Prologue

Montreal, Province of Quebec, Canada

2029

4:57 p.m.

Montreal City, once full of life and activity, had become no more than a ruin field. The majority of the once beautiful, high skyscrapers of downtown were now barely still standing after being damaged by the non-stop fire of the American artillery. A terrible smell of gunpowder, blood and burned human flesh had soaked the boulevards and the squares. Half decomposed corpses, of both civilians and soldiers, were scattered all over the city streets, alongside rubble and craters that were still smouldering after grenade and shell explosions.

Fortunately, the battle that made the city shake was over. The benefits were seen everywhere : air was becoming pure again as dust progressively dropped to the ground ; the horrible odor was starting to be swept away by the more gentle and salty one coming from the St. Lawrence river ; civilians were getting out of their homes for the first time in months. It was still dangerous though to be inside the limits of the grand municipality. There were multiple reasons for that : mines ; non-exploded shells ; snipers ; etc.

Even so, peace had come back. It was calm all over the island.

Well, almost...

A military convoy was slowly progressing towards the Canadian headquarters, located in the Bell Centre, on René-Lévesque Boulevard. In the middle of this agitation, sitting in the front seat of an ITA (Infantry Transport Vehicle) was the battle's winner, the one who, while going home, would get the majority of the honours related. Not only for this particular battle, but also for ending a war that had lasted 12 years.

This man was Gilbert Samuels, Emperor, General of the Armies of the United-States and supreme leader of the American United Empire.

He was a tubby little man with a round face, chubby hands, short dark hair as well as little piercing blue eyes behind a pair of little glasses. He was wearing his classical military uniform : a black suit with pale brown shirt and tie. A black officer cap, black leather boots, multiple decorations and a holster containing a .357 Magnum Desert Eagle were completing his uniform. The emperor's epaulets had seven stars (five assembled as a pentagon and two in the centre of the geometrical form), a reference to his military grade. His arms were folded over his belly, accompanying a little and confident smile that was revealing great satisfaction.

Behind him, out of the cabin and accompanying a few soldiers, were sitting two of his most important officers : General Lewis Patterson and General Paul Masterson. The first one was a beanpole. He had brown eyes, black hair, protruding ears and an aquiline nose completed by a medium sized mouth surrounded by thin lips. He was sitting down straight, his hands joint together and his head tilted like he was lost in his thoughts. The high-graded was wearing the same uniform as his leader, but with a lot less decorations, only four stars on the epaulets. Also, the officer's holster contained a classical Beretta M92F5 instead of a DE. Despite not being very intelligent, he was distinguishing himself from his peers because of an unwavering loyalty to the political leader and had been chosen by the emperor to act a bit like a bodyguard.

On the other hand, Masterson was more average sized. He had brown eyes, chestnut brown hair, a centred and straight nose, fleshy lips and a square shaped jaw. He was more relaxed than his comrade, having his legs crossed and smoking a cigarette. He wore the same uniform as Patterson. He had not been chosen for his loyalty ; instead, it was for his great negotiation skills.

In the truck, everyone was getting impatient. It was normal, though. The convoy was perpetually stopped or slowed down for multiple reasons. It could be to drive around a shell crater, to defuse a land mine or to destroy a barricade. Moreover, the seats had no stuffing ; let us not forget it was a military truck, after all. The only people who were more comfortable than the others were the emperor and the driver, of course.

Annoyed, and not wanting to be late for the appointment, Masterson leaned forward next to the opened window separating the cabin from the back and asked to the chauffeur :

"Are we there yet?"

"Almost, sir." responded the driver. "Just a few hundred meters away."

The general got back to his original position, stubbed his cigarette out, crossed his arms and looked to his right. He watched the city's ruins pass as he lost himself in his mind. Since the Canadian forces capitulated, he was looking forward to see his family again. He would finally be able to bring his wife, Mary, out to the restaurant like they used to. He would go see his son play baseball and his daughter play piano as before.

As he was thinking about his home, the convoy continued on its path. It reached an intersection, then turned left on de la Montagne Street. Then, after a few moments, left again on des Canadiens-de-Montréal Avenue. The chauffeur's voice brought back Masterson to reality as it announced the Bell Centre.

The convoy came to a halt with a squeal of breaks. The soldiers who were sitting in the back disembarked, followed by the two generals. Patterson then got to Samuels door and opened it, banging his heels together. The emperor got out, adjusted his uniform and started to walk towards the stadium while instructing his subordinates to follow him.

The little group then went towards the amphitheatre's doors. While Patterson did his job by insuring Samuels security, Masterson gazed at the building. It was square-shaped, big and small at the same time. The exterior was relatively intact, as the nearby constructions had fallen inside themselves or far from the great structure. The walls had become grey because of the cement dust and they were slightly bended, like if a shockwave had hit them from the inside.

After a ton of banging heels and military salutes, the officers arrived at the entrance. The two soldiers standing in front of it opened the doors. Without forgetting to salute, of course.

They then found themselves in kind of a long, round corridor with multiple passages. Guided by the combatants, the generals took one of the ways and entered in the arena's biggest room.

The contrast was pretty astonishing. While the exterior was relatively in a good shape, the interior was a complete mess. The roof, that did not hold out, had collapsed. The seats, the aisles, everything was covered with a blend of cement, glass, plastic, metal and fabric.

As the negotiations were supposed to take place on the ice rink, how were they going to get there? One of the soldiers who opened the stadium's doors designated a path that had been cleared in prevision of the emperor's appointment. Leaving the soldiers, the three officers then followed the little way. A few minutes after, they finally arrived at the rink itself.

In the meantime, at the other side of the stadium, in one of the former boxes, three other officers were preparing themselves for the final negotiations. They were the three last members of the Canadian General staff as the others commanders had whether been killed or captured. Instead of their enemies, who were relatively calm concerning the upcoming talks, they were really, but really nervous.

The first one, who was doing the hundred steps across the room, was named general Martin Smith. He had green eyes and black hair accompanied by a little bit of baldness. A large nose as well as a big mouth was completing his portrait. Before the war, he also had a medium belly and a double chin. But now... The officer had become dangerously thin. His bones were almost entirely visible under his skin. All of his body looked like it was about to collapse.

His uniform looked like the Americans' one, only with slight differences. The suit and the tie were navy blue, the jacket was white, the boots and the holster were tawny. The gun was also different, being an old M1911.

Another high-graded was sitting on a cement block in the far back of the room. He was responding to the name Taylor Williamson, admiral. He had black eyes, no hair, a medium sized nose and very big lips around his mouth. He wore the same uniform as Smith.

The tension was palpable in the little room. So, it is with no surprise that Williamson, annoyed by Smith's hundred steps, lifted up his head and asked :

"Could you stop?"

The general looked at Williamson and, while continuing walking, asked :

"Why?"

"I'm trying to think."

"'Bout what?" Smith had interrupted his walking.

"Anything."

Feeling that the discussion was becoming boring, Smith went back to his activity.

"Particularly what we could have done to reverse the war's course of events."

The general stopped again. He believed he had been insulted, even though it was not the case. His reaction could be explained by the fact that Williamson and him had a military history filled with competition between themselves. Turning towards the admiral, he said :

"Let me help you with this. What happened at the Queen Charlotte Islands?"

Williamson responded :

"Half of the Third Fleet sunk. Yeah, th..."

Suddenly, the admiral understood what the statement meant. If you did not understand, here is the thing : the Third Canadian Fleet, during this event, was under the responsibility of the admiral. Indeed, it was an event that could have been avoided, but as it was mentioned in a conversation between tworivals, it started to degenerate pretty quickly. Deciding to play his comrade's game and to pay him back, Williamson stated, while getting up :

"All right. Who made 150,000 men of the 6th Army get slain during the Fort Severn-Kenora counteroffensive?"

The admiral was now standing in front of Smith, only a few centimetres from the general's nose, looking at him directly in the eye. The statement pissed the land officer because it was him who coordinated the attack. He tried to reply, but was interrupted by a powerful and authoritarian voice that shouted :

"ENOUGH!"

The two officers jumped. Slowly, they turned their head at the sound's source. Challenge and contempt, that we easily easily reading in the opponents' eyes, had been replaced by fear and worry.

But, who shout?

Let us meet him.

The shouter was the third officer. Well, he was not exactly an officer. His name was Pierre Drouin, Minister of the National Defence. Pale green eyes, dark brown hair, an Aquiline nose and a little mouth composed his portrait. He also had a very large and straight scar on his face, result of a failed assassination attempt. He was dressed with a standard black suit that most politicians wear, along with a white jacket, a red tie and black leather shoes. As the two others, he was really thin, but it did not really make a difference. Before the war, he was already thin and rather frail, but was being respected with his powerful, authoritarian voice and his great intelligence.

The man was sitting at a little plastic table on an unsteady wood chair. He was writing a letter for his wife, but the argument between his two subordinates had interrupted his writing. After his scream, he put down his pen on the improvised desk, stood up from his chair, and turned to his officers.

"Do you realize what you two are doing?" His voice was filled with anger.

The servicemen kept silent, too intimidated by the politician to speak.

"Well, I'm gonna tell you. You don't care. You don't care that your country has been invaded, that hundred of civilians are dead because of this war, that we risk to be dead ourselves before the day's end! Montreal is fucked, Canada is fucked, the whole fucking world is fucked, and if you two do care about it all, shut the hell up and focus on your country's problems instead of acting like two complete dumbasses! Is that clear?"

No answer. The powerful monologue had left them paralyzed, too afraid to do anything in fear of causing another explosive reaction from the minister.

"IS THAT CLEAR?!"

This last shout finally unlocked the two generals' joints and they said in unison :

"YES, SIR!"

"Good." He checked his watch. "Now prepare yourselves. It's almost time."

The minister's subordinates went back to their room corners to adjust their uniform, check their weapons and do some mental relaxation. Drouin, as for him, sat down again, hunched a bit and gave his temples a massage while murmuring :

"Tabarnak d'esti de câlisse..."

He was done with the goddamn war. He just wanted to go home, with his wife and son, and hold them both in his arms to comfort them. But before, he had to do his duty.

Grabbing his pen, he finished his writing, signed, folded the paper and put it in an envelope. He then closed it and sealed it. He put away his pen in his pocket, got up and, followed by his subordinates, went to the door. He opened it only to face a Canadian soldier who was about to knock. The soldier, surprised, stuttered a bit, then cleared his throat and said to the group :

"It's time."

The serviceman started to get away, but he was held back by the minister. Looking at the young man very seriously, Drouin gave him the missive, before leaning forward and murmuring in the soldier's ear :

"Give this to my wife, no matter what."

The fighter responded by a head sign that he would, no matter what. The three high-graded then entered a little passage that led them in the rink's room. They arrived at the top of a similar path like the one used by Patterson, Masterson and Samuels to join the rink. Drouin, after he spotted his American adversaries, crossed himself and said to his comrades :

"Let's do this."

And, in spite of their nervosity, descended in the arena.