|
|
|
| The Amazing Travels of Brenton Veneratis The world is a set of rigid mechanical robots, all moving at the same speed and in the same lines, but I am free of that. I am Brenton Veneratis, shadow leader of a dozen different rebels in a dozen different cities. I am watching the pace of Emeriquan history, and smiling knowingly to myself. Liberty or death. Liberty or death. Start with a land divided by chaos and oppression since heaven knows when. Add a central figure for the proletariat to gather around. The concoction derived is revolution. Revolution. Robespierre once said that revolution is at once virtue and terror. The virtue of freedom, the terror when its opponents are found. After the revolution, though, comes the return to normalcy. In that extraordinary time of incomparable horror and incomparable beauty, nations can be killed and reborn, melted down and recast. You say you want a revolution... This is the story of one of my many experiences, in a city called Aumaja where I started the grandest revolution of all. * * * I'm flying to Mayamee from Sakram Anto, a city where my good friend Turast just unwittingly led a revolution. I really hope he got out of that one okay. Mayamee is going to explode. I have to get there to rescue another unwitting revolutionary named Kythe Merlowe. He was an adventurer hired by an underground faction in the Mirilenian Imperium. Now he's a fugitive in Mayamee with Thirea Nellis. Revolution is virtue and terror. Its virtue is freedom, and its terror destroys all opponents. Liberty or death. Not all revolutions are political. I have a dream. * * * Nobody expects the Hispanic Acquisition. The Kingdom of Calipha will occupy Mayamee to defend its 'allies.' After a nominal puppet state is organized, Calipha will depose it outright and simply acquire Flaurata and Kubha. Flaurata is nowhere near Calipha. Nobody even sees this coming. Idiots. There are people out in the streets of Mayamee right now who realize that Calipha is not the ideal ally. In the People's Republic of the Caribbean, free speech reigns, a total contrast to the other communist governments in history. So Cassandra is prophesying the fall of Troy, and the foolish People are drunk on this alliance, a great treaty with a great power that can help them against Mirilen. But nobody ever believed Cassandra. Dios se ayudes. God help them. * * * "We can't wait for you to lead us again." The man with the 'DC Forever' tattoo walked away from Thirea. I walked over to them. Kythe was a man with brown hair beneath a bandana that circled his forehead. He wore a small black vest over a tight black shirt over dark blue jeans, with a large gun strapped over his back. Thirea was a slight young woman, maybe sixteen, with brown hair that fell across her back. She wore large earrings and she had tattoos in strange Aysian languages visible on her back under her white shirt. She wore a light purple flowing skirt. Her sparkling green eyes were all the explanation that I needed as to how a mercenary like Kythe got caught up in this fight. "Kythe and Thirea?" They turn around from looking out of their hotel window. "Hello again," she greets warmly. "Who the heck are you?" inquires Kythe, slightly miffed. She must have greeted me too warmly. "Someone who knows things. I have connections worldwide and I happen to know that this city is going to be extra crispy in about three days. I believe in your cause and I don't want to see you die in someone else's fight." Thirea paused and nodded. "But wait," Kythe started. "Macsaco has no nuclear weapons. How is Mayamee going to burn?" "Calipha. They will use the alliance as an excuse to install a 'protective occupation' in the People's Republic. They, of course, will sell the nuke to Macsaco and make a killing off the sale. Then Macsaco will literally make a killing and Calipha will add to its territory." "His theory is plausible. It can't hurt to follow him," Thirea decided. "Let's go with him. After all, we have no particular reason to hang around here," Kythe agreed. "Your name please." "Brenton Veneratis, jack-of-all-trades, at your service." Let's blow this popsicle stand before this popsicle stand blows. * * * Aumaja. Somewhere in middle Emeriqua. Nibresca, specifically. This city is a relic of the Idealists. Their philosopher Ridjartz called this city home, so they built it huge before the Anarchy was declared. They built it so large, in fact, that the city had two levels. Green lights illuminated the brown stones, giving the city a weird, but not entirely bad feel. The Union's last major act was the successful siege of Aumaja, back when it served as the Idealist capital. The Emeriquan Union fell not long after that, but with that last act both Idealism and the Union were rent asunder. The police force they had established as the crisis government of Aumaja had degenerated into a gang, alongside with the dozen or so other gangs that ruled slices of the city. The people of Aumaja were all well-armed. They were usually drafted into the gang that ruled their neighborhood, and the whole city was at war. Their entire city, save for a district called Oldmarcet, was fighting perpetual street wars. The only way that anyone in the city lived past the age of thirty at all was by not being male. This city of revolution desperately needed a new revolution. I fly into Sakram Anto. I need to talk to Turast. He's there at the airport when I fly in with Kythe and Thirea. He's there with his 'acquaintance' Speri. Turast is forty-six years old and he dresses like he's a guerrilla. Speri looks just like him, save for the fact that she's female, twenty years younger and thirty pounds heavier. I walk up to him. He throws a right cross at me. "Ow!" He can hit hard for a forty-six-year-old. "What was that for!?" "You turned the Operation on me!" protested Turast. "They revolted!" "And you didn't want that to happen." I act surprised. "No! Now they're just gonna degenerate! Someone will pretend to be Spartacus and lead them right back where they started!" He is Lot's something or other, I'll bet. "I have it all under control," I assure him. "Now that you're out of a job though, maybe you two want to come with me." "Where are you headed?" inquired Turast. "Well, I plan to drop you two off in Jacago. I personally will head to Aumaja after that." "AUMAJA?!" they all protested in unison. "Why there?" "That city is a battlefield!" declared Speri. "What could you possibly want there?" asked Turast, contemplating my idea to himself. "You'll read it in the papers," I promise them. "That's all fine and good," said Thirea, "but what about Kythe and I?" "Yeah? Where are we gonna go?" Kythe asked. "You're staying here," I explain. "Kythe, your job is to hunt up a bombcrafting organization called MUMI and get to know its leader. Thirea, I'm casting you in the role of a Roman slave named Spartacus." "Who said you give the orders?" insisted Kythe. "Yeah! We only just met you!" added Thirea. "Trust me, kids, I know what I'm doin'," I defend. * * * Apley Airfield is next to Lake Garder, which is really just a huge extension of the Masurei River. This airfield is part of Oldmarcet Aumaja, the neutral section of town where any blood shed automatically brings every gang and faction to side against the one who shed the blood. People are safe here. This is the tourist district and the place where food and goods are brought for sale. The prices here are steep like you wouldn't believe, because here they've cornered the market on peace. To keep the peace in Oldmarcet, the City Hall was revived. They can tax Oldmarcet and pay for police. But they exist because the gangs realize the need for neutral territory, and nothing more. I disembark from Apley. I live out of a suitcase, and it's in my chilled hands. My hoary breath steams in front of my face as I realize the frosty drawbacks of not having an ocean nearby. Hotels line Lake Garder. Across the river, in my sight, is Counblu. In the days of the Union Counblu was actually a separate city in the state of Ayowha. Now it has been absorbed into the organized anarchy that is Aumaja. I check into a hotel. I'm not worried about the price, because I am a rich little pilot. "Your roomkeys, sir," says a young lady. "The room's kinda dusty, but my dad... well, never mind that, sir." "I have time, if you wish," I reply. "Well... my dad was one of the leading businessmen in Oldmarcet. This hotel does plenty of business. We got big enough that the police would come around every month and demand 'protection' money. He refused to pay on principle. That was my dad for you... a real Unionist. Those days are long gone, though..." "What happened?" I ask. "The police would just vandalize stuff once in a while until my dad would come out with a rifle. But yesterday... they shot him dead. The funeral was today, so I couldn't finish cleaning the rooms." "Well, hey, don't worry about it. You need dust once in a while to remember how to sneeze," I say. "Just to prove their point, they set fire to my aunt's house on Douglas Street during the funeral. Those scumbags will do anything for a buck. They're as bad as the gangs, if you ask me." "Does she have a place to stay?" I inquire. "Her and her kid are gonna be sleeping in the doorway for a while. My mom offered them a room, but they said that they couldn't take away business from her." "Well, tell them that a pilot checked in but lost his key and never came back," I instruct her, tossing my keys behind me. I heard a rattle. "You shouldn't have to-" "I lost my keys, and I wouldn't feel right about asking for a refund now that you have to hunt down my keys. I see a bar connected to this place. Come to think of it, I am kinda thirsty. Well, Iasu bless you and good night." She said nothing, but the smile in her eyes at a kind act in a cold city told me everything I needed to know. * * * How does revolution begin with a kind, but decidedly nonmilitant, act? The fact that they were in there meant that I would not be. So off to the bar with me. The river of time takes a small turn. Over a cliff. In Aumaja, there are many beverages, for the affluent. I have money like you wouldn't believe. Nevertheless, I forego the champagne for a water, and in so doing purchase a low profile for a low price. A man walks into the bar. He has dark sunglasses, jet-black hair with streaks of yellow, and the kind of overcoat you normally associate with secret agents and the mob. An intricate dagger lies strapped near his neck, carved Gothic-style. An air of dark wisdom permeates him. This looks like one tough dude. He sits down next to me. The barkeep comes by, ready to take his order. A guy like that isn't gonna drink anything softer than vodka. "Cola," he tells the barkeep. WHAT!? This is interesting. I keep my cool, and restrain myself to a raised eyebrow. Maybe he's a designated. Nobody with a dagger that wicked cool could possibly be a designated. Plus, he's alone. This could be the guy for Aumaja, like Turast was for Sakram Anto and Kythe for Bellamarha. "Hey wuss boy!" somebody shouts. "Wazzup with the soda!? Can'tcha drink like a man!?" "Yeah, wow," the man replies. "I'm a wuss because I don't drink. Come up to me in four hours and repeat that." Smart man. Indirect insults. In four hours that drunk will be so smashed that he won't even be able to throw up coherently, let alone produce an understandable sentence. "Sure thing, wuss boy," the drunk says. Idiot. The guy takes out a small book and starts reading as his cola comes up. He takes it and starts sipping. I recognize the book as the Wyrdikaud. Not by the cover, of course, but by reading a small snatch of the words. The cover is blank because in public the books might get you trouble if recognized. You see, three hundred years ago there was an edict proclaimed by the President of Dystroch Columilis, who back then ruled a confederation of cities in the East. He decided to consolidate his power by establishing himself as a god-king of sorts, and he declared that the First Amendment was null and void. (The First Amendment, of course, being the ancient Union law protecting worshippers of every faith from the government.) Nobody really cared either way, except for a small group that worshipped Iasu. We were persecuted, of course, but that only made us stronger. Finally, we were expelled out of the Dystroch's territory. The Dystroch collapsed in on itself with the Great Revolt, but the effect was permanent. Us Iasu worshippers are scattered and hated, but we are dedicated. Maybe somebody tough enough to worship Iasu could make a successful revolutionary. When I was saved, I was changed for the better. Part of this was the ability to never give up. Better to die for a cause that will ultimately live than to live for a cause that will ultimately die, after all. "Deo veni com tu." "Et com tu," he replies. One of the better ideas that we the worshippers of Iasu come up with is to have a few secret codes spoken in Lhadin. This way, we can recognize and warn each other. After all, Lhadin is spoken by almost nobody, including me. I only know the few phrases used for the codes. "What's your name, brother?" he asks as he takes a sip of his cola. "Brenton Veneratis, sky-worn sojourner," I answer him. "Chrysanth Mordieu, thorn in the fist of hell." This really sounds like the right guy. "Chrysanth, I am planning something absolutely amazing to happen in this lifetime. If it works, Emeriqua will at long last be free of its darkness and oppression, both political and spiritual. And I want you to be part of it." "Sounds like fun. But what are you planning?" "I can't tell you all of it, but I can tell you that it's remarkably simple and that if it works, personal and spiritual freedom will shine in Emeriqua once again." "We've been trying that for years," Chrysanth said skeptically. "What new factor do you have that we don't?" "Simple. Words from the mouth of God, come to us by way of believers' pens." "Wyrdikauds? But from where?" demanded Chrysanth. I pull out a small book from the inside of my jacket. 'The Wyrdikaud, Quing Zhem Vyrsyon' reads the first page. He grabs one, his mouth open in an expression of shock. Flipping to the front cover, Chrysanth reads the words 'Compyled en the Kyngtym ov Angleterre, Prynted en the Republic ov Zhongua.' "Zhongua? That's one of the mightiest empires in the world! Why would they stoop to help us?" asked Chrysanth. "Because they're still feeling the effects of a major revival from before the Idealists, sponsored in part by believers in the ancient Union. You see, the Zhonguan people, in their eyes, owe a debt of honor to us. We saved their ancestors, now it's their turn to save us. They have the resources to do so; in fact it's cheaper for them to print one of these things than it is for them to eat dinner. So they send these Wyrdikauds all over the world, but they concentrate their efforts here." "You know, maybe we should discuss this more at my place." * * * Chrysanth, as I learned, was a neutral. That's the term for anyone who lives in Oldmarcet and doesn't work for a gang. He had a small apartment in a building on 1600 Martha St. His building, I learned, was once a school but had been abandoned for years. Nobody really remembered who had the deed, and since it barely fell into Oldmarcet jurisdiction (the school's playground was in West Side Python terre), the place was up for squatters. "Yeah, this used to be the Espanique room," Chrysanth explained. "You can tell by the obscenities against the language scratched on the floor." I didn't care about that. He had a pretty decent place as far as I could tell. A bunkbed salvaged from the junkheap in the far right corner was adorned with old Jacago Army surplus blankets. A water faucet in the far left still worked, although the temperature wasn't controllable. A lock was on both the main door and the door on the left wall, which were both remarkably still intact. Various broken pupils' desks littered the floor. Okay, it wasn't luxurious. But in Aumaja, this was great; anywhere else in the world, it was about average. "Any neighbors?" I asked. "Just one, he lives in the room across the hall. A friendly guy, a scrap trader by the name of Derrick. But anyway, where do we start?" I grabbed a chair that looked like it was pried off one of those right-hand-only desks. He grabbed the real comfort seat in the room, a rusty lawn chair. It squeaked when he sat down. "Well," I begin. "We need to start distributing these Wyrdikauds. The Zhonguans send someone every week to drop off a briefcase in front of the Woodmen Building. We watch them from the shadows and pick it up right after he's out of view. In that briefcase, of course, is fifty pint-sized Wyrdikauds." "How do we distribute?" asked Chrysanth, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "We can't just stand on street corners like they did in the Union days," I explain. "Nobody will listen to us." "So we hand them out to individuals, then? How are we going to get to know twenty-five new people a week?" he inquired. "We'll think of a way," I decided, kicking a blanket around absentmindedly with my foot. "I'm not sure yet, but something will come to us." Finally, to surprise, my foot hit something plastic. I reached down and saw a plastic box with pictures on it. The plastic box had a woman in leather looking up toward the sky, hands outstretched in supplication. Writing in ancient Brytash told me nothing. It looked like it was hinged. I swear I saw one of these somewhere before. "I see you found one of my disks," Chrysanth noted with a measure of pride. "It's pre-Idealist music." "Do you have the player to use that disk?" I asked. It was common for people to have at least one tape or vinyl or disk. In fact I have a friend that uses them as coasters. But to have a player that accepted one's music recording and still worked was rather rare. They still made them, over in Zhongua and Nippon, but they were usually too expensive to import to Emeriqua. However, I wasn't to worry. Chrysanth pulled out a disk player, put in the disk and pushed play. I could understand a few of the words, Angol being a very close sister tongue to modern Emeriquan. "Djisas' lauv is... Djisas' lauv is... Aul ovir me, aul ovir me..." sang Chrysanth. "This almost sounds like it could be a modern Iasu hymn," I declared. Even given its age, it was very cool. Rock music had fallen out of popularity for seven centuries following the Idealist War, simply because electricity was expensive and unable to be wasted on frivolous things like electric guitars. Live jazz had ruled until about eighty years ago, when rock came back with a vengeance. And it did sound like a Iasu hymn. Change the word Djisas to Iasu and it was perfect. "It is a Iasu hymn," Chrysanth informed. "They had a different name for him back then." We listened to the disk, falling to sleep. * * * The morning was pink, and the sun hid itself behind the buildings. "Let's go get some coffee," he decided once we were both up. "Grab the Wyrdikauds," I reminded. So we walked to downtown Oldmarcet Aumaja. I thought up an idea. Instead of staring straight forward and ignoring the passersby like everyone else, we smiled. We said hello to perfect strangers. Some gave us weird looks, but most smiled back. The first step of any revolution is getting the people on your side, after all. We found a street cafe with low enough prices. "I know the manager," Chrysanth said. "He makes sure I get good service." "You know, you never did tell me what you do for a living," I said. "I do anything and everything," Chrysanth said. "I've cooked. I've repaired machines. I've driven convoys from Jacago to the Pausyphic. I've done some very evil things, back before Iasu found me." A shadow of regret played about his eyes. "What do you do now?" I asked. "I make tents," Chrysanth answered. "The favorite vacation spot of Aumajans is anywhere but here. They don't have much money, so when the gangs give them their one week a year off, they head to Fontan Forest over the river and camp. Consequently, I have a lot of business." "Good morning," greeted a young waitress. "Can I take your order?" "Just coffee, Adriana," ordered Chrysanth. "For both of us." "Comin' right up." I noticed a man get up from a nearby table, leaving a paper behind. I grabbed it and read the headline: NS KINGS BREAK 11-YEAR PEACE WITH WS PYTHONS. Another headline, of course, said 'Mayamee Nuked By Macsaco, People's Republic Declares State Of Emergency From Provisional Capital At Diznyterre." "That can't be good for property value," I noted ironically. After all, 1600 Martha was right next to Python terre. "That can't be good for anything," Chrysanth echoed. "Oh well, we have a job to do." The waitress, Adriana, came with the coffee. She smiled at us politely until her eyes fell on the headline. Then quickly, she started away, mumbling "Enjoy." "Hold on," I declared. Adriana turned around. "Yes? Is there anything I can do for you, sir?" She was polite but obviously wanted to go somewhere else. "Actually, we want to do something for you," I related. "We pray before meals, and we were wondering if there's anything you want us to pray for." She paused for a moment; nobody really discussed religion ever since the First Amendment was revoked. But the Revocation was only words on this side of the Misseppa, meaning that the average Joe believed in God but never said anything about it. "Actually, yes. Yes, there is something," she confirmed. "My fiancee is a gunman for the Pythons. You saw the headline. Nobody saw it coming. So if you're praying to the goddess or Buddha or Iasu or whoever, pray that my baby's not gonna die in the street war." This woman was like a thousand others in Aumaja; her fortunes could fall at any second. And when fortunes fell in Aumaja, they plummeted spewing trails of smoke and then destroyed everything on the ground. So we prayed for her, and we prayed for our mission here, and we prayed for our food. After coffee, we decided to head back home. On our way back, we noticed that the Kings were rather successful and had managed to earn themselves real estate bordering 1600 Martha. We also noticed wounded from both sides lying in the streets. "Hey Brent, let's try and help these men," Chrysanth suggested. There were several dozen lining the street as far as we could see. Gang wars were bloody events, a shameful waste of lives for no purpose. But we set out to make sure nobody was needlessly wasted. We bound the wounds of those who looked like they might make it first, and then we rushed to the side of the dying. The dying soldiers were a surprised bunch. Not at the fact that they were dying; that was commonplace in this town. No, they were surprised that anyone even cared to notice their passing. There were no graveyards in Aumaja, just masses of dead bodies pitched underground feeding sewer rats. When somebody died in a gang war, there was no bother to identify the bodies. Nobody cared about whether the widows were informed. So the fact that we were trying to at least comfort them as they died surprised the heck outta them. There was this guy whose arms were blown off. The only thing he wanted was a last smoke, but he couldn't reach his cigarettes. So I took one out of his pocket, lit and held it for him as I led him in a prayer of forgiveness. This other guy, he had been shot in the heart and he was in shock. He couldn't speak, couldn't find a voice. But when he did, he said: "Do you know Iasu?" I couldn't believe it. He was trying to save me. I nodded yes. "Well go talk to Macdonald over there, he doesn't and he's gonna die too." When the dying became dead, we worked on the living. They were interested in everything we had to say, and hung on our every word. We offered them a purpose to fill their empty lives, and they accepted. They hadn't really realized that they were empty until they faced death and discovered their lives were pointless. "Hey, Brent!" called out Chrysanth. I looked up from my relief duties. He was holding a fragment of what looked like a machine gun. "Yeah, a machine gun! So what?" I replied. "You need to get a look at this!" I headed over there. Everyone was physically okay now, and mentally they could help each other out. Kings commiserated with Pythons about the horrors of the streetwars. My work here was pretty much done. He chucked the twisted metal gun at me. I caught it and instantly got it. This gun was a Comiskey .55, one of the most deadly automatics on the market today. And it was made in only one place in the whole wide world. The City of Jacago. And there was only one army in the whole wide world, to anyone's knowledge, that used it. The Combined Army of the League of Jacago, Melwocki, Najavelle, Klefelin, Petisverg and Datroyte. I couldn't have planted this evidence any better myself. "You think Jacago had a hand in the Kings Invasion?" asked Chrysanth. "A hand, an arm, and possibly an army," I agreed. My mind was racing. Unlike my other target cities, I had never quite thought up a plan for how to liberate Aumaja. Now one was presented to me on a silver platter. "What will we do about it?" he inquired. "Go to City Hall?" "No way," I declared. "For I have a plan. A plan so cunning that you could slap some furs on it and call it Jakob." * * * "You said this place had a gym," I recalled as Chrysanth and I sat in his room that afternoon. He was sucking on some sunflower seeds, and I was practicing a 360� ollie on his skateboard. "Yeah, so?" "How many people do you think we could sleep in there?" "Easily several hundred, if we have blankets," Chrysanth calculated offhandedly. "Why?" "No reason," I say as I fall on my face. * * * "This, men, is what we call a puppet string," I declared in front of the returned vets that evening, holding up the gun. "Jacago made this gun and supplied it to the Kings. We combed the streets and found many more Comiskeys, as well as a few Richtons and a beautifully intact Midlothian." "Jacago is trying to set up a puppet government," Chrysanth explained. "Either that or weaken the gangs to the point where they can march in here outright. If you think it's bad now, just think what it'll be like when we pledge allegiance to Daley XVII, President of Jacago. When we're worked half to death making weapons or shot to death using them." "How do we fight back?" asked one of the wounded. "All we need is Iasu and love." They were quite shocked to hear me say this, and a couple were snickering. "I'm serious." "'Of all of these, the greatest is love'," quoted Chrysanth, looking quite serious and sober. "'Prophecy will end. Tongues will cease. Knowledge will be gone one day'. Empires rise and fall like the ocean waves. But love, love is here forever, accompanied only by the souls of humanity and God and His host." I cut in right after he finished. "The plan is simple: we let them fight their wars, but we warn all Aumaja about this coming doom and accept anyone who would join us. Hopefully, Aumaja will abandon this bimillennial madness and band together at last. If you want nothing to do with this, leave now and let the gangs track you down like dogs. 'Choose this day who you will serve'." The speech worked. A few left, but they were the minority by far. I now had an army to work with. * * * 1600 Martha was very lively now. The vets now lived here, having volunteered for my 'army' of sorts. "All right, Brent, what are you planning?" "What do you mean?" I ask. Chrysanth walked up to me and pointed at the floor. "We have an army downstairs and you don't know what I mean!? I thought we trusted each other..." "We do," I say. "We're a team in this." "Everyone in this 'army' took construction jobs yesterday, and the maimed guys took the money and bought plants! Tomatoes and corn and the like! Forgive me for asking, but HOW ON EARTH DO WE FIGHT THE JACAGO LEAGUE WITH AN EAR OF CORN!?" "This is so we can feed ourselves," I explain, calm as a monk. "The construction jobs will pay for flyers and the website that some of the maimed guys will run." "Look, Brent, forgive my outburst, it's a brilliant plan and all except for the slight detail that YOU'RE OFF YOUR ROCKER! You have an ARMY OF WOUNDED GUYS IN THE GYM!" "Actually, they're planting on the roof right now. Anyway, 'our war is not against flesh and blood'. I have a plan." "When do I get to hear it?" "In installments. Tonight is the first." Chrysanth rolled his eyes. * * * The old cafeteria was dark. The lightbulbs had been stolen centuries ago, and nobody had bothered to replace them. The only light was from the thunderstorms out the cellar windows. You could hear the men walking in. They knew not what to expect. They gathered around us, so we were surrounded on all sides. "Gentlemen, welcome to the army of holy anarchy. Get seated, help your neighbor if he can't sit down easily, there we go," I started off, walking into the relative light of a window. "All right, let's go over why you're all here. Chrysanth?" Chrysanth strode into the dim blue light, seeming to appear out of nowhere. "When we came around on the day of the streetwar, remember the first thing we asked?" "Yeah!" a guy shouted. "Were we saved!" "Were you saved." Chrysanth seemed to ponder that for a second. Even though he had protested this just this afternoon, he was obviously getting into his job. "Were you saved. You know, most of you got saved that day, and most of you understand the very basics of Iasu by now. This is good, you will have everything you need to do your true work very soon. "First off, everyone in this room tonight MUST BELONG TO IASU. If you don't, we can't use you. So if you aren't saved, go to the corner now and change that or leave right now. Brent wants to pray with you." Nobody left, a few came forward. I prayed with them quietly in a corner as Chrysanth continued. "We are going to attempt something that hasn't been done in TWO THOUSAND YEARS. We are going to revive Emeriqua." Talk of the Union started very quickly. Whispers rebounded off the walls. "You aren't getting the picture!" Chrysanth denounced. "I talk of revolution, and all you talk about is the flag!" Not all revolutions are political. "Don't you get it? The last thing this city, this country needs is another flag to salute! We're not here to bring chaos, we're here to bring anarchy!" You could tell he loved playing the demagogue. But only if you had played the role yourself once or twice. He was pacing, looking like he was stalking prey. He was stalking expectations, and it would be a big kill. "Chaos is what we have right now. There are organized governments in this shattered Union, but there is no peace. Let that fade away. Not in a revolution, but out of insignificance. "We have the flag of the old Union bequeathed to us by our forefathers. We have common sense. Better even, we have Iasu! Save Emeriqua and we don't need a President. We don't need a King. We will have the only King that matters ruling in our lives. "Just because we won't have a government doesn't mean we won't have a nation." Let slip the messengers of peace. I have a dream. * * * Night. Stars in the sky, distant gunfire, and nervous, withdrawn residents. Welcome to Aumaja. Music is spilling out of a tavern. A sign in front says 'Gangsta's Paradise.' "Hey, that sounds familiar," Chrysanth notes, stopping at the door. "It should," I say. Strains of 'Iasu Be Glorified' are to be heard. We walk in, and to Chrysanth's surprise is a man on stage, singing and playing acoustic guitar. With his right hand in a sling, strumming, and a shot-out right eye. He winks at us (more noticeable when a man has one eye) and when the song ends he gives an invitation to receive Iasu. I'm glad to see that at least one guy is this bold. Maybe a few people will come up. Or, maybe just to prove probability wrong they'll swarm the stage seeking salvation. Definitely the latter one. "Um, could I get some help here?" he asks. Chrysanth and I come running up. And somehow, this reminds me of the day we went to rescue the dead. I've seen some pretty quiet, but by nature intense, prayers for salvation. But what's happening now is unheard of. These people's lives have been smashed into fine dust. They're wailing and crying out when we pray with them. We move on and they're on their feet dancing with joy. A few of the audience members, and the barkeeper, held back. They looked afraid. Then, after praying with this old lady, I happen to look at those guys in the back. I recognize the "Iasu's not for me, but if it works for you that's fine" types easily. These are not those guys. The enemy has them. Call them out. What? Of course. They're indwelled. For those that don't know what I'm talking about (and I'm sure most of you in this day and age don't) then let me explain. There are two forces in operation in the universe: good and evil. Good is defined as everything God supports, and evil as everything God does not. When one is saved by accepting Iasu, the Spirita Sancta indwells one. This means that the power of God is upon oneself. Similarly, one can be indwelled by the angels of death. When this happens, the power of hell is upon oneself. Not only that, but in extreme cases motor control and speech can be taken by the indwelling fallen angels. They have a word for this in the Angol language, 'possession,' that roughly translates as 'ownership.' (In certain Emeriquan dialects that word still exists.) Anyone indwelled by the Spirita Sancta can 'call out' and banish these fallen angels. I feel it. Those people are indwelled by hell. I am to call the fallen angels out. I have never done this before. Oh well, here goes. "You! In the name of Iasu, leave this holy convocation and leave those bodies!" I demand, a finger pointing at them in command. An unearthly glow arises in their eyes. A Macsacan man steps forward and starts speaking Espanique in a raspy voice. I don't speak that language. A Nipponese tourist does the same in his language. Nonetheless. I feel an upwelling in my soul. There are words that need to come out that I, Brenton Veneratis, do not know. They come rushing out. "�Angeles oscuras, en el nombre de Iesucristo vienan de los hombres y van al lago de fuego este momenta! Sayonara oni!" What did I just say? Shrieks of rage emit from their mouths. Chrysanth has noticed and joined the fray. He walks up to them. The few still standing are trying to run away, whereas the rest are writhing on the floor. He grabs them, one at a time, and prays with them. When he releases them they are knocked back, not by any physical motion but by the force of fleeing spirits. They come to a moment later and scream with joy. There is not a soul in this place that isn't longing for salvation or proliferating thanks for it. This bar is burning with a holy fire. Not all revolutions are political. "I wanna tell you all to come back whenever you can!" the barkeep declares, unbidden by us. "This should not stop!" Here we go. The Revolution has a second address. * * * Gangsta's Paradise was our first outlet to the general public. For now, anyone involved in the happenings who had something to teach about Iasu would be heard, as well as anyone who had a hymn to sing. Nevertheless, Chrysanth and I agreed that we needed to find some teachers who knew for sure what they were talking about. "So what are we gonna do about this?" asks Chrysanth two mornings after the bar, eating the crusts of last night's pizza and reading the paper. "We've both been filling in whenever possible, grounding them in the basics," I voice. "But we're only self-propelled dust. We have limitations. I have taken this into account. You're a bright guy. Tell me, what are we gonna do next?" "We need to train a few people in depth, so they can teach everyone," Chrysanth realizes. "You're right. But we're doing that already. People are reading those Wyrdikauds from Zhongua and they're learning from the best source out there. All we need to do now is find these people." * * * I make the necessary arrangements for teacher recruiting with several of the converts, I don't say vets anymore because more people come everyday. Then I go out for a walk. On Sixteenth Street I notice that an abandoned building has been tagged with a fish and an 'I X.' Apparently the gangs are taking notice. I stop at an e-booth on Thirteenth Street. I feed money into the slot, enter the name of my e-mail account, and review for new messages. Three. Let's see... no, I don't want new aluminum siding, I don't want to change my long distance service, and... Turast. What does he want? "Brent- Speri and I have arrived safely in Jacago. What the heck am I supposed to do here? Oh, by the way, word is on the street that Daley XVII is assembling an army to invade the Anarchy Plains. Just thought I'd warn you, and offer my services to halt them in any way possible. Peace. Pro Iasu Xristos, Turast" I send off my reply, get out of the booth, and continue on my merry way. For lunch I went to a cafe in Oldmarcet, the one Chrysanth showed me. Adriana was on shift there. She came bounding out, smiling, to pour coffee. I turned my cup up, and she came over. "Hello again, Adriana. Why are you so happy?" "Well, I've changed," she said in reply as she poured the coffee. "Changed?" My eyebrows shot up in suspicion. "What do you mean 'changed'?" "Well, I'm a member of this society. We fight the powers and prin-" "I know, I'm a member, too," I declare, interrupting her. "Hey, that's-that's great!" she proclaims. "Where do you go?" "Whaddya mean 'where do I go?'" WHAT!? There were other holy bars besides Gangsta's Paradise!? Great! "Well, I go to Cornhusker Cafe," she clarifies. "Where do you go?" "Gangsta's Paradise," I said. She nodded and went to another table with the coffee. When she came back to take my order, I asked if she knew anything that she could share with us at Paradise. She said she might, and if so she would come tonight. * * * When I got back, I found two veterans and gave them twenty dollars Mirilenian, and sent them eastward in a truck. Chrysanth and I went to Gangsta's Paradise and started expounding. The bar now was regularly packed, despite the fact that alcohol was no longer served. The guys that were saved there had brought their families, who when they were saved brought their friends, who brought their friends and ad infinitum. People were hanging out in the streets outside Paradise, straining to listen to the music or the message. We did our best. Fortunately, Chrysanth and I weren't alone. Adriana came in and started speaking. It was a well-done speech. She had a knack for this sort of thing. I could see her becoming a regular. While she was talking, Chrysanth had found a couple people who could teach well, and they went up after her. Now, the place basically ran itself. It was great. Then Tony walks in. Tony Carvellio is the leader of the North Side Kings. One of the new guys is talking, and sees him come in. He continues talking like nothing happened. That may not seem like much, but let me explain. In Aumaja, it is customary for all talking to cease once a gang leader enters a room. This is considered standard etiquette. The fact that this didn't happen just showed that the speaker knew someone more powerful than the leader. Surprised, Tony sits down at a barstool and listened. "This could just go bad in so many ways," Chrysanth worries to my ear. "He could call down a hit on the holybars in the North Side." "There are so many ways this could work out, too," I remind him. "Don't chain the hands that created you." Actually, there was plenty of reason for worry. The guy up there right now was talking about (of all the topics imaginable, of course) the evils perpetrated by the gangs and how unity could be found under Iasu. The speech is over, and I stand up. "Are there any who, after hearing that, want to receive this Iasu? This Iasu who can bring peace to any soul that asks?" I inquire. All eyes are actually on Tony. "I have something to say," he declares. He sounds like a guy who gets what he wants. "By all means," I invite. "This is the weirdest, strangest tavern I've ever been in. You guys have a lot of balls to flout convention like this. Nevertheless, this place has a lotta... what's the word? Karma?" "That would be the Buddhists," I answered. "I know what you mean, though. The Spirita Sancta is here. We're gonna light this town up in holy fire. Don't worry, the gangs have nothing to do with it. You all have done bad things, sick things, to this city. But we're not out to rule the city. We're out to save it. I would warn you, though: If you won't join us, get out of the way because the Guy that invented the very juices coursing through your veins is with us. So you with us or not?" "Tell Iasu to take my sin away," he answered. "And send people to preach to my Kings. We need this, I can feel it within me." * * * He took his sin away. The North Side is now flooded with the words of Iasu. Holybars were packed, and the few traditional ones that remained were practically deserted. The North Side was actually reporting more Iasuvians than not. So this is about the point when Chrysanth and I began watching intensely. The Third Great Revival took place right before the Idealist War. It was the first spiritual movement that went global. At first, it was great. This was where Zhongua, Hindya and Afraga became devoted to Iasu. Conversion rates were through the roof. Entire villages at a time would receive Iasu personally. Then came the crackdown. You see, the nations of the world are deceived. They don't rule. They're all puppet governments of the real ruler, who actually doesn't even live here but in hell. So naturally, when a revolt that big against hell occurred, the governments would fight it. The first to react was Zhongua, which was at that time Communist. They ended their quiet smothering of a legal church in exchange for an active outlawing of it. Then the Intoleration Acts were passed by the Idealists in Ioraysia, banning Iasu worship. Then, for the thirty years before the Idealist War, the free world did everything they could short of outlawing organized religion to appease the Idealists. Then, of course, the Idealist War struck. My point is this: Now, when we're starting to become a threat to hell, is when the enemy will strike back. "Hey Brent, check this out!" Chrysanth calls from across his room, three days after Tony showed up at Paradise. I look up as he chucks me the paper. The headline, of course, was: SOUTH SIDE CRIPS DECLARE MEASURES AGAINST IASU BELIEVERS. The article went on to describe how the Crips, in their war with the North Side, was punishing anyone associated with the Kings, even in religion. South Side holybars were being closed, Iasuvians shot in the streets when they refused to renounce. The West Side Pythons, allied with the Crips, were considering undertaking similar measures. "We have a problem," Chrysanth says. "No, we have an opportunity," I correct. "Do you really think the Xristos can be defeated? Hell couldn't do it before, so what makes you think their proxies can?" "Dude, people are dying! How can you say that?" Chrysanth demands of me. "Those guys are going to the grave smiling," I point out, showing him the picture printed on the paper. "They don't care. They died when they accepted Iasu. All that's happened here is that they're getting their reward." "This is genocide! Iasu's believers are gonna be wiped out in the South Side!" "Trust me, I have a plan," I reassured him. "And even if I didn't, God won't let this happen without exacting vengeance and delivering the rest. Remember Natsiz Doytchterre only lasted twelve years, the Sophiate Union only lasted seventy, and Red Zhongua sixty. Antiochus only ruled seven years." Antiochus only ruled seven years. If my plan works, the Crips will be lucky to rule seven days. * * * A long time ago, the gangs were anything but socialites. But with the assumption of political power, upper management had softened a bit. Now gang leaders weren't rough-and-tumble hoods, they were ruthless villains with all the creature comforts that anyone would want. The Crips have a monthly ball in the Douvalarbe Hotel's restaurant. All the big brass in the South Side come to this thing. This is where alliances are reaffirmed, attacks are planned, and political maneuverings executed. Bodyguards take point at every entrance and beneath every window and in every corner. This place is secure, nobody can get in or sneak in. Yeah right. I'm in a jeep with Chrysanth and three Iasuvians. We're all dressed in relatively normal clothing, Chrysanth and I have dyed our hair blond, put in contact lenses to alter our eye colors, and there are no IXes or tri-loops or anything that might even resemble a Iasuvian symbol. The border crossing to the South Side is coming up, and we're gonna do everything in our power not to get caught. However, there is one exception: We have a suitcase full of Wyrdikauds in a hidden compartment in the trunk. You see, refugees from the South Side are always talking about the lack of Wyrdikauds down there, so I figure we can kill two birds with one border crossing. "Pull up to the white line, exit the vehicle and prepare to be searched," a bored guard tells us when it's our turn to cross. We comply. "Do you have any affiliation with the North Side Kings or the worshipers of Iasu?" the guard asks. "No affiliation with North Side Kings," I reply, hoping he wouldn't notice that I didn't answer the second half of the question. "We're just looking for jobs." "Hey!" shouts a guard from the jeep. "What is this!?" We turn around, trying to keep the fear out of our hearts and eyes. If he found the Wyrdikauds, we're screwed. And possibly dead. "They've got the original issue of Zbiderman in the trunk! I read that on the Web, but the hard copy... wow, that's gotta be worth a lot!" the guard wonders. We try not to act too relieved. "Well, anyone who can appreciate a good comic book is okay by me," the guard says. "Good luck finding jobs, guys. Next! Pull up to the white line!" Iasu works in strange ways. We're in. * * * We all got jobs in the Douvalarbe Hotel as busboys and waiters. It seems that service was a bit too slow at the last ball and there were some 'accidents' and they've been looking desperately for a replacement staff ever since. The next ball is four days away. Our first day there, we serve a lot of different people. Normal people who have saved up for a month for a special celebration, merchants and pilots who happen to be in town, and Crips brass. Since the tip is automatically included, the rich guys are rude because they know they can get away with it. It's much easier to fire a waiter than to risk losing the repeated business and referral of a wealthy man. There's a Kebekois waiter here named Leryt D'erund. He's a drifter We work the same shift. Tonight is dark. If you strain your ears, you can hear the gunfire in the streets. Nevertheless, we've gotta see that we spoil not the oil and wine. I tell this to Leryt. "Yeah, man. You know what the solution to all our problems are, right? Anarchy. Plain and simple. Let everyone live like they want, and call up a militia if anyone wants to mess with you." "You seem like a rather smart guy, Leryt," I concede. "What do you make of the Iasuvian shootings?" "I'm not a religious man, or a Iasuvian either," he relates. "But I'll tell you one thing: it's just sick. But the weirdest thing about it all isn't the politics. You see the paper the other day? That blessed homme was smilin' I'm still tryin' to figure out how ya smile when a guy mows you down with a semi-automatic." "I don't think these guys would smile for the North Side," I say. "No, Someone's gotta be up there and they know it." "Lemme ask you one thing: You worship Iasu?" "I can neither confirm nor deny that. If I told you, I'd have to kill you." "I get it. Look, I'm not sure about all that Iasuvian stuff. It obviously must be real, but then, look at all the miracles that the Wickans do. Maybe it's all the same, I dunno." "'He performs great signs, so that he even makes fire come down from heaven on the earth in the sight of men. And he deceives those who dwell on the earth by those signs,'" I reply. "Just because someone can do miracles doesn't mean they're right." "I'm still deciding," Leryt tells me. "Honestly. I'm not afraid of the Crips' bullets. That's not even a factor. I just wanna figure out who's right." "Smart man," I inform. "Use your brain. You'll still need it after you decide to follow Iasu." "Confident, are we?" he chuckles. "That's fine, I don't care. So, to change the subject, what do you think about the Crips, and heck, Aumaja's gangs in general? We have five minutes of break left, let's kill it." "It's all gonna change. The gangs themselves may exist in form, but not in function. They'll be a ritual to be forgotten one day. The Anarchy will survive and thrive, and it may even lead to the gradual reestablishment of the Union one day." "I'm tempted to contact Crip Police and tell them you stole my words," Leryt agrees. "The hope of Aumaja lies in the death of the gangs and a unified Anarchy. You're one of the few people I know who realize that the words 'unified Anarchy' are not a contradiction in terms." I look around, making sure that nobody's watching us. "Hey, something big's gonna happen in a few days' time. Come to this address-" I hand him a slip of paper- "tonight if you're interested." He nods. "Order up!" shouts a cook. "I guess we're done here," Leryt decides, walking to take the food out. * * * For our stay on the South Side, we were all renting a townhouse in the South Side slum district of Belfew. The address was 3406 Komstok, Sublet 3, a house that was obviously built before Idealism as one of those pretty little suburban villas. If the architect saw this neighborhood now he'd probably keel over and die. Good thing he's been dead for two millennia. People were everywhere. The townhouses had little shacks built on top of them just to save room. Shoddily-built tenements were in place of the lawns, and to provide 'running water' to these little fire code nightmares, a complex system of garden hoses was buried about an inch underground beneath the torn-up asphalt street. The old bank on the top of the hill was now a saloon and brothel in one. A ditch was carved out in the middle of the street providing a 'sewer' of sorts, and it collected in this decent-sized puddle between two hills before it went down to the ditch right by Highway 370. You could see children playing in that puddle. The whole place smelled and felt like human waste. Earlier, when I was saying that 1600 Martha was pretty good digs as far as Aumaja was concerned, you probably didn't believe me, did you? Well, compare it to this. 1600 Martha is a palace when you're living, however briefly, in Belfew. The five of us are sharing a room in the upstairs. We are reviewing plans for the next Crip Ball. Blueprints are unrolled on a makeshift table (plywood on a few old tires) and we're sitting on orange crates. A knock hits the rotting door. Chrysanth and the other three pull out their silenced pistols. "Chill," I tell them. "It's Leryt." "Why are you letting him in on this?" Chrysanth demanded. "He has contacts throughout this city." "He told you this?" "No, but I know. He's the type that would. I know it. Password!" I shout. "Volo ad venire com tu," the voice at the door declares. I open it up and in walks Leryt D'erund, complete with spiked hair and a .77 Kreisler semi-automatic. "Hello, hello. What are we planning?" he asks, like nothing's wrong. "The overthrow of the Crips," I reply. "One way or another. We're making a holy sacrifice like Spartacus did in Sakram Anto. We're gonna blow up the hotel and kill them all in one shot. We have the nitro already made and the location already decided. All we're looking for is someone to place the charge. Chrysanth doesn't want to do it, besides, he probably shouldn't. He's our munitions expert." Soldiers of Jericho approach Rahab. "The spies went that way, sirs." Heh heh heh. "I'm not gonna do it," one of the guys says. "All right, I'll gladly plant this bomb," Leryt proclaims. "For the Anarchy! Where should I plant it?" "This pillar right here. It'll take down the whole building without damaging much else. Light it about ten minutes before the food is ready. We'll six find an excuse to get out and start running. All I can say is watch this. * * * The gangsters take point outside the building two hours before the gang suits arrive. They arrive. Rich beyond belief, they're all wearing expensive Etalyan suits and imperious expressions. We go around and take their orders. Of course, they're ordering the most costly stuff. We go to the back and give the orders to the chefs. "I gotta have a smoke," Leryt informs the manager. "Make it quick. We can't tick these guys off," he replies. I go with him to the second floor balcony. He takes out a cigarette and lights it. "Want one?" he asks politely. "No," I reply. "Look, I have something to give to you." From under my serving apron I pull out a Comiskey .55 and hand it to him. I also pull out several sandwich bags full of that explosive goo we call nitroglycerin. One of them has a blasting cap in it connected to a wick fuse. There is enough there, it seems, to make short work of the Douvalarbe Hotel. "All right, you put this where we discussed," I tell him. "If someone sees you and starts yelling, just shoot at the bomb. The force of a bullet is sufficient to blow this stuff up." "Gotcha. Then I come out to the dining hall and make a victory sign, right?" he asks, making a 'V' with his left hand. "Right. We'll go to the kitchen like something's wrong and then hightail it out of here. You sure you wanna go through with this?" I inquire. "'Cuz after we do we'll be renegades." "So much the better. Let's do it!" he confirms. * * * Leryt goes out, hiding the bomb and the gun under his apron. I watch him go towards the basement. I watch him go. As I suspected, he was all talk and little walk. He just looks nervous. Any of the gangsters keeping point would be crazy not to trail him. I follow his trail until I notice that a gangster has noticed him and is following. He starts walking faster and faster, trying to lose the tail. Finally he turns around and starts shooting. The guard's knees are shot out. Apparently he doesn't like killing when he has to do it himself. A coward at heart who likes to talk like a hero. Beautiful. My calculations are accurate so far. After the shots, I take off running in the other direction. I fly past the kitchen and straight into the dining hall, a panicked expression well-painted upon my face. "Sirs! A Jacagoan spy has been spotted in the basement! A Crip has fallen to him, and I don't know what he plans!" "This is ludicrous," a gang suit scoffs. "How could they get past security?" "I dunno, Damiatti, it's possible. I say we send someone down to check this out. But we ain't leavin' on account of hearsay! We're Crips, and nobody tells us what to do, especially none of those Jacago pukes!" Betting on gangster pride is always a safe bet. I throw up my hands in polite surrender. "As you wish. I will check on the food." "Should we start running now, Brent?" asks Chrysanth. "We aren't going anywhere. What I forgot to tell Leryt was that half those bags are just glycerin with some dye mixed in. We're perfectly safe." Five minutes later, a huge explosion rocks the hotel. Plaster falls from the far-up ceiling. Drinks are spilled as glasses shatter. But no significant structural damage is done. "What in flaming-" "The server puke was right!" "Gangsters! Find him!" But Leryt had instructions to be either dead or running right now. If he made it to Oldmarcet he was safe. If he made it to the North Side he was a hero. The ball was called off in a hurry. Only the one called Damiatti and the guy who loved to call everyone a 'puke' stayed around. "Sir!" shouted a gangster, with a bullet in his hand. "We've recovered a bullet from the arsonist's gun, and it's Jacagoan! What should I do?" "Call a unilateral ceasefire and send word for the other gang leaders to get over to Oldmarcet NOW!" And in the background chuckling is me, Brenton Veneratis, jack-of-all-trades and master puppeteer of Aumaja. * * * We dashed to Oldmarcet ahead of them. No longer were we arsonists in spirit, now we were arsonists of spirit. Naturally, being the unofficial human leaders of Aumaja's Iasuvians, the Iasuvian North Siders wanted us, as well as Adriana (who had filled in while we were in the South Side) to come with them to this meeting. "Do you know what he wants to talk about?" Tony asks me. "No clue. But regardless, this emergency summit's a good chance to help unify Aumaja. Don't forget that." We arrived at the Oldmarcet Ilton, and waited as gang leaders from Plassmith to Counblu filed in. "Respected leaders of Aumaja!" began Damiatti. "Tonight, an explosive device was activated in the Douvalarbe Hotel as we Crips held a conference there. After some initial investigation, we discovered that he fired bullets of Jacagoan manufacture. As you all know, the Jacagoans guard their superior armaments zealously, so well that a black market for Jacagoan weapons doesn't even exist. So we are forced to conclude that Jacago has schemes for Aumaja." "We also have to testify to this," Tony admitted. "We were approached by representatives of the League's Army, who offered to sell us Comiskeys, Richtons and Midlothians for our gangsters. The price was steep, but well worth it. They gave our people enough of an advantage that we took on the West Side and have been winning." A representative of the Counblu Bloods stood up. "We were likewise approached. We purchased those same models of guns and have employed them in our streetwar with Lake Manawa." Several other leaders stood up and admitted. In several cases, Jacago had supplied rival factions. After the confessions, I gave Adriana a prepared speech (I had been preparing it during the confessions) and told her to give it. "Respected leaders," she began, "I think Aumaja has been duped. The League clearly wants to push westward, and what better way to kill us than to let us destroy ourselves? Our wars in the past have been ruthless and bloodthirsty, but never before have we had such a capability to kill each other. If we continue this madness then those who survive will wind up as subjects of Daley the Seventeenth, President of Jacago. I propose that we suspend all intra-city warfare indefinitely and concentrate on defending this city." To punctuate those statements, a bellhop ran into the meeting room. "Sirs, Jacago is sending an army into the Anarchy Plains at this moment! They're already halfway to Damoyne!" "Then it's decided for us," Damiatti pronounced. "We must defend our city." * * * Headline: DAMOYNE FALLS WITHOUT A FIGHT, JACAGOAN ARMY CONTINUING ON ROUTE 80. Headline: DIZNYTERRE'S FT. EPKOT FALLS TO MACSACO, PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC DISSOLVED BY SURRENDER TREATY. Headline: SAVRA SESKO FALLS TO SPARTACUS, KINGDOM OF CALIPHA DEAD. The city of Aumaja has been transformed. The official Iasuvian persecution is over, dropped by the South Side as a sign of goodwill to the NS Kings. Barricades were being erected on the East Side of Counblu and guns placed at promontories overlooking the Masurei River to stop an aquaborne invasion in its tracks. Minefields were being laid outside the city, just in case. Two days after Damoyne capitulated, the Jacagoan Army arrived at our furthest gun emplacements, about three miles from the city. In the command center sat the main general of the Unified Army of Aumaja: Tony, chosen for our tactical knowledge. Chrysanth and I were there as 'chaplains', in our normal clothing with our normal eye and hair color, and a representative of the South Side was there to make sure we didn't 'try anything stupid'. "Hey guys, I'm picking up a radio signal," informed Chrysanth, who was at a radio console. "It's on Jacagoan frequency." "Put it on two-way," Tony ordered. "This is General Carvellio of the Unified Army of Aumaja. To whom am I speaking?" "General Darrisch of the League Expeditionary Force. May I ask if a man by the name of Brenton Veneratis is present with you?" "Why do you want to-" began Tony as I cut him off. "This is Brent. Shall we discuss your terms of surrender?" I ask. "Most certainly," the voice on the radio replies. "WHAT!? Jacago's Army is surrendering!? Without a fight!? What's going on?" "If you would approach the city by helicopter with a white banner, we will not shoot you down. We will discuss the terms of surrender face-to-face." "Acceptable. Darrisch out." The radio fell silent except for background static. "Do you two know each other?" asked Tony. "Yes. I'll explain on the way. Tell your troops not to shoot him down, please?" "Yeah, sure," accepted Tony, stunned. * * * The helicopter descended onto the rooftop of the Oldmarcet Ilton. Tony and I stood there, and our hair blew in the wind. It landed and out emerged a forty-six-year-old man with brown hair, circular sunglasses, a tan jacket, and an expression like he was thoughtfully contemplating the taste of battery acid. "Hello, Turast," I greet. "How've you been?" "Well," he replies. "Your idea to beg asylum from Daley worked like a charm. He needed me to prove myself, and gave me a command. So, how about let's get this formality outta the way so Aumaja can throw a counterstrike at Jacago with Jacago's own troops." The League Expeditionary Force surrendered on the condition that they would pass into the control of Aumaja. This they did, but they came into the city first to help erect a better governing arrangement. The gangs were so drunk on success that they didn't notice a surrendered army moving into the city with complete power. "What the heck are they doing!?" demands Tony. "The city has to be restructured," I tell him. "This system has perpetuated violence for two thousand years. The gangs, heck, the entire government, needs to be restructured before we can leave. Aumaja must be free, united, and peaceful, in that order." "What do you propose?" "The gangs will exist, but the only permanent members will be the higher-ups. Every male citizen will be eligible for the draft, in case of a crisis. The only function of the gangs will be civil defense and the execution of rapers and murderers tried by a jury of peers from the same district. Otherwise you will be powerless and there will be a civil anarchy." "Do you think that will work? People will have no laws to govern them," Tony says. "Aumaja is starting to follow Iasu. The people are being saved in droves. Let the Wyrdikaud be their guide, and their recourse a council of peers. If there is no government, there will be no abuses of power. Since the military is every man and only called up in crisis, the military will not be able to rule, either. Don't get me wrong. Without Iasu, this system would be the worst possible system in existence. But since He is the personal Lord of most of Aumaja now, this is the best system possible. Now go convince the gang leaders." * * * 'Go convince the gang leaders' meant, of course, 'Go lead them to Iasu'. Half of them turned to Iasu, and all but one accepted their role in the new system. The one who refused was replaced by a vote with Chrysanth. The city was in good hands. I bid them farewell and flew my plane (I'm a pilot, remember?) to Sakram Anto. I call ahead so Kythe and Thirea will be there. I step onto the airfield and see them in the distance. I walk over and Kythe decks me. That's twice now that I've been decked on this airfield. "You rotten scoundrel," Kythe spits. "You shoulda told me." Thirea comes and kisses me on the cheek. "I've missed you, Brent honey," she purrs. "You two know each other?!" Kythe is just downright indignant. "We go a long way back." "Bellamarha, at least," I reply. "So how did it go?" "Come with us, you pilot scum, and we'll tell ya." But that's a story for another day. PREVIOUS NEXT |