The Heretic War

Prelude

The Hagia Sophia
January 28, 1501

	Cristoforo Colombo. Cristobal Colon. He had been called many names in his life, but nowadays preferred the Latin, Christopher Columbus. Standing triumphant in the great hall of the Hagia Sophia cathedral, he was prepared tonight to receive the submission of the Saracen emperor Suleyman. Columbus was the man who had finally done it: he won the Crusades. He had campaigned for seven years before the Pope, before the then-newly-elected Alexander granted his blessing. Given permission by the Church, and armed by the recently triumphant, unified Spain, Columbus set sail in 1493 for Constantinople. 
	His vast armies smashed the Turkish resistance over the course of eight years, and cut a new Spanish dominion from Greece to Egypt. He had broken the back of Islam’s political power. As his reward, he was granted the office of Viceroy of the Holy Land, an hereditary position. His son Diego would grow to be a noble. He looked far into the future, and saw the Christianization of these moorish lands. He would forever be lauded for bring true civilization to the heathen infidels. He envisioned the construction of the world’s greatest basilica on the sight of the old Temple Mount in Jerusalem. 
	For now, though, he was content to receive Byenzid’s sword, and thus, his Empire. Pope Alexander had made the voyage to Edessa for this ceremony, where he would establish Columbus in his new office, and baptize Suleyman.
	The ceremony was short, but elaborate. Suleyman, respendant in Turkish livery, walked meekly town the aisle, and kneeled humbly before Columbus. With obvious resignation, he surrendered his blade to the new Viceroy. Alexander then baptized the former emperor with the new name of James. 
	Smiling, Columbus had a thought. I have just changed the course of history...

Chapter 1

Tynwald Hall, Douglas, Imperial Prefecture of the Isle of Man
November 8, 1961

	Prefect John Reilly walked through the great doors that led into the domed Centrum of Tynwald Hall in Douglas, and sighed. He hated going to these negotiations, especially dealing with anyone from the Order. Dealing with Apollos had soured him on that particular sect. It seemed, at times, he expended most of his energy on meaningless or titular diplomatic summits that amounted to little more than lengthy High Latin agreements that did nothing more than form a nonbinding agreement that the involved powers may or may not follow the articles therein. Reilly let out another sigh, and approached his seat across from the burly-looking Mahkinal the Order had sent.
	The Makhinal was covered from head to toe in an ensemble that is most easily expressed as resembling a white radiation suit. Such was Makhinal fashion; they all wore the same thing. Unable to see his face (was Reilly even sure that this Makhinal was even a he?), he could never be certain how the Makhinal was reacting. Did Makhinals even have emotions? Looking into those black, opaque goggles that somehow allowed the Makhinal to see, you could seriously wonder. Sometimes he even doubted they were human. 
	The Makhinal stood up and offered his (?) hand to Reilly, which he proceeded to vigorously shake. From the grip of the hand, and the overall carriage of this particular Makinhal, John Reilly began to suspect this one was indeed a man. They both proceeded to sit down, John rather formally placing himself on the chair, and the Makhinal slumping himself down as though the Mekong-imported chair were a cheap recliner. Cultural differences, Reilly mused. When you’d lived your whole life in the sturdy compound the Order maintained, the word fragile was foreign indeed. 
	The Makhinal introduced himself as Hadrian, and proceeded to commence the meeting. He spoke in that strange, bounding accent all Makhinals used, emphasizing all the wrong syllables and stretching his vowels into impossible shapes. Reilly was certain he sounded just as strange to anyone in the Order when he spoke the Makhinal language.
	“Prefect Reilly, it is agreeable to see you. Before we begin with the main body of this meeting, I have been asked to convey to you the assurance from my Superior General that the Order has always sought to remain as neutral as possible. The Spanish Empire, I understand, is under the impression that we are strengthening our ties to your British foes. We seek nothing of the kind. It is our sincerest desire not to involve ourselves in the dangerous foreign affairs between your respective Empires.”
	It seemed rehearsed; but then, everything the Makhinals did was vaguely artificial. All the more reason for John to doubt their humanity. Reilly replied before Hadrian had a chance to continue.
	“This is not in debate, sir. I, as a representative of the Emperor Michael, can assure you the Empire appreciates the long-standing tradition of cooperation. But, to get to the point of this whole affair, speaking in the full capacity of my office as Imperial Prefect, I am reluctant to allow your Order to construct a new compound on my island. Allow me to be perfectly blunt: many people are scared of you. Not you, specifically you Hadrian, but the Makhinals and the Order in general. Your garb is strange. Your accent is strange. Your beliefs are, without a doubt, frightening to the faithful of the Roman Church.” Reilly clasped his hands together, leaned back in his chair, and frowned slightly. “The Empire maintains diplomatic ties with the Order because of the technology you provide, but outside of this, we have no need of you. Nor would a second compound in Spanish territory be any more beneficial than one is. I need not remind you that your Damascus compound lies within Spanish Syria.”
	The Makhinal Hadrian leaned forward over the table, with one elbow resting on it, and spoke in that strange accent. “What if, Prefect Reilly, we of the Order could make it more valuable to have direct access to two compounds than just one? And, more specifically, more valuable to you, as Prefect of the Isle of Man, because it would be located here?”
	Reilly smirked at this and sat up. “I would be intrigued enough to listen.”
	Hadrian stood up and walked over to an easel where a large pad of paper rested. He lifted up the cover page, and revealed, underneath, detailed schematics. The design appeared to be for a new form of airborne fighter craft. The wings were in the reverse of the proper position, and it had a less cylindrical look than the types of craft the Empire had been flying for the past 20 years. The Makhinal gestured at the design, and spoke.
	“This is the Edessa-262, the most advanced fighter craft ever to come out of the Order. The wings are reversed for superior maneuverability, and the sleeker design allows for higher speeds. This is as close we have gotten to surpassing the speed of sound. The 262 can fly up to three times faster than the 242’s you are currently running. The Order is willing to provide the schematics for the 262 in exchange for the rights to build a new compound outside of Port Erin.”
	Despite himself, the Makhinal impressed Reilly. Widespread installation of the 262 in the Imperial Airborne Armed Regiments might give the Spanish Empire a decisive, if temporary, edge over the British heretic Empire. He kept his thoughts off of his face, to keep the edge in negotiation. Wearing the same unimpressed frown he normally wore, he spoke. “I see how this benefits the Empire; but you mentioned personal benefits in addition.”
	At this, the Makhinal Hadrian assumed a pose that made Reilly certain he was smiling under that bulky outfit. “Look at Damascus. Since the Order built the compound in 1814, Damascus has built up considerably. The benefits to the economy have been immense. Damascus houses some of the tallest buildings in the world, and has become one of the planet’s premier scientific centers. I imagine a second compound could do the same for Port Erin. And, you would, of course, get the credit.”
	The prestige of the prefecture housing a city like that would carry over to her Prefect. Which would give that Prefect considerable power, and a track toward the Chief Administration. Reilly grinned broadly, and offered his hand to Hadrian, and with a laugh, replied, “Well, sir, we have much to discuss.”
	Over the next several hours, the specifics were agreed upon, and the papers drawn up in that annoying High Latin the Empire imposed upon the Bureaucracy. The Compound would be built three miles outside of Port Erin, near Meayll Circle, which already boasted a large population. The compound would be given six acres initially, with an option for the Prefecture to increase it in four years, pending benefits.
	After the close of the meeting, Hadrian approached John almost cautiously, and spoke nervously. “Prefect Reilly, I am uncertain about informing you of this; I have doubts of how beneficial it will be. But I like you, and I will try to do my best.”
	Reilly was bewildered. The Makhinal was acting strange, even for Makhinals, not like the relaxed, gregarious man he had been speaking with for the past several hours. Reilly, leery, replied, “What are you getting at?”
	The Makhinal spoke. “I am supposed to maintain neutrality, so I cannot get into specifics, but there is word the Empire of Britain is planning some sort of...” Hadrian seemed unable to find the word to use in his state.  He found it soon. “...some sort of hostility against the Empire of Spain. I know not of its exact nature, but that it is bound to happen within the week. I request you inform your emperor of this. To be cautious in venturing into British realms or allowing them into yours.”
	The Makhinal left at that, and walked out the door of Tynwald Hall to the motorcar waiting for him. Hadrian sped off, leaving John uncertain what had just happened, and worried. I will be sure to note this in my official report to Michael. He scratched his mustache in befuddlement, and went to his chamber to compose his report.
	The report was standard summary, with little interest to anyone other then the clerks who would read it. Reilly pained at writing it, until he came to the end.
	And, my Emperor, there is one other piece of business. Hadrian delivered to me a warning of sorts. He advises the Empire to watch for some sort of hostile action on the part of the British Heretics. He seemed nervous about it, but provided no details. Indeed, for that lack, I doubt it’s authenticity. I would wager our friend Hadrian has been misinformed.
	He hesitated, and then continued.
	I conclude with a personal request, that the Makhinal Hadrian be assigned as the envoy of the Order of the Divine Machines to the Prefecture of the Isle of Man. He is infinitely easier to get along with than the contemptible Apollos. 
	He signed it, Your faithful servant, sealed it, and handed it to his butler. The anachronisms of the Imperial Bureaucracy, he thought. It would have been easier just to call.

The Irish Sea
November 12, 1961

	Helmsman Harold Olrick sighed.  It had been a long day of nothing.  All day, his ship, the DPD Loyalty, had been floating in the Irish Sea, and all day, he’d been sitting at the helm, waiting for something of value to happen.  The sun was setting in the west, painting the skies with brilliant orange hues, when he called to the radar man.
	“Any signals?”  The radar man called back.  
	“Nope, no signals.”  Olrick cursed softly to himself.  Standing behind him was a Makhinal agent, assigned to the ship to repair anything that broke.  Olrick never liked the Makhinals, always oddly clothed in their ridiculous uniform, speaking through their voice modulators, and disappearing whenever nobody was looking.  He was consumed with a desire to tear the Makhinal’s uniform off and seeing what creature lay hidden underneath it, but that was unwise.  People who annoyed the Makhinals disappeared.  Olrick was about to speak, but the Makhinal seemingly read his mind, unmoving.
	“The radar is in perfect working condition, helmsman.”  Olrick fidgeted inside his coat, and withdrew a box of cigarettes.  Removing one, he began to smoke it.  Suddenly, the radar man called out.  
	“We have a signal!  Bearing northeast 7213!”  Olrick quickly snapped out his telescope, and looked in the designated direction.  It was a small patrol ship, probably from the Isle of Man.  A grim smile spread across Olrick’s face.
	“Ensign Oglivy!  Arm the STS missiles on ports 1, 2, and 3, target that ship.  It’s time for a few fireworks.”  The Makhinal did not move, but spoke clearly.
	“Are you sure this is wise?  You should alert the captain first.”  Olrick took a long drag on his cigarette.
	“The captain doesn’t need to know.  He left orders - he is not to be disturbed.  Even ship captains must sleep sometimes.  And anyway, I’m not telling these men to fire, although I certainly have the authority.  Doesn’t our Emperor tell us, proper preparation is worth its weight in gold?”
	The Makhinal, realizing that he couldn’t change this man’s mind, resigned himself into the background.  Olrick hit the button to sound the horn, and after the required 10 seconds of sufficient sounding, commanded the loudspeakers, his words echoing across the water.
	“DPD Loyalty to unidentified ship - you are ordered to identify yourself at once.”  The foreign boat turned around and sped away as fast as it could muster.  Olrick began to laugh.

		*			*			*

	Lieutenant Felipe Pinzon was, despite rank, the commander of the Imperial Sea Vessel Sacramento. In the High Seas Imperial Navy, officers of higher rank were saved for larger, more heavily armed craft. The Imperial Navy’s first Columbus Class nuclear aircraft carriers were being deployed, and Pinzon would have done anything he could for a post on one of those. But, as things were, he was too competent to be anything less than a commander, and too low-ranked to command anything other than an old Andaluz Class scout. God forbid the Admiralty actually promote him. The Sacramento held twenty people, and of those twenty, only one held an officer’s rank. He was sleeping, at the moment.
	Felipe Pinzon was sleeping when the klaxons went off. Groggy, he stood up, and banged his head on the low ceilings of his closet-sized personal quarters. Cursing, he dressed, and ran for the bridge. Immanuel Martin, the petty officer that Pinzon had left in charge, was not one to panic, which meant that this was probably a real situation.
	Pinzon reached the bridge, and Martin looked shaken. Martin was visibly shaken as he spoke. “Sir, um, we have a situation. Out the porthole. Look.” He pointed, and Pinzon’s eyes moved out to the open sea. Out in the distance was a large, incredibly visible, British destroyer, obviously bearing down on them. 
	A voice came over the water. “DPD Loyalty to unidentified ship - you are ordered to identify yourself at once.” English. Pinzon took a step back, and said calmly, “Move the Sacramento at her fastest possible speed, in whatever direction she’s facing. Put her on course, blind, and abandon ship.” Martin, who also spoke some English, looked puzzled. “Sir, all they are asking for is identification. Should we be so drastic?”
	Pinzon turned at him and said, “We are a Spanish recon ship in disputed waters. Trust me when I say that that request was a formality. Abandon the Sacramento, crewman! Everyone to escape boats!”
	The next several minutes were a blur. Lieutenant Felipe Pinzon’s escape boat was in the water when the missile streaked by and turned the ISV Sacramento into a burning hulk, sinking slowly into the Irish Sea.

		*			*			*

	“Give pursuit!”  The enormous engines of the Diesel Powered Destroyer rumbled into action, and the destroyer charged after the tiny patrol boat.  After a minute of chasing, Olrick realized continuing pursuit was beyond the ship’s capabilities.  
“Ensign Oglivy!  Aim the STS missiles, and notify me when they are locked!”  The ensign snapped a smart salute, and within minutes, the three missile ports were locked and aimed at the hapless patrol boat.  Upon receiving confirmation of this fact, Olrick took one last drag of his cigarette, threw it away, and gave the order.
	“Fire missile one!”  The missile streaked across the sky, much faster than the patrol boat could ever hope to go, and the deadly projectile struck the hapless ship, gutting open its hull, emitting a brilliant explosion that caused the men onboard the Loyalty to cheer.  The ship, now a pile of scrap metal and mutilated, floating corpses, began to sink beneath the waves.  Olrick, contented with himself, ordered one of his men to get him a brandy.  The Makhinal stood behind him, never moving.
	“I think your actions are unwise, helmsmen.  You do not realize what you have done today.”  With that, he silently wandered away.

	Deep inside the bowels of the destroyer, Makhinal Parsagos was busy maintaining the ship’s ever-busy engine.  It wasn’t a particularly difficult job, but like most jobs onboard a ship, it was incredibly dull.  His ears twitched to the sound of footsteps behind him, and his compatriot, Siglit, walked slowly inside.  Without any sort of greeting, Siglit spoke.
	“Olrick has proven it.  He is an idiot, and blood-mad.”  Parsagos stood up from his work to face his friend.
	“Aren’t most Britons?  Come, it is time for me to take refreshment.  Won’t you join me?”  As a rule, all the Makhinals of the world got along well with each other - disharmony was inefficient, and friendship made jobs easier.  Parsagos walked to a table with a thermos of some beverage in it.  Alcohol was held in disregard by the Makhinals.  Without removing his helmet, he took a straw protruding from it, inserted it through a hole in his helmet, and began to drink.  After taking a long drink, he passed the container to his friend, who took his own drink before speaking.
	“I fear for the future.  I think war approaches.”
	“If that happens, then the Order shall do as it has always done.  It shall survive.”  The Order was indeed a survivor - it had gone unscathed for 200 years.  The Order of the Divine Machine, created in 1751 by a Dutch man known only as Johann, dedicated itself to the furthering of scientific knowledge in the world.  At first an order of doctors, during the Industrial Revolution, the Order had changed its focus to more technical sciences, but still remained the finest medical school in the world.
	According to legend, Johann was lost in the Arabian desert when a vision came to him from Makhin, the Lord of Reason, and told him to start the Order.  Ever since then, in addition to maintaining the tradition of discovery, Makhinals were also responsible for service and worship of the Lord of Reason.  Parsagos remembered when he had first seen the Lord of Reason - a great statue of bronze, carrying a pen in one hand and a book in the other, a look of great purpose and knowledge on his face.  The idol stood a near 900 feet high.  It was the largest thing Parsagos had ever seen.  On that day, Parsagos had undergone the change to become a Makhinal.  He opened his mind, saw the machine that is reality, and became one with Makhin.  Siglit spoke.
	“That reminds me, how does the Britain project fare?”
	“It’s coming right on schedule, if not a little better.  The men Emperor Cedric provided are very compliant.”
	“That’s good.  You do excellent work, Parsagos.  You’re quite eligible for a promotion.”
	“Indeed.  But I don’t know if I want one.  My work is here, up to my elbows in machinery, not behind some desk.” Siglit was quiet for a moment.  I don't understand Parsagos.  He has talent, passion . . .  Irrational.  He could go much farther than he is.  But I'm being irrational as well.  Parsagos is a competant worker, and loyal.  His oddities are of no consequence.  Parsagos walked back toward the engine pressure gauge.  Siglit took this as his excuse.  "I must depart.  Knowing Olrick, he's already destroyed something else."  As silent as a ghost, Siglit left.

The Imperial Palace, London, England
November 13, 1961

	The Emperor-Hegemon Cedric II, King of the British Isles, Lord of the British, the Northmen, and the Territories Annexed, was an unimpressive man.  He had the pale, fair skin common of the people of the north, and his head was topped with short-cut red hair.  His hard, strong face wore a short beard, making him look like a naval captain out of a storybook.  But he was no such thing.  He was the Emperor, and some called him the most powerful man in the world.  But the most noticable feature of his face was his eyes, his piercing blue eyes - they seemed to gaze past you and into your soul, as though he could read your mind with those eyes.  But of course, such things were impossible.  The Emperor was a rational man, too rational to believe in such fairy tales.
	Presently, the Emperor was taking his breakfast.  He took his breakfast alone - nobody else in the palace understood the concept of waking before the sun, except, of course, the people who made his breakfast.  Cedric couldn't stand rich foods, and ate the same breakfast as everybody else in the country - porridge, the fuel that sustains men, somebody had once said.  After finishing his breakfast, he departed to his office.
	His office was spotless, and he liked it that way.  Some said the Emperor was sensible, while others called him obsessive.  But be that as it may, he enjoyed things to be neat and orderly.  And with good reason - Cedric had put order to his entire empire.  During the days of the previous emperor, Laird, nothing worked.  The trains didn't run, the roads were in disrepair, and crime was rampant.  Laird tried his best to fix things, but to no avail.  Laird simply wasn't an intelligent man - he was a man who would be better served making speeches than making descisions.
	Then came Cedric, his nephew.  Cedric changed things.  The day after Laird died, Cedric went into the royal office, took all the papers of the previous regime, and burned them.  These are the days of Cedric Tathan, he cried, and things will change.  And change they did.  The Empire was repaired, made whole, made better.  Trains ran on time.  The roads were all fixed.  Crime was almost eliminated.  The country was made perfect - or at least, some thought it was perfect.
	The rest said that it was a dictatorship to rival that of the Greek king Draco, with armed soldiers walking the streets, rights eliminated, and those who disagreed with the government vanishing.  The government may have been efficient, but it was harsh, and Cedric liked it that way.  Britain was a place where things worked, and if that meant having to establish control and bring down the hammer on his more rebellious subjects, so be it to protect his obedient and beloved citizens.  Cedric lit up a cigarette, took out his pen, and began to examine the stack of official papers that always needed approval.  Letters from provinces, reports, laws to be approved, any number of things that required the examination of the highest authority in the country.
	A man entered the royal office. Cedric recognized him easily - it was Svein Leofa, his chief advisor.  Svien was a northman of the farthest, coldest, most God-forsaken part of Finland, where Cedric had spent his youth.  Where Cedric was cold and strict, Svein was warm and friendly, and he did his job quite well.  Cedric and Svein had known each other for 30 years, and trusted each other implicitly.  The only striking thing about Svien was his long, blonde braid, which ran almost down to his hips.  In the North, only thralls wore their hair short.  At the moment, Svein had a look of anxiety and exhaustion in his eyes.  Cedric rose to greet his friend.
	"Svein, what brings you here?"  Svein caught his breath slowly, and hammered out a phrase in rapid Finnish, not having the mental faculties to think in English.
	"Ran all the way here . . . Two ships . . . Spanish . . . sunk . . .  last night . . ."  Svein stopped speaking for a moment, finished catching his breath, and stood upright, looking Cedric in the eye.
	"Last night, two Spanish ships were sunk, one in the Irish Sea and one in the North Sea."  Cedric's expression almost softened into fear or shock, but he caught himself quickly.
	"What?  But the No-Entry was in place!"  The Universal No-Entry was an act that had been put in place yesterday, officially closing all naval borders for its duration.  The act was put in place in order to safeguard their latest project, the Nuclear-Powered Submarine Great Storm.  
	The NPS Great Storm was the quietest, most powerful submarine the world had ever seen, measuring at almost seventy meters.  It was the world's first nuclear-powered submarine, and could move at twenty-five knots when submerged.  It was the new machine, the latest and greatest weapon of war, and in order to keep it safe while it traveled from Iceland to Bristol, the No-Entry was enforced so that nobody who wasn't British could have a chance of seeing the Great Storm. But Cedric was an honest man, and he ran an honest nation - the world was told, 'Nobody may enter our waters for fear you will see our new submarine.'  And here came the Spaniards, coming to steal his submarine! Suddenly, a new thought hit him.
	"Why was I just now informed of this?"  Svein looked at his Emperor, strugglng to bring out the answer.
	"The Navy just now informed us of this, 2 minutes ago.  That's why I was exhausted - I ran to your office." Cedric could feel his anger slowly rising, much more than he could contain. His own Navy had commited an act of war with Spain last night, and he had just now been informed?  Cedric's hands were shaking.
	"I am losing my patience very quickly.  Call my cabinet at once.  We need to discuss our course of action."  Svein looked at his Emperor with inquisitiveness and even fear.
	"Is it war?"  Cedric was silent for a long time before he answered.  War wasn't something he wanted, by any means, but . . .
	"I hope not.  I truly hope not," he said, "but if it becomes war, we will fight.  We are the legacy of Avalon.  We are the heirs of Arthur, and we will give our lives to uphold our most sacred ideals of honor and valor and truth . . ." Cedric remembed Iceland, the cold stone walls designed to protect against the wrath of God Himself, the gentle hum of the reactor providing power to the facility, and Professor Kirtchwald, that dear, dear lunatic, fondly referring to his 'daughter . . .' and he remembered the weapon that could bring down the world . . . the fission bomb . . . "At any cost."

La Palacia Isabella, Madrid, Spain
November 13, 1961

	Emperor Miguel was kneeling. He waited in silence and prayer for Bishop Enrico Capistrano to approach him, Sacrament in hand, and place it on his tongue. He loved the Palace Chapel’s Morning Mass. Unlike many of his advisors, who were religious for the sake of approval, Miguel was one of the few devout people in power. So, in silence, Miguel prayed. He prayed about his seventeen year-old son, Pablo, who worried him to no end. Pablo preferred to go by the Greek form of his name, Paul or something to that effect, and participated in all sorts of activities unbecoming a prince. Those cursed friends of his, leading him astray. And that music he listened to was simply....noise.
	He prayed for his wife and consort, the Empress Beatrice. His beloved Beatrice. He prayed for his Empire, the vast Spanish realm. He prayed for the Empire’s Chief Administrator, Pietro Broggia, the shrewd Venetian who had managed to get elected to the Empire’s highest civilian office. And, even, on occasion, he prayed for Britain, that she would see the light and convert to the True Church, away from the lamb-sacrificing heresy she currently embraced.
	All in all, the Emperor of Spain was a devout and godly man, who had spent his entire reign with a singular goal in mind: avoid war with Britain. Reduce tensions. He had met on several occasions with Britain’s Emperor Cedric, cementing solemn agreements to remove troops, or tone down mobilization, or to, more recently, review the extradition treaty. He rather liked Cedric; it seemed he had a good head on his shoulder, and was rather gregarious as well. The two of them got on well.
	This is why, about an hour later, Miguel was so confused by the events of the past night. After Eucharist, a messenger had come to him quietly with a written message which stated in the most direct terms that Spain had been attacked the previous night by the Empire of Britain. Six ships total of the High Seas Navy were unaccounted for, and two were confirmed destroyed: the Sacramento, and the Stella Maris. He had christened the Stella Maris himself. She had been the flagship of the North Sea Fleet, a sizable destroyer. 
	He thought that he should have been informed hours earlier. But then, news traveled slowly: communication wires were constantly in disrepair. The goal of establishing a working infrastructure to completely unify the Empire had avoided every Emperor, outside of fits of development, for over three-hundred years. He himself had established the radio and televisor networks, and his father, Carlos IV, had established the foundations of an Empire-wide transportation system; but the empire was so large, and so spread across the planet, that all that had been achieved was a dependable road network in the Empire’s Continental European corridor. Had it not been for that road network, he wouldn’t have learned about the attacks for another sixteen hours.
	Upon hearing the news, he headed for his office in the northern wing of the Palacia Isabella. He kept a pace so brisk, he was near dashing. As he entered the antechamber, he muttered a quick hello to his secretary and assistant, Minuet, and continued for his office, his mind flooding with disaster scenarios in which everything that could go wrong did go wrong.
	Miguel sat down hard at his desk, with a visible irritation. What was the meaning of these attacks? He sat still, in thought, for about forty-five seconds, before he tapped on the intercom on his desk, and spoke in a monotone, “Minuet, get my Cabinet here. Tell them they have twelve hours to get here from wherever in the world they are. And get me John Reilly on the telefono.”
	Miguel had appointed John Reilly the Prefect of the Isle of Man two years earlier. Prior to that posting, the forty-four year-old had distinguished himself in the Bureaucracy not only by being one of the youngest representatives in the Constituent Congress, the lower house of the Administration, but also by being the most talented. He was an Anglo-Manx, descended from the English religious dissidents exiled to Man in the sixteenth century, when the so-called ‘Gaelic Church’ became official. He had twice served as Chair of the War Administration, and had served a term as the official Spanish representative to the Concert of Nations. Miguel had always had a liking for Reilly.
	Within five minutes, Minuet had connected Miguel to John Reilly. The connection was surprisingly clear; the telefono had not been perfected,even after fifty years, and connections going underwater tended to be static-ridden. The telegraph was still the principal form of inter-continental communication. This, however, was too important to wait for encryption and decryption.
	John spoke first into the telefono, in succint, yet accented, Spanish. “Yes, my Lord? How may I be of service?” Miguel smiled despite himself. John tended to be overly formal.
	“I trust you have heard about the attacks, in all likelihood prior to me. The Sacramento was stationed at Man, was she not?” Reilly confirmed that, and Miguel went on. “I have need of you.You are perhaps the Empire’s most skilled diplomat, and so I’ve decided to appoint you temporary Ambassador to the Concert of Nations. Gianni Luciano isn’t a man such as can adequately deal with this situation.”
	There was a long pause over the line, perhaps four seconds long, before John replied. Miguel wondered, was John reluctant? He had grown quite comfortable in his role as Prefect of the Isle of Man. Perhaps he feared this would become a permanent station. 
	Miguel’s concerns were confirmed by John’s reponse. “My Lord, can one gain your assurance that this will indeed be a temporary post?” Miguel grunted an affirmation. “Then, my Emperor, will you grant my request to confirm the Makhinal Hadrian as the Order’s envoy to the Isle? I have yet to receive any response.”
	John would go; of this Miguel had no doubts. It seemed, however, that he wanted a bit of incentive. For the loyal work that Prefect John Reilly had performed over the years he had served, Miguel would gladly grant that request. “Very well, John. Get your affairs in order; the emergency Concert session commences in two days.”
	With that, Miguel returned the telefono to it’s station, and slumped back in his chair. Surely, John could handle it. Surely, John could keep this country out of war. He debated with himself the merits of addressing the Empire via televisor, but there was nothing to report. No idea what exactly had happened, no plan for dealing with it. However, he could reassure his Empire that action would be taken. He pressed the intercom. “Minuet, please arrange a televised address, to be broadcast in two hours.”
	He spent the next two hours writing and revising a short speech. It needed to be succint. It needed to be readable. Most importantly, it needed to posses within it the ability to keep the seven hundred million civilians of the Empire calm.
	A crew set up cameras and lights and microphones in his office. He readied himself. And, two hours after his decision to speak to the Empire, he spoke.
	“On 12 November, 1961, at 9:30 PM, the Empire of Spain was attacked by the Empire of Britain, in the Irish Sea, and the North Sea. These attacks were unprovoked, unprecedented, and acts of war. As far as the Administration knows, two ships have been destroyed: the Sacramento and the Stella Maris. For this outrage, we will take action. We will not allow the heretics to assault us. The Empire will do as she has always done: she shall thrive. No one, not Britain, can change that. Our security was attacked. Our dignity was attacked. For this, Britain will not go unpunished. Gracias, y buenos noches.”

Training Ground #32, Yukon, Canada
November 14, 1961 	

	Silence.  Total Silence.  That was all Fallon heard.  It was a beautiful thing, silence - in this world, in the arctic forests of Canada, silence was the best thing Fallon could have heard.  It meant that there were no creatures anywhere, no enemies, no reason to raise his weapon.  It meant that Fallon could relax.  And Fallon liked to relax, almost as much as he liked to hunt.
	Fallon was a member of the Unified Legion, the British Empire's secret weapon - 500 soldiers, trained in the harshest climate in the world, equipped with the latest and greatest in weaponry, and devoted utterly to their cause.  The Unified Legion was going to take the world by storm, and stride over the enemies of the Throne and of the Empire.
	But right now, Fallon wasn't thinking about crushing the enemies of his motherland.  He was thinking about this exercise.  The idea was simple - somewhere in a 10-mile area, there was a bear.  Fallon had seen it - it seemed like the largest creature he'd ever seen, weighing in at 900 pounds.  The commander had fed a rabbit to it - the bear greedily tore it apart like a flash of lightning, cramming the creature into its gaping mouth .  .  And Fallon was supposed to hunt it and kill it.
	Fallon sat and thought, brushing back his tousled black hair.  Where was this bear?  He had spent 2 days out here searching for his prey, as had the bear.  Perhaps the bear wasn't here?  No.  That wasn't viable.  The Commander had often related stories of how much he hated being given tricky orders by his superiors.  They both hated those stories.  A soldier's duty is to kill, the Commander said, not to think.  Fallon touched his halcyon, a knife about 2 feet in length, curving inward.  Fallon promised his Commander he'd bring back a bear skin and hang it on the wall as a mark of triumph.  He had every intention of doing so.
	Fallon's nose twitched.  He smelled something.  He definitely smelled something.  He smelled bear.
	Faster than could be imagined, the bear stormed out of the underbrush like a creature of nightmares, his claws bared, his teeth glistening in the moonlight.  Had Fallon the time, he would have slapped himself for not hearing it sooner.  Fallon jumped backwards, his feet wrapping themselves around a tree limb.  He twisted his body, digging his toes into the limb, and swung himself up onto the tree limb, jumping still higher onto a new branch and then to another, until he was a good 15 feet above the ground.  The bear stared at him for a brief moment, as though thinking . . .
	And then, without any difficulty, the bear started climbing slowly up the tree, his eyes filled with a hungry rage.  Fallon examined his options.  First, should he drop to the ground, the bear would force him into an even fight - one which he had no hope of winning.  Using the Squeezer - a tiny little pistol with a long, silenced barrel designed to fire almost silently - would have no effect on a creature that size.  Using his halcyon was a viable choice, but should he miss in his swing, he would not be able to dig the sword back and go again.  The one thing Fallon wanted was to have 10 more seconds to think, but sadly, those things were denied to him as the bear snapped its frothing jaws at his leg.  The teeth dug through the skin and tore at part of the muscle, but Fallon could still run and climb, albeit it would hurt more than a bullet wound.  He bit his tongue and swung his halcyon at the bear's face, cutting into the bridge of its nose.  The bear fell back, crashing into the ground like a meteor.
	Fallon did not hesitate.  He leapt from his branch, clutching his halcyon.  The halcyon flashed in the moonlight, and with all of his weight behind it, drove into the bear's neck.  Blood flashed - screaming - flailing limbs - and all was quiet.  Fallon breathed slowly, his face covered in the life's blood of the creature in front of him.  He had won.  With the precision of a surgeon, he began to harvest the animal's fur, and before long, he had a beautiful bear skin in his hands.
	Fallon looked up at the waxing gibbous of the moon, and decided to march back home.  Sleep is for the weak, and the Legionnaires are not weak.  He began to walk, or rather, glide, with an grace found only in those who have cast off the shackles of civilization and studied the creatures of the wild, learning from them, understanding them . . .The walk took four hours, four hours of nothing but snow and trees and snow and trees.  
	Finally, he reached the end of the fenced-in area, and saw two 'normals' standing there, awaiting his return.  'Normals' was the word used by the Legionnaires on soldiers who hadn't had their special training.  Behind them was a truck that would carry him back to base camp, back to soft beds, hot food, praise from his Commander, and perhaps even a woman.  They looked him in the face, their eyes full of wonder at the skin he had dragged with him.
	"Fallon, you didn't . . . You actually did it?"  Fallon smiled at his compatriot.
	"I'm a Legionnaire.  I make the impossible happen.  And besides, it's not so hard if you know the secret.  I'll tell you about it later.  Right now, I desperately need sleep.  Let's return to base camp."  Fallon laid in the back of the truck and felt the normals drive it, the rumbling of the truck lulling him to a deep, dreamless sleep.

Chapter 2

Castletown, Isle of Man
November 14, 1961. 

	John Reilly’s motorcar pulled into the driveway of a small, white, government-issue, military family house that was an exact duplicate of every other house along the row. Castletown was a Fleet town, and housed the most multi-national community on the island. The house Reilly was pulling into was only as aesthetic as it needed to be; the primary concern was sufficient housing for the families. It was stout, ugly, and not quite white enough to be appealing. Instead, it had the look of a slightly discolored egg. John Reilly, though, was not visiting this Fleet family to comment on government housing. The prefect had a far more somber duty.
	With two guards behind him, he approached the door, and rapped three times in quick succession. He liked that knock; it was quick and to the point,  concise, and not too flashy. Much like the prefect himself. After maybe twelve seconds, the door opened. Behind the squeaking hinges and the heavy door, there was revealed a small woman with swarthy Mediterranean skin. She looked at Reilly, and, after a second’s delay, jumped a little with surprise and said, “My Lord Prefect,” she said and bowed her head low and quickly, “What can I do for you?” She gestured into the house.  “Lord Prefect, please, please come in. I’ll get you some cheese...” The woman was obviously nervous and hoping to make a big impression. 
	Reilly sighed and sat down on the couch, while the two guards stood at either side of the door. The woman was Susanna Pinzon, the wife of the commander of the Sacramento. Reilly had taken it upon himself to go and personally inform each family of the Sacramento of the husband’s probable demise. He figured it would be better then getting an Imperial widow-gram. 
	Susanna dashed into the room and sat down surprisingly delicately. “Lord Prefect, I assume that you have some sort of business to discuss.” She smiled nervously, and John nodded slightly. He felt it hard to deliver this piece of news. He regretted that he could only speak formal government Spanish, and not the colloquial. He thought he sounded like a form letter.
	“Lady Pinzon, I am sure you have heard of the British naval attacks on the twelfth. Please do not think I am being too unfeeling in telling you this way, but your husband’s vessel, the Sacramento was one of the vessels destroyed.”
	Susanna looked immediately crushed. The smile fell off of her face, and she began to cry. Reilly sought to comfort her, but in his official position, it was hard to do. He thought of the only way he knew.
	He spoke. “There are rumors that there were four survivors from the Sacramento, although it hasn’t been reported if one is an officer. I will attempt to learn this for you at the Concert session, and negotiate for extradition. It’s the best I can do.”
	Susanna had by now collapsed into tears, and was trying to stem the tide from her eyes. She looked up wistfully, attempting to regain her composure and said, chokingly, “I thank you for telling me in person.” Spanish formality riled Reilly. Now didn’t seem the appropriate time for conduct.
	With that, Prefect John Reilly stood, and departed for his coche. He wished there was more he could do to help this poor woman, and the other widows and potential widows of the Sacramento attacks. He resolved to, upon reaching Warsaw, to telegraph back to Man the orders for a significant financial aide for the victim’s families. 
	It was the very least the Prefecture could do.
	Within fifteen minutes, Reilly had reached the airport. Man, with a population of six million on the crowded little island, only had space for a small airport: two runways and a home fleet of five Herodotus 112’s. The small planes were slow, and supported only small passenger loads, use primarily by diplomatic missions. Indeed, the airport could handle nothing larger than a 112. 
	Reilly departed the car, and, in the airport’s small conference room, met with the Empire’s top brass, which was now the newly appointed Special Delegation: Ambassador to the Concert Gianni Luciano, Chief Administrator Duque Pietro Broggia, and Lord-General Antonio Gomez. Luciano was small, scrawny man of sixty-two with short gray hair, a neatly-trimmed beard, and spectacles, who had attained his position two years prior. A career bureaucrat, he was appointed ambassador for his unparalleled talent in foreign affairs. Unfortunately, he had a terrible personality and was a poor negotiator, thus his temporary removal from his post. Reilly never liked Luciano.
	Chief Administrator Pietro Broggia was another case. Charismatic, intelligent, young, and handsome, he had been elected to the Chief Administration five years ago at forty years of age. His popular appeal had been widespread, and won with the largest majority in the office’s nearly two-hundred and fifty year history. A dedicated reformer, he was well on his way to turning the office of Chief Administrator into the de facto head of state. 
	Lord-General Antonio Gomez was an aging veteran of the Separatist War, waged by secessionists in hopes of forcing the North American provinces out of the Empire. He, a young Colonel at the time, had led the famous “March Through San Cristobal”, the Separatist capital, and personally arrested their leader. He had been world famous ever since, though widely resented in the American colonies. His distinctive bushy sideburns, neck-length hair, and large mustache had adorned the cover of many a magazine after his 1950 appointment to the Lord-Generalship. 
	The four men sat comfortably around the circular table, and avoided exchanging pleasantries; the approaching business would undoubtedly be the only way to keep the two empires out of a long and deadly war. John Reilly looked gravely at his companions. Gomez spoke first.
	“As you are aware, two of our vessels have been destroyed by the British Navy. Three hours ago, we received confirmation from the British Naval Authority to rumors of survivors in detainment: four from the Sacramento, twelve from the Stella Maris. Your job, Lord Prefect, is to assure their release. After seventy-two hours of detainment, the Concert grants us a legitimate casus belli to forcibly rescue them. That, sir, is my job.”
	Broggia next spoke. “Our job as negotiators is also to extract reparations. The chance we have now is to bring them to their knees. Do you honestly believe they would risk a war with us? The opportunity now is to gain as much as possible. If all goes well, we can significantly reduce their prestige.”
	Reilly: “Lord Administrator...will it not seem that we are taking advantage of both the situation and Britain? If we ask too much, there is a vast potential backlash. We risk provoking that which we intend to avoid.”
	“That is true,” replied Broggia, “but this is a risk we can afford to take. We can potentially make extensive land acquisitions. In all the disputed areas, we have military superiority; we have the force to back our demands, and an authorized casus belli to use that force. We are working from the superior position.”
	Luciano interjected. “And even assuming a rejection of these demands, we still have the opportunity to turn this Concert session into a trial, with Britain the defendant. There are two unprovoked attacks they have to justify. It’s specifically your job to do that.”
	Reilly muttered a simple, “I see,” stood, and the four of them boarded the tiny plane. Within minutes they were in the sky, bound for distant Warsaw.

Bristol Imperial Naval Facility
November 14, 1961

	Lord God in Heaven, I would gladly face the fires of Hell itself rather than be this man.
	Chief Interrogator Edward snapped on his rubber gloves.  Today was another day for him, and he went to it as an accountant going to his desk.  But any normal accountant would shudder at this job he performed today, for Edward was a master in the opening of men, by speech or by tool.  Edward expected to spend more time with the tools and less time with the speeches.
	He stepped from his preparation room/office and into the main chamber itself.  Within, he found a site that often greeted him - his patient, tied into a chair with his arms and legs bound by powerful wire, his eyes forced open by wooden hooks.  A maximum of skin was showing, so that he would have a maximum area to work with, should he need to.  But that was not his job - he was no medieval torturer - he was an interrogator, skilled at getting information from his patients with a minimum of pain.  Standing against one corner was a Helmsman Olrick, who had brought this vagrant in.  There were other crew, but it was decided by more naval men that they wouldn't have any useful information.
	"Well, Mr. Pinzon, is it?  No matter."  Edward decided to speak Spanish, rather than waste time in figuring out whether or not his patient spoke English.  He had already set up his first trap - use his patient's name as often as possible.
	"What do you want, you English pig?"  Pinzon spat his insult at his captor.  Brian wasn't shocked or hurt - he'd had far worse insults thrown at him in his life.  It didn't effect him anymore.  As he spoke, Edward started to wander over to his table.
	"Why do you say such ill things of us, Mr. Pinzon?  We don't want to hurt you.  We just want to help you and help ourselves."  His hands brushed over his table - scalpels, needles, and most of all, various chemicals.  Sitting at the far left of the table, for Edward was left handed, was a long syringe containing a very special chemical known as mercurial fibronius.  With mercurial fibronius in use, a person became nervous and skittish, thus making his job easier.
	"You can't do this to me.  This is forbidden by a dozen conventions . . ."  Apparently, the MF wasn't really necessary - Pinzon was already panicing.  But he wanted that extra push, and thus, Edward planted the needle into Pinzon's arm and squeezed the liquid in.  He knew it would take effect quickly.
	"Why, what we're doing isn't forbidden, Mr. Pinzon.  We're acting perfectly within the law.  Now, here's our first question - what were you doing in British water?"  Edward stared his charge straight in the face.
	"I am Felipe Pinzon of Spain, number 60152.  That's all I have to say to vomit like you."  Edward looked at his patient with a look of utter disdain, and reached over to tap a button.  Instantly, thousands of volts of electricity seared through Pinzon's body, and he screamed at over 140 decibals.  Edward, however, wasn't taken aback.  He'd heard louder.  
	Olrick, however, couldn't help but try to stifle a laugh.  Here, he thought, was a mighty Spaniard getting shocked like a common criminal!  Edward tapped the button again, and all the fury leaked away, leaving them with an immobile naval officer.
	"I would advise a bit of cooperation, Mr. Pinzon.  If you do, you'll make out better."  Now, let's try again - what are you doing here, Mr. Pinzon?"  Edward began to pace around the room.  This here is a tougher nut to crack.  But he can still be cracked - all nuts can.
	"I told you, you mass of shit, I don' t have anything to say to you."  Edward wasn't unnerved.  In fact, he was getting to the interesting part.  He called to the observer in English.
	"Olrick, dear boy, will you fetch me the eyedropper from my desk?"  Olrick obviously resented being called "boy," but he had no desire to end up in this chair himself, and thus retrieved the dropper, depositing it in Edward's hand.  Edward squeezed the precious liquid into Pinzon's eyes.
	"You may have noticed, Mr. Pinzon, that water has been dropped into your eyes periodically.  This will have a different effect.  I know it stings somewhat, but it will stop stinging in a moment.  Now, one more time - why were you in British waters, Mr. Pinzon?"
	"I'm not telling you anything, you monster!"  A button was tapped, and electricity shot through Pinzon's body again, arcing his back ever-so-slightly.  Edward closed his eyes slowly as Pinzon soiled himself.
	"Don't worry, that happens very often, Mr. Pinzon.  It's often a sign that you should tell us what it is we want to know.  This is your last chance to stop playing the hero and submit, Mr. Pinzon."  Pinzon, at an apparent lack of pride, still found the dignity necessary to spit at his captor.
	"Mr. Pinzon, you leave us no choice."  Edward walked towards the wall Pinzon was facing.  A cabinet, apparently concealing an object the width of a dinner plate, was closed, and Brian opened it.  It was a heavy-duty spotlight, pointed directly at Mr. Pinzon's face.
	"Just so you know, Mr. Pinzon, the solution I dropped in your eyes was a dilation substance, similar to what you are given at the optometrist, if you have them in Spain . . . I suppose I'm the last thing you'll ever see."  And Edward hit a button, and somewhere inside of Felipe Pinzon's eyes, a thousand little rods and a thousand little cones wailed in agony as Pinzon screamed for his sight.
	"Are you ready to speak now, Mr. Pinzon?"  Pinzon's mouth nodded a quiet "si," and the light flicked off.  Edward almost hated to see a once-proud man broken down into a mere shadow, but it was part of his job and he did it without complaint.  Pinzon could barely speak between sobs of pain.  No doubt his vision was heavily blurred.
	"I . . . I was on a routine patrol, I . . . I hadn't been told of anything unusual.  I was just told to follow my normal patrols, I didn't know about any special conditions . . . "  Edward leaned his head back and thought for a moment.  After all this, I think he'd crack, especially under the influence of the mer-fib.  I suppose that's all he knows.  Edward walked next to Pinzon and slowly removed the hooks from his eyes.
	"Olrick, drag this shadow of a man through that door, to the holding cell.  I've gotten all I need from him for now."  Edward finished undoing the clasps, and Olrick dragged him through the door and into a dark room with a slab for a bed and nothing else.  After tossing him at the bed, Olrick began to take his leave.
	"Sleep well, you Spanish bastard.  Dream of more interrogation.  God, I love the sound of that word."
	And with that, Olrick left the room, closing it behind and leaving the room pitch-black.

			*			*			*

	On his way back to his ship, Olrick ran into Ensign Brian MacWilliam, one of his many superior officers.  The ensign stopped a few feet in front of Olrick, as though confronting him.
	"Harold."  The ensign stared down the helmsman.
	"Brian."  Olrick stared right back.  After what was possibly 6 seconds, the two changed their grim expressions into smiles and shook hands, wrist-to-wrist in the British style.  Brian spoke first.
	"Harold, you old bastard, I haven't seen you in months."  Olrick smiled back at his friend.
	"True, true, it's been too long.  What brings you to Bristol?  I thought you were stationed in Ceylon."
	"I was, but now I'm here.  Say, Harold, have you heard the news yet?"  A look of small confusion leapt to Olrick's face.
	"No, I can't say I have.  What's happening?"  Brian smiled and clicked as he spoke, one of his more annoying habits.
	"You've been moved, mate.  You're moved to the Mediterranean sea, where you'll bravely do the things you've been doing for the last 10 years in warmer climates.  You'll be stationed at Asalackum naval facility."  Olrick took his change in stride.
	"I don't care.  Wherever I'm posted is fine with me.  I was born in South Africa, you know, and I'd adore a bit of warmth.  I suppose all you northerners haven't gotten around to realizing just how bloody cold it is up here.  Any reason why I'm being moved?"
	"Well, the Admiral is a bit worried about you; you've just tossed the balance of power on its ear.  I think he just wants to have you shot, but doesn't dare do it for fear the sailors will mutiny.  You're something of a legend already."
	"That's certainly . . . comforting.  When do I leave?"
	"You leave in 18 hours, on board a supply ship.  You're not exactly being sent with fanfare."
	"Well, what can I say?  The duty of the naval officer is to do as he's told."
	"Then go get ready, helmsman, you're off to keep the Emperor's peace in distant lands."  Brian snapped a smart salute, and Olrick returned.  As Olrick walked off to his ship to fetch his belongings, Brian couldn't help but worry.
	I wonder if Fortune is done with Olrick yet.  There's no way to be certain . . .

Eglise-Saint Martin, New World Confederation
November 15, 1961

	Antoine Roland sat at his desk, unsure of what to write. Tabernac, he thought, I’m an editor. I’m supposed top be writing an editorial. For all that was going on in the world, he couldn’t think of a single way to write this editorial. The twenty-two year-old was the editor of the local university’s newspaper, and had, since the British attacks, scrapped his previous editorial about the poor condition of the sidewalks. In the wake of a second Great War, such things seemed trivial. 
	His door was locked; no one could get in, nor could anyone leave until he wrote this. He refused to eat, lest it distract him. He was going to write this artilce, dammit. His parents had pleaded for ten minutes for him to eat, and he had refused. Not until I write this damn thing. He grabbed the Eglise Saint Martin city paper, and scanned the headlines for the thousandth time. Struggling, he sat back up at his typewriter, and began, again

	On 12 November 1961, the Spanish Empire was attacked by Britain. There has been no official apology. Several sailors remain under detainment by the British Naval Authority. Spanish Emperor Michel has called for action against the British, and that any further attacks would be met with deadly force. These are facts, being presented for context, and are not being debated. Let’s examine this situation further.
	There have been many near-misses and close calls in this “heretic war”, this “tepid conflict”,  as many have called it. Never has there been any direct military confrontation between the empires. Not once in fifty-two years. Instead, they have battle vicariously (the Scandinavian War, the continuing dispute over the Congo being fought with native troops; the Seperatist War; the Persian War) and diplomatically (the Mekong Crisis; the hated division of Paris). But not one war since the Great one has ever engulfed the world, and no diplomatic crisis or attack like this has ever been so flagrant, so unforgiving. Even now hotspots have flared: British and Spanish troops are fighting directly in the Congo, long disputed, and the Perso-Spanish border is flaming.