The Liberian throne room had a strong shade of gold to it – a sight that contrasted sharply with the outer districts of the capital city of Monrovia. Mountains and highlands that consisted of nothing but slums and shacks, with a stench that would have surrounded the palace had it not been for the several dozen air filterers the King had installed over the years.

'I hope we don't look as out of place as I think we do,' Job said quietly, preening his moustache. He carefully scanned the several dozen Liberian nobles that stood at both sides of the room. Suits, hats, aftershave, beer bellies; things you mostly certainly wouldn't have seen anywhere outside the palace in a country like this.

'We don't. Ease up a bit. We're representing the whole Fourth Army here. Mess up and you'll be sent back home in chains.' Despin frowned. 'And not in golden chains, mind you.'

'Presenting His Highness, King Arob II of the great Kingdom of Liberia!' one of the royal guards shouted, standing proudly in his dark blue uniform and pale orange trousers.

All of the guards stood to attention, looking up as King Arob strolled quaintly into the throne room, with the typical look of propriety on his face that most people would expect from a member of any royal family. An anthem played away solemnly in the background; beautifully rendered music and vocals that Job was all too keen to admire. He started humming to it, much to Despin's disapproval.

'Give it a rest, Lieutenant,' he hissed quietly, elbowing his subordinate.

'But, it's nice,' Job insisted. 'And we've been standing around in this blistering heat all day. We need some time to relax and let the stress dwindle a-'

'We can do that some other time,' Despin said sharply, elbowing him harder.

Job was new to the Fourth Army. He spent the majority of his military career standing guard by the doors of some of Britannia's best commanders. The African climate and less than adequate living conditions of the Liberian locals was not something that Job was willing to put up with – even with the promotion and the higher salary.

That's notwithstanding the fact that Captain Despin Monaco was nothing short of an arsehole. He sported an Albion accent. He was a good few inches taller than Job, had a mop of piss-colour hair that caught the eyes of every woman in the vicinity, and to top it all off: he didn't feed Job the leftovers of his meals like his previous employers did.

It was safe to say that Job didn't like him.

The King turned, waiting while one of his manservants removed his velvet red cape from his shoulders, revealing a fine blue suit with a golden bolo tie. He cleared his throat, waiting for another manservant to place his platinum crown upon his bald head. He then sat on his throne, resting his chin in his left hand.

The same guard from before shouted again, saying, 'Presenting Daniel Wolseley, diplomat and representative of the Fourth Britannian Army!'

Mister Wolseley, the Britannian diplomat that Job and Despin were escorting, left the crowd and walked along the silk red carpet. He stopped a few metres away from the steps leading to the throne, before bending a knee and bowing theatrically. 'Your Highness,' he greeted. His voice was gentle and agreeable. His fair head of hair was neatly cut and combed. His elaborate wardrobe of gold and green commanded the attention of any onlooker. He was a true diplomat. He straightened himself. 'I come here on behalf of Duke Defalk, commander of the Britannian-African theatre of operations. It has come to our General's attention that you wish to renegotiate the current trade agreement we have between both of our armies.'

'Yes, I do,' the King said aloud. His accent was heavy, and the pace at which he spoke seemed to vary with every few words he uttered. It was something that Job noticed with most of the Africans he came in contact with thus far. 'The Royal Liberian Army is dissatisfied with some of the arrangements we have made with the Britannian military. We would like to make some modifications to our business relationship, Mister Wolseley.'

'This should be good,' Job said. Despin elbowed him again.

'Then please, Your Highness, let us hear your proposal,' Wolseley said politely.

The King leaned forward, joining his hands under his chin. Job wondered how the man could even move his fingers with so many golden and silver rings on them.

'The Fourth Britannian Army has established many military bases across our territory over the last year.' He raised his index and long finger up at the set of curtains to his left. They parted, revealing a large flat screen. A map of the continent flickered onto the screen. The territory of Liberia, encompassing the southern half of West Africa, was marked in dark orange. Some smaller Britannian annexation points could be seen near the south-western portion of the continent, all marked in blue. The rest of the African continent was dominated by a wave of yellow: the Middle Eastern Federation. 'As of now, there are currently thirty thousand Britannian soldiers spread across our territory, taking aggressive action against the Middle Eastern Federation.

'However, despite bearing the numeric and technological advantages over-'

Job sniggered, bringing his gloved hand up to his mouth when a few Liberian nobles looked back at him.

'What the hell are you doing?' Despin asked, fighting to keep his voice down.

'I'm sorry,' Job said, raising his hands. He sniggered again. More curious looks from the nobles. 'It's just his voice. His accent. The way he pronounced…' His words were lost in his convulsion.

Despin shook his head and forced his mind to focus on the negotiations.

'…it is clear that Britannia is not making as much progress as we expected it to. As a result of this, we are uncertain as to whether or not we can support the Britannians' presence in our fair country.' The King's eyes narrowed, crow-like. 'We will require additional compensation in order to rectify this miscalculation. Say, perhaps double the usual shipments of weapons and food?'

'I'm afraid that would be quite impossible, Your Highness,' Wolseley replied, still bearing the same calm, reasonable tone he always spoke in. Gasps and whispers ran across the room.

'And why is that?' the King asked, almost phrasing it as a demand.

'Britannia has underestimated the Middle Eastern forces; that much is certain. However, given the current circumstances, we simply cannot afford to divert additional supplies and rations to your own army, Your Highness.' He stood taller and joined his hands behind his back. 'Armaments, ships, and knightmares are not cheap to produce, Your Highness, and the monthly shipments you receive from our factories are generous enough as they are.'

'That is true,' the King interrupted. 'But, our nation is poor and our economy is weak. We-'

'Perhaps that would not be the case if so much of your finances were not being siphoned away for your wives' shopping trips.'

The King's eyes bulged. More whispers across the room. Such a crippling insult, which was delivered in such a calm and docile voice. The King stood. 'If the Britannians are not willing to renegotiate, then you may take your men, your knightmares, and your ships and just simply leave. I will give you and your precious duke three days to consider this.'

'With respect, Your Highness,' Wolseley continued, 'without Britannia's presence in your country, the sovereignty of Liberia cannot be guaranteed.' His persistence made it clear that he wasn't willing to walk away defeated. 'With the Middle Eastern Federation encroaching much of the territory in Central Africa, it will be only a matter of time before they move into your own lands.' He pointed at the screen. 'If Britannia is forced to discontinue its trade agreement with your army, the Federation will take advantage and stage an invasion of your homeland.'

The King looked away, biting his lower lip. 'Then we will simply ally with the Federation and oppose Britannia.'

'And surrender your right to rule in the process?' Wolseley raised his index finger and waved it dismissively. 'The Federation is a collaboration of democratic nations. They will not recognise your monarchy. They will swallow up your nation and overthrow you given the chance, Your Highness.'

The King stiffened. He fell back into his chair. Sweat beaded on his forehead. 'But Britannia promised that they would defeat the Federation.' He raised his hands. 'Britannia is powerful, is it not? Why has it not defeated the Federation yet?'

'We have few allies in Africa, Your Highness. This region is largely unknown to us. It will take time,' Wolseley said. 'However, Duke Defalk will not agree to extra shipments. I can guarantee you this. It will do nothing but insult him,' he lowered his head, casting a shadow over his eyes, 'and possibly the Emperor himself, should he hear of this.'

The King waved his hand dismissively, breaking eye contact again. 'I need time to think on this. I must consult my advisors.'

'Or your wives,' Job said with another snigger.

'Another word out of your mouth and I'll have you strung up,' Despin warned. He and the rest of his security detail moved to meet Wolseley as the King stood and walked out with his guards.

The heat was strong. Job removed his yellow overcoat and was about to remove his armoured vest until Despin warned him not to. Job occupied himself by chatting with his men.

'You think you're bad?' Sergeant Carlos Berkes said. He removed his helmet – revealing his light brown skin and bowl brown hair – before pointing to his grey tactical armour. 'At least you can take your clothes off. We need to keep this crap on at all times.'

'Anybody got any water?' one of the privates behind asked. He shared a canister with one of his squad members.

'Hopefully you won't need to get into one of those things then,' Job said, pointing at the two convoy trucks, each holding two hunched Sutherlands. The Sutherland was a standard mass-production knightmare model, complete with a standard cockpit and an advanced landspinner system. Unlike the typical Sutherland models that were fighting in Asia and Europe, these models had sandy brown plate armour, given the environment that these machines were currently in.

'Yes. Lack of air conditioning in the knightmares would definitely be a problem, sir,' Carlos said, wiping his forehead.

Wolseley walked towards the group, having finished his phone conversation with officials from High Command. The men stood to attention and saluted. Wolseley nodded.

'Thank you for being here, gentlemen,' he said with a bow.

'Think nothing of it, Mister Wolseley,' Despin said. 'It's our jobs to-'

A spurt of blood blinded Despin. Wiping his eyes, he looked up, watching with poorly concealed horror as Wolseley shuddered and fell to the floor. Blood poured from the bullet wound in his jaw.

'Into cover!' Job shouted. He grabbed Despin and led him to cover behind one of their armoured jeeps, narrowly avoiding the oncoming spray of gunfire that sent sand flying everywhere. He looked out of cover, identifying the four attacking Liberian soldiers, before raising his handgun and firing a few shots, scattering them. He grabbed Despin and shook him. 'Sir! Are you alright? Captain Despin Monaco, are you alright? Can you hear me?'

Despin's eyes seemed far away. Job's voice eventually fed its way through his ears, and before long Despin finally realised the treachery that was at hand. He snarled and grabbed Job by the neck. 'Get me into a knightmare. Now.'

'Covering fire!' Carlos instructed. The men split up and took position next to each vehicle, firing upon their assailants with their assault rifles. Reinforcements from the steel and gold palace ahead arrived. 'Finlay, get Aero two-one on the line! We need evac!'

The man in question nodded and hit his earpiece, conversing with an operator over the line.

Despin and Job ducked and sprinted towards one of the cargo trucks. Two Britannian riflemen covered their approach, before stopping to reload.

'Are the cargo doors open?' Despin shouted.

'They are!' one of the men replied. He leaned out of cover and started shooting again.

Job ducked next to the doors and cupped his hands, ready to offer support. Despin grunted ignorantly. 'I can climb up myself, Job.'

'Of course, sir,' he said. He followed Despin in and clicked his handgun's flashlight on. The halo of light cut through the darkness, revealing the rear armour of one of the Sutherlands.

'I take it you can pilot one?' Despin asked as he fingered the controls on the cockpit's hull.

'Of course, sir! I've guarded some of Britannia's finest commanders in a Sutherland!'

'In the middle of war?' Despin asked, keeping his eyes on the control panel. The cockpit hissed, before the seat compartment slid back, granting Despin access to the knightmare.

'Well, no,' Job admitted with a groan. 'But I have basic training done!'

'Job, did you ever actually kill a man before?'

Job looked down, suddenly feeling ridiculous without his overcoat. He ignored that and looked up. His bloated chest rose for the first time that day. 'No, sir, but I intend to kill my first man today!'