citizens! This is Consul Ffyllos speaking to you. Myself and my general staff have confirmed that a ceasefire has been agreed and effected as of midday today. There will be at least 48 hours for the city to be resupplied with food and water and medical supplies. In that time, myself and my staff will work with National Guard head quarters to establish a negotiated solution to the conflict in and around Close'ath. Long live peace and equality!"

 

[Monkecia]

Lion's Den

No one ever said Antonius Ffyllos lacked balls.

He would have liked to have been speeding towards Deep Monkton, the wind in his hair and beard, sun shades glinting as he raced along the highways through Subrio and towards the capital. Instead, the jeep's journey was slow and timid. The dual carriageway had been built in the seven year construction frenzy of socialist rule, but it was jammed, literally, with vehicles and people. In places, the jeep had to stop to allow police to clear a way through.

Military vehicles, jeeps and tanks, as well as destroyed shells of once powerful war machines were parked along one side of the carriage way. Convoys taking suppliers forward and wounded soldiers backwards parked along the tarmac road. In between the convoys and groups of bored soldiers, people sheltered; there was a stream of refugees, confused and bemused about returning to their homes in Close'ath, having fled days before the ceasefire. Almost every patch of tarmac was taken up with either stopped cars, trucks, and tanks; or tents, piles of bricks with tarpaulin or corrugated tin acting as roofs, or clusters of worn out people huddling together in exhaustion.

And through the chaos, Ffyllos' convoy tried to make progress. Police went ahead, trying to clear the way, with a line of green and grey jeeps carrying the socialist negotiating party. In the lead jeep, of course, the Consul; standing up on the passenger's seat, holding on to the roll-cage, a fisted salute against his chest every time he passed a crowd of cheering people or jubilant well-wishers. At such a slow speed his jeep was constantly mobbed by supporters, crowds of people thrusting forward to shake his hand, slap a high-five, touch his shirt, make contact with their hero. And so the jeep made slow, unsteady progress.

And all the while, the national guard units he passed looked on. Soldiers could have easily shot at him, exposed, slow, undefended, an easy target. But their weapons were kept on their backs or scattered on the ground as they amused themselves. The men and boys were worn out after six years of warfare. No one wanted it to continue. Their political masters had abandoned them; their officers were timid and uncertain; their families wanted them home. Ffyllos, standing there with his red flag waving in the wind, tall like a bronze statue of a hero, smiling warmly at all who looked at him, gave them hope. A lot of soldiers saluted him. It was well known to the national guard commanders that most of the men were essentially economic conscripts whose hearts and souls always saw red.

Finally, after almost eight hours on the road, a journey that should have taken just two hours, the road began to climb up Mount Monkton itself. The dual carriage went through tunnels, twisted up hairpin bends, went to single lanes as it neared the summit. And then, the jeep reached the peak of the road, and the city below was visible to the grinning Ffyllos.

Oh, what a city--

The Azure sea sparkles in beaming afternoon sun, every gentle wave refracts light,

The rugged, high mountain peaks form a crescent barrier around the city, stretching from coast and back around to coast,

Green, lush rainforest covers the mountain steppes,

mists fills secret valleys,

Ancient pyramid temples are scattered throughout the city,

Ramshackle dwellings sprawl everywhere,

Wrecks and trapped ships fill the harbour where a thousand tiny fishing boats skip between along the surf,

The golden beach stretches out as far as the eye can see, tiny dots show a thousand people swimming or sunbathing,

A hundred styles of architecture blend together; grand palaces built to honour invaders, huge factories to process diamonds, gold refineries on the slopes, magnificent municipal buildings and churches reach for the skies, markets fill every open space, the streets are narrow and tight and donkey and horse clatter through cobbled avenues lined with palm trees,

And Red Square, the only part of the city unbuilt, surrounded by its palaces and government spires, is filled with fifty thousand waiting, expectant people,

The city on the equator never sleeps, never rests, always bustles and is always beautiful.


The jeep stopped, Ffyllos requesting a pause to take the scene in. Six years since he was driven out into the jungles. Six long years away from his capital, kept from his people, exiled from his home and seat of power. He took a deep breath of air. At this altitude it's fresh and clean, but he liked to believe even up here he smelled the jewel of a city below him.

"Welcome back, commander," the female driver of his jeep says, complete with her military uniform, red beret and black shirt and skirt.

"Thank you, Eva," he replied, and smiled back at her before surveying the scene again. Behind him, footsteps signal Lime Garcia approaching. Ffyllos, still stood on the seat, threw him his hip-flash. "Rum, Lime. A toast." He passed Eva a small glass of rum too, and picked up his own, with Lime having the flask.

"Comrades, to peace, in Monkecia!"

"To peace!"

They drank. Then Eva said softly. "Red. The world about to dawn!"

 

[Monkecia]

Peace

There seemed to be more alpha males in the room that grains of sand on Monkopolis beach. And Ffyllos was loving every moment of it.

Archbishop Tyb sat in the central seat on the oval table. To his right, the remnants of Creedo's regime, old balding men looking forlorn and sad, and to his left, the young, hot-headed socialists led by the Consul himself. Tyb was surprise Creedo had turned up; yesterday as soon as he arrived, Ffyllos had addressed a huge crowd of roaring supporters in Red Square. Tyb had never seen the square so full, and even though he was eight hours late, the crowds listened intently to every word that echoed around the ground through ancient speaker systems, they cheered when Ffyllos made his passionate pleas, and roared with joy when Ffyllos promised them peace.

That promise of peace was now Creedo's only bargaining chip. Ffyllos had everything, save for the capital itself, and save for the formal peace agreement. Back and forth the conversation went.

"Your regime will not be recognised any more than the last..."

"It will be recognised after we hold a popular vote..."

"You will rig the vote..."

"We will win the vote..."

On and on and on. And on. Every time Ffyllos tried to make progress, Creedo simply replied a flat no, and pledged to keep the war going on. On a human rights accord, Creedo said no. When Ffyllos suggested Monkecia becomes a pinnacle of civility and hosts a new international peace-making body called the Pato Organisation, Creedo said no one would come to war-torn Monkecia. When Ffyllos pushed for nothing else than full free and fair elections, Creedo said that woman and girls and Moonztans weren't educated enough to vote. Finally, with socialist tempers flaring, the volume of shouting and swearing increasing from the left, fingers and accusations pointing towards those of the right, Tyb called for a cessation in talks, to be resumed after lunch.


Ffyllos, Lime Garcia and Eva Pero dined together, surrounded by the negotiating teams' tables. On the other side of the room, Creedo was making a fuss that his chicken tasted like goat.

Garcia smiled. Ffyllos said "can we give him anything more than goat? Like cyanide?"

"Too obvious," Eva whispered in hushed tones. And Garcia added "Tanya Adams has had a sniper shot on him for five hours, but that would destroy what we're trying to do here. We need to turn his generals."

"The fat one, Lyon. He has most to gain with a peace treaty," said Garcia. "If we promise him the army, I think he'd do anything for us."

"Put the army under his command?" Eva asked.

Ffyllos snorted. "Eva. You're my personal assistant. Shush" He turned to Garcia. "I like that. Unify the army under the command of Lyon, in turn working directly for me."

"We need keep him there only a few weeks or so."

Ffyllos gave a flash of a smirk. "Get a message to him." He chomped some chicken. "I will speak with Tyb and call for a resumption tomorrow."

"Tyb won't buy that." Garcia said flatly. The archbishop was 79, but was a wryly one.

After a pause, Eva said, "tell him you want to go on an afternoon prayer walk."

After another pause, Gracia grinned. "She's a bright personal assistant, I'll give her that.

****

The day's negotiations were indeed suspended with Tyb being only too happy to accompany Ffyllos on a prayer walk through the Green Zone's lush gardens. Creedo was happy too; he felt by undermining Ffyllos' promise of early breakthroughs and peace he could drive a much harder bargain. He had no intention of letting the socialists get their way.

Unfortunately for him, General Gordon Lyon had lost a son and a daughter to each side of the conflict, knew the situation was so bleak he'd do anything to end it, and so just minutes after receiving Ffyllos' offer, Lyon splattered Creedo's brains across the spa room he found the prime minister in. The Engellex pawn would play no further part in proceedings. Lyon then had a rush of guilt and blew his own brains out too, so there were two fewer alpha males to breakfast the next morning.

****


By midday on Friday the 13th of December 1953, Ffyllos was once again the de facto ruler of Monkecia.

It was less a negotiation than a surrender by the regime. Tyb had asked to suspend the conference whilst Creedo's death was investigated, but another massive demonstration in Red Square, with over 250,000 people involved, put an end to the stalling. Creedo's top men saw the accident in the spa and quietly made deals with the reds and were sent away with their families on indefinite gardening leave. The military men who were left simply shrugged and accepted defeat, professionally, and graciously, and Ffyllos rewarded them with various positions in the military.

By the afternoon, the National Gazette reported the seven point manifesto which was the basis of peace in Monkecia:

1. A total ceasefire for all factions taking part in the war, with the aim of unifying the armed forces.
2. A general amnesty for all accused of war crimes except for rape and murder if they admit their wrong-doing.
3. Immediate removal of wealth and private fortunes into the safe holding of the state.
4. A human rights commission which would present a human rights charter within four weeks.
5. An elections commission that would run free and fair open elections within eight weeks.
6. Legal parity and equity between Moonztans and Monkecians within a year.
7. The re-establishment of socialist market economy within 12 weeks.


Antonius Ffyllos once again held Monkecia in his hands. Now, his attention would deal with the foreign forces betraying Monkecia's sovereignty...

 

[Monkecia]

Restoration

The return of Antonius Ffyllos to Monkecia's top seat would be written by historians at the fifteen coup in the country since 1899. Number fourteen had seen him being kicked out, thirteen was the first socialist revolution in 1940, and the others were much smaller, lesser known coups that had blighted effective rule in the young country's history.

And now, in the festive-low season, the equatorial country ravaged by war and violence for almost 55 years was reset again. And if Ffyllos thought fighting in the jungle for six years had been brutally tough, he was remembering just how hard starting a country off again could be.

It was mid morning on day three of what the papers described as the "united regime". Ffyllos' stonking headache wasn't being helped by the fifth strong black coffee. A string of rapid, four or five minute meetings had been his duty from about 6.30, and lunch wasn't going to be served until 12.30, which was still a good two hours away. The intensely humid air in the room made everyone sweaty and hot, and although four or five young Internal Service girls had been trying all morning to get an ceiling electric fan to work, the air was thick and stale.

People were bringing an endless number of project briefs, budget requests, personnel proposals and whatever else could bore him to death; a request from the ministry of fishing to do something with trout, a request from the ministry of peace to increase their budget, a request from someone to move someone as they weren't a whatever and blah... blah... blah...

The biggest problem was that most of the government and party leaders were still in Port Troy, hundreds of miles away, and weren't coming any time soon. In their absence, it seemed a thousand junior party members, ten thousand non-party members and a hundred thousand civil servants were trying to gain their position, influence and power. Rumours of staff being traitors, or supporting the opposition, or havign done x, y or z during the prime minister's reign... it went on and on and on.

Eventually, at 11, Ffyllos stood up, walked directly from his meeting and escaped into his office. Overlooking Red Square, which was now mostly empty, he stared out, as if into the abyss. For a whole hour he stayed motionless, standing, staring, glazed over, praying. An avid catholic, though a seemingly very liberal one, Ffyllos had always turned to God in times of need. And now, in the hub-hub of Deep Monkton, he felt or heard nothing. His old priest had once said it was easy to hear God's voice in the quiet night air of the jungle.

Quite suddenly he took a breath, turned, wand walked back into his office. Eva stood to attention with a clipboard and a cup of coffee for him. "Regular or emergency, sir?" Ffyllos smiled. "Emergency, Eva." "Of course, Consul." She found a small flask of rum and pour the contents into the coffee before handing it over.

"Now then. Cancel all the meetings. I pay people to do this sort of shit. By tomorrow I want all the curfews lifted, all the press restrictions gone and travel restrictions eased. Can you arrange my afternoon dairy accordingly?"

He just finished speaking as the unmistakable sounds of a huge bomb blast rumbled out across the landscape. The pair rushed back to the balcony. A might column of smoke was rising from a downtown part of the city...