ACT II | THE TYRANT'S HUNGER


CHAPTER XI | ANNEXATION


THE WHITE HOUSE | WASHINGTON D.C. | CONFEDERATION OF AMERICAN STATES

Clovis idly wondered what the terrorists had expected when they changed their tactics and pulled their little stunt. A harsh crackdown? An invasion? A swearing of vengeance against those who defied the Triumvirate?

Likely, for they were children who believed they were against other children. For them, the Triumvirate was a schoolyard bully. All strength, older, slightly more learned, yet, ultimately, still a child. And what did the bullied child do? They found strength in numbers, other children to combat the perceived bully.

In this instance, the parent was the Traveler. They would lure the bully into striking the weaker child, and then demand the parent intervene.

Predictable.

Of course, it was unsurprising. They almost certainly believed their options were limited. As the Triumvirate's relationship with the Traveler deepened, they realized that they were on borrowed time, before they were surpassed. Their moment of appeal, of parental intervention, was rapidly closing, and that was what they feared.

A surge of anger, an insult, such a response was tempting. A lesser man would have succumbed to righteous anger. But he was not a child, nor was the Triumvirate.

One did not discredit the critics by playing into their hands. If Morocco wished to stand against the Triumvirate, if they wished to affiliate themselves with a terrorist state, then he could certainly work with that. Amusingly, they seemed to forget that they were seen as terrorists, and it did little to help their public image.

Publicly, they were beneath his notice. He had no need to make any public comment, nor did the Triumvirate. Let them stew, let the media rake the defiant country over the coals. It was with great amusement that he watched, as investigative journalists descended upon Morocco, working tirelessly to unearth the rampant corruption within the country.

How wonderful, to turn the virtuous journalists to a subject worth their insatiable curiosity.

Morocco…it was an irritant, and one he did not ignore. Yet, a cool head and a calm hand were necessary to properly turn this situation to his advantage. Should the hand be too heavy, there would be repercussions from the Traveler, should he be too lenient, there would be greater resistance and more would resist.

Thus, balance was necessary.

The people needed to be on his side.

The media needed to be on his side.

The Traveler needed to be on his side – or at least accept his justification.

The world was waiting with bated breath for the coming response – and it would come, without a doubt. However, when Morocco was justly punished for their stunt it would be on his terms, and on his time. The world bent to the Triumvirate. It did not bend to the whims of rogue states and terrorists.

President Quinn sat opposite him in the Oval Office, a state meeting which he had ensured would attract significant media attention. The media would be waiting with bated breath to learn what the purpose of this meeting was. Was it Morocco? Was a military response planned?

The world would need to be patient, but their thoughts were correct.

A unified plan of attack was necessary.

"The Intelligence Community came through," Quinn said, sliding a file across the table to him. One with the standard classification markings for release to foreign sources. "Every business which has decided to openly or covertly invest has been determined and marked."

A quick glance over the list caused him to raise his eyebrows. "That is a significant number - more than I expected, if I am being honest, Madam President."

"As am I," Quinn's face was stony, as was her voice. "It is more concerning than I believed. Either this Resistance has managed to penetrate our vast business network, or there are more entities which are sympathetic to them than we assessed."

"Is there an angle your people are leaning towards?"

"Split," Quinn said, frowning as she leaned in her chair. "There's some clear book cooking here, along with obfuscation through numerous shell companies, and there are a few people who have British and Israeli connections, but not in any major capacity. There are a notable number of Canadian-connected individuals, but…" she trailed off.

"But…"

"But that doesn't necessarily mean much," Quinn said. "This is hardly atypical business behavior. You know what corporations are like, always looking to dodge taxes, increase profits, play off public opinion - they have their incentives, they'll take them." She briefly smirked. "Not like you would know that."

His smile maintained. "I cannot abide by unfettered capitalism, Madam President. Give the corporations an inch, and they'll run a meter. A happy medium with the guidance of the state is preferable."

"The business community knows their place," Quinn snorted. "And there is a reason the Soviet economy has struggled to grow."

"Details," Clovis waved a hand. "But I asked for the assessment. You say there is a divide within your agencies?"

"Yes, the CIA, NSA, and DIA believe that a number of businesses are compromised or manipulated by terrorists or those with terrorist sympathies," Quinn began. "On the other hand, the FBI, NGA, and many of the J2 agencies believe that there are likely some sympathizers, but they are primarily driven by incentives offered by Morocco – namely, a true path into the African market, with little regulation, and, of course, competition with rivals."

Clovis rubbed his forehead. "You have too many intelligence agencies."

"We prefer a diverse selection of options. One-size-fits-all is hardly a universal model."

"Both have their merits, I suppose," Clovis said. "The all-important question – where do you stand?"

"Unacceptable, regardless," Quinn shook her head. "The middle ground is most likely. Some sympathizers, likely, but, primarily, this is a business move – one which I believe is ultimately contingent on our response."

"Meaning, if we act, they'll get cold feet."

"And if we don't, they'll see it as worth the risk. The African market has remained largely untapped because of us. If they feel that it can be exploited with minimal pushback…"

"Understandable," he laced his fingers together. "We have an opportunity here, one I think we should use."

"Meaning?"

"We keep quiet."

"I'm not in favor of that."

"And do what?" Clovis snorted. "Invade? That is what the point of this stunt was. To provoke us."

"Nothing so crude," Quinn dismissed. "However, this was a slap in our face. Association with terrorists is something we should not tolerate. Sanctions at minimum, punitive action as a reserve option. If they harbor terrorists, they cannot get a foothold-"

"Calm down, Madam President," Clovis lifted a patronizing hand. "Do not let this upset you overmuch."

"You are not disturbed?"

"Oh, make no mistake, I am quite furious. At the same time, every setback is an opportunity, and these terrorists have overplayed their hand – if we exercise a little patience."

Quinn nodded sharply. "You have a plan, no doubt."

"Of course I do," Clovis said with a lazy smile. "We let the people do our job. We hardly want to play into the imperialist narrative the terrorists are so desperately wishing we fall for. No, we starve them for attention. We continue on as normal, and I'm sure we can find issues we need to deal with."

His fingers drummed on the table. "However, our illustrious media will continue to cover this. I have no doubt that they will delight in the absolute scandal of a country openly allying with a terrorist organization. A few leaks here and there, a drip-feed of damaging information, terrorist movements, and other things which are designed to elicit rage – I suspect we may begin facing pressure to do something."

His voice took on a thoughtful tone. "And well, we are to be receptive to the will of the people, after all? Perhaps a second look is warranted, and lo and behold, we begin to tighten the noose. Diplomatic condemnation, sanctions, and, finally, a request to turn over the dangerous terrorists operating in their country. And, if they claim ignorance, why, we can always provide assistance. If they comply – excellent. If they refuse?"

The rapping of his fingers stopped. "Then, if the people demand they be brought to justice, we cannot simply ignore them, can we? These are people, after all, who have suffered many terrorist attacks over the years. The Indians in particular have suffered greatly. Can we in good consciousness ignore their pleas?"

Quinn smiled. "I quite like it."

"And while this media circus is taking place, we are not idle," Clovis said. "Let the companies do their thing – but watch them. As this unfolds, I expect that we will find which companies are merely soulless and corrupt – and which ones are traitors. The KGB, of course, will stand by to assist."

"I agree, but…" she paused. "Our Traveler friend, I'm curious if she'll take issue with that."

"I am more than confident that I can sway Valentin to the necessity of such a task, if he happens to ask," Clovis said. "He is very much against these terrorists, as are most normal people. And we may gain his favor – merely watching such companies is certainly a justified action, whereas he may have it in his head we might outright invade."

Clovis waved his hand. "We succeed in this little incident by letting them dig their own grave. Let us appear reactionary, receptive to the whims of the people, let their reputation be torn apart on the world stage and credibility dismissed. Let us turn the narrative from the imperialist conquerors to the terrorist freedom-fighters. We do not need to intervene. Not yet. All we need, Madam President, is patience."

"I dislike this affront, but…" she sighed. "Your point is compelling. I presume Li is involved as well?"

"I've convinced him to hold off any drastic action right now, as well as the new Indian President," Clovis said. "I'm scheduled to meet them over the next couple days. Li's been distracted with domestic issues, apparently, Sov is making waves – and not in a good way."

"The security legislation?" Quinn asked. "I've followed that. Brave man."

"Brave or stupid, anyone who embarrasses the Communist Party like that is one of the two," Clovis ran a hand through his hair. "Li needs to get Sov on board, otherwise he's going to be an uncontrolled variable, and I'd prefer not to deal with that. He can't rely simply on indoctrination and past loyalties. Ironically, he's a larger issue than Valentin threatened to be."

"Let us hope Li leashes him properly," Quinn said. "Though I admit, it was satisfying to see the Communist Party taken down a notch."

"Indeed, but instability is a price too high,"

"Yes, yes. Very well, I'll keep you apprised of any developments in regards to the companies," Quinn folded her hands. "I'm curious – do you think there is a chance we grab the Grand Ayatollah out of this?"

"Him? No, not yet," Clovis said. "He's smart enough to be far away in Israel. No, we will arrest Hussein when we bring Israel down – and depending on what exactly we learn from this little incident, that day could come sooner than later."


BEIJING | CHINESE COMMUNIST EMPIRE

Fang hadn't really known what to expect after the session concluded. The security legislation had, in the end, failed. It had been a unanimous vote, of course, the Politburo wouldn't give any indication that this outcome hadn't been planned from the start. It had been an experience to see all of the state media cover it as if this had always been expected and the media hadn't spent days laying the groundwork for the legislation to pass.

A rather disturbing experience, and without a doubt a revelation - or a confirmation of much of what he'd suspected. But Fang was sure that few people actually believed what was being said on the television. Everyone had expected this to go in a certain direction, and he'd blown that spectacularly off course.

At least half of the Politburo probably hated him, or worse, and the other half probably weren't speaking of him in favorable terms either.

It was as if some unspoken order had gone out after his appeal. Where, before, the media had practically swarmed him whenever they could, they actively stayed away from him now. He hadn't sought them out, but there was a clear effort to make sure that he was never the subject of attention.

Fang supposed there were worse fates than being ignored by the state media. For a few days, he had enjoyed the peace and quiet – and his family had made a deliberate point to not bring up the Politburo, politics (at least Chinese politics), or anything that would cause tension. Now, though, he realized that he didn't really like that.

It was like…pretending. Pretending like everything was normal and nothing was happening. A subtle attempt to erase what people had seen. He'd checked. There was a conspicuous gap in the records of the session which had eliminated several hours of debate – his own speech included. When he'd inquired, they'd said it was unexpected 'data corruption'. Another victim of the Chinese firewall.

Discussion on the decisions of the Politburo – usually something the Party liked to promote, as it gave the Party a chance to show the world that the people were behind them – was conspicuously locked down. No pro-Chinese rhetoric, even in the context of the speech, because to be pro-Chinese was to praise the legislation failing, which was not in the interests of the Party, but to do otherwise was to critique, and that was also problematic.

Much about this entire event was most certainly problematic.

Although, right now, there was a crisis elsewhere. Some African country had openly invited a terrorist to support their state, which Fang found concerning, and was mildly surprised no one was doing anything about it. Not that he necessarily wanted the Triumvirate to wantonly invade…but, at the same time, unless they had a nuke, letting a terrorist stronghold form wasn't exactly the smartest idea.

Though, that wasn't what was on his mind today.

The media shunning him had been a welcome development, at first, until he'd come to the conclusion that it was a way to make people forget about him. An attempt to silence his voice, a voice he felt was now important. He was one of the few – if only – who could speak without fear of (obvious) repercussion.

So if the media wouldn't come to him, he'd go to them.

Specifically, small digital and physical newspaper organizations in Beijing. Not fully state controlled, but, of course, heavily biased in favor of the Communist Party (as all domestic media was). As much as the propaganda liked to hide it, China was very much a capitalist society (even more so than the Soviets), and, at the end of the day, businesses either made the numbers they needed to stay afloat, or they went out of business.

Kryptonite though he may be to the well-funded, well-connected media, when it came down to it, he was someone who attracted a lot of eyeballs and Internet traffic - and a lot of smaller media organizations needed that boost. There was a gap in the market – one which some were willing to take a risk to exploit.

Interest had definitely spiked when he'd offered a guarantee of safety. Not that he thought the Party would be stupid enough to actually go after him or anyone he was connected to, but people were understandably paranoid and afraid of retaliation. Now, he was meeting in a fairly casual setting, a café with a half-dozen journalists from start-up or small media outlets.

Four men, two women, all of whom weren't any older than he was. They all looked somewhat uneasy, but their discomfort had faded once they'd started talking. It was largely fluff things, initially, his childhood, his career, his time on Mars, all of which he was fine with.

Let them get into their comfort zone.

One of them had seemed rather enamored by the Ghost hovering at his shoulder. She'd asked if she could pet it – something Shadow hadn't been quite sure how to take, but he'd floated to her and awkwardly bobbed as she patted his metal frame. That had gotten a chuckle out of him.

His Ghost hadn't been quite as sure how to respond.

I am unsure I should fulfill the duties of a pet, Fang.

Look at her face though, you definitely made her day.

I'll do it this time. It's like they forget I can talk.

And whose fault is that?

Who prefers doing the talking?

Fine, you've got me there.

Internal dialogue aside, discussion was shifting to more serious subjects. Mostly to do with foreign policy; his speech before the Politburo claimed their focus, and he was given quite a lot of time to elaborate on everything he hadn't been able to in his pre-planned address in detail.

He was careful to not directly contradict the Party – no need to make even more enemies – but giving his own take on things? Nothing wrong with that, though some of the journalists occasionally glanced to the side or behind them, as if someone was going to pop out and arrest them.

"[It's fine,]" he told them. "[No one is going to give you trouble. I'll make sure of that.]"

They were visibly reassured by that.

It wasn't just the journalists – there was a small crowd growing around their table. Shadow had flown around, insisting that the onlookers keep their distance, which they respected (likely not wanting to antagonize the alien machine). Fang wondered if they'd dissipate after watching for a few minutes, but a sizable crowd remained and listened to his long-form conversation.

Several hours passed, and food was still coming out. The café owner was clearly delighted he was still here, and Fang suspected that today was among the best days his business had seen. Still, though, he couldn't stay forever, and he had given them enough material for a few good stories.

Some of the journalists were discussing among themselves, coordinating their various stories, how to split them up, and making sure that they weren't all publishing the same thing. It was a nice display of solidarity, though, practically, Fang knew that exclusivity was all the rage in the media business. If each outlet published something unique, that would probably spike their traffic to a greater degree than if they ran the same stories at the same time.

He was now talking more casually with one of the journalists, a young man who'd spent some time in America, and had become enamored by the media there. When he returned, he decided to start his own American-esque outlet here. Of course, he had run into some...issues and, thankfully, he'd had some smart parents, who gently refocused his dream.

Although, he was now speaking with Fang Sov, so maybe his dream wasn't going to-

Every single train of thought was interrupted by a series of gunshots. Some plates shattered behind him, and, on instinct, Fang threw the kid and himself to the ground, as he frantically tried to see what was happening, as the crowd erupted into a screaming stampede away from the café.

One of the journalists screamed as she fell down, bleeding from the arm. Fang saw one of the gunmen emerge - someone with a face covering, all skin concealed, firing a handgun methodically in his direction. It wasn't just one gunman either, there were a several more, one carrying a submachine gun.

Fang realized that none of the bystanders, the people observing, were being targeted. This was a hit. One against him and those he was with. Adrenaline coursed through him, yet, he found himself paralyzed. He should have brought a gun, he should have-

A shield of golden-white energy suddenly appeared around them in a dome, Fang looked up to see Shadow glowing with Light, his shell slightly segmented as it pulsed with power. The gunmen opened fire – and the bullets ricocheted off the shield or were vaporized upon impact. "[Move to protection!]" Shadow commanded. "[You are safe.]"

Fang helped prop the wounded woman up, pressing the wound in her arm, stopping the bleeding as best as he could as the table was turned over. Fang stood up, eyes furious as he saw the gunmen, who were now starting to realize that their hit was failing. One of them was yelling to the others, Fang could only hear a few words, but it sounded like they were frantically trying to figure out what to do.

"[When you get the opportunity,]" Fang said between the burst of bullets. "[Incapacitate them. Don't kill them. I want to know who sent them.]"

"[Should I be nice?]"

"[No. Make sure they can talk, but make it hurt.]"

One ran, then another, a third gunman using his weapon to keep the crowd from swarming – difficult, though, since the crowd was already fleeing. Where were the police!? The last of the gunmen was running now. When their backs were turned, the shield fell, and the core eye of Shadow turned red. A beam shot from the eye of the Ghost and swiped to the side.

The laser sliced through the legs of the gunman like butter, instantly cauterizing the stumps. The man screamed in pain. The Ghost blinked, materializing before the remaining ones, eye still glowing red. The laser fired and sliced a few more times, cutting the legs out from each gunman. Not content to leave them wriggling on the ground, Shadow sliced the arms off of each of them as well.

Half a minute later, it was quiet.

As the torsos flopped on the ground, the gunmen properly disarmed, the Ghost returned. "[Was that sufficient?]"

"[Uh…yeah, yeah.]" Fang looked down to the woman. "[Can you help her?]"

"[Yes. Excuse me, hold still,]" He stepped back to give the Ghost some space, and Shadow hovered just before the wounded arm. The color of the Ghost's eye shifted to white, and a small stream of silvery, almost liquid light washed over her wounded arm, reminding Fang of fresh dew on a leaf, glistening under the morning sun. The woman's face shifted from pain to confusion, and then calm, as Shadow floated back to Fang's shoulder, and she gingerly pulled off the bandage. The bullet wound had completely disappeared.

Outside, the police had finally showed up, armed, and were appraising the bodies with varying degrees of horror. Fang walked out, the Ghost at his shoulder. Their eyes widened as he approached. "[Sir, do you know what…]"

"[I do. They tried to kill me and the people I was speaking to.]"

His eyes darted to the Ghost. "[And your…machine protected you.]"

"[I'm not going to speak until I know who sent those men,]"

"[I…very well, sir, but we will need a statement, and those attacked alongside you.]"

"[Fine, but they stay with me.]"

"[We-]"

Fang's voice left no room for debate. "[They. Stay. With. Me. Understand?]"

It looked like there would be some protest, but he glanced to Shadow – whose eye turned red – then back to Fang's piercing stare, and seemed to back down. "[I…will speak with my superiors to arrange something. If you could wait for a few minutes, I will return.]"

"[Very well,]" Fang said as the officer walked off, and the others began arresting the limbless gunmen as best as they could, in between the moans and shouts of pain. A small crowd had returned, though were being kept at bay by a line of police. Fang looked back to the café, and the damage that had been inflicted. It was a miracle that no one had died – without Shadow, everyone would have.

Someone had tried to kill him. He wasn't stupid enough to believe in that kind of coincidence. They weren't just content with him, either – they went after those whom he was reaching out to. To intimidate him? Others who he spoke to? Dissuade people from interacting with him?

The reason did not matter.

He was angry, and he was going to get answers.

If this came from the top, if these people had connections to the powerful, there were going to be problems.

Many, many problems.


THE KREMLIN | MOSCOW | SOVIET UNION

"I don't know who it is," Fang said in a low voice. Valentin couldn't recall a time where he'd ever seen his friend this angry – though it was an anger he shared. The Ghosts that were facilitating the communication hovered nearby as both spoke. No moving to a safer place here, Fang clearly wanted to talk now.

"You suspect someone?" Valentin asked.

"Someone, yes," Fang muttered. "I'm not an idiot. Not when I just torpedoed the Politburo's security legislation. I made some enemies, and I'm sure one, or all, of them put a hit out on me."

"They had to know that wouldn't work," Valentin said, though his voice was uncertain. He wasn't completely ignorant of the reputation Chinese politics held.

"Yes, they would," Fang clarified sharply. "We didn't talk about politics in China much, but there was a reason I wanted to get away. This kind of thing is not beyond consideration. How do you think the Party enforces loyalty in its highest ranks? Do you think everyone is a hivemind and universally agree on everything?"

"Not openly,"

"Exactly. I made an enemy, and I'm going to find out who it is," Fang said. "I don't know if I can even trust the police here."

Valentin frowned, mind racing. "Do you need help?"

"Are you offering? I'm tempted," Fang said with a sigh. "Sorry, I'm not in the best state of mind right now. I almost got people killed because I didn't think something like this would happen. It isn't going to stop. I don't think it will. I'm worried about my family."

"Isn't your family one of the most influential in the Empire? Would they think about threatening them?"

"Right now? Yes," Fang said. "My family's already not happy I've gotten involved like this, but they've at least accepted it or moved on. I don't know what to do next, outside of figuring out who was behind this. I'm not a detective, Valentin, and I don't trust the police."

Valentin thought, eyebrows furrowed. "Has the Party or Politburo made a statement?"

"A brief one, typical Party nonchalance, 'We are working to investigate this unacceptable attack on Fang Sov, blah, blah, and so on'," Fang snorted. "Granted, that's not really a surprise. Anything which disrupts the routine is downplayed. Even got a brief call from the President which basically just asked if I was alright."

"Where are you now?" Valentin asked. "Your home?"

"No, I'm at the station. I'm not leaving until I get something, and, like I said, I don't trust the police," he answered. "If I leave, the likelihood that the gunmen 'unexpectedly die' skyrockets."

"A good thing we have our Ghosts."

"Yeah. He saved my life," Valentin could imagine Fang turning his head. "And speaking of that, you never mentioned you could do any of that."

"To be fair, you did not ask." The voice of the Ghost responded.

Valentin snorted. "I guess I'm lucky that I don't need to worry about…attempted assassinations."

"Lucky you," there was a pause. "I find it interesting that Bray has been rather…well, good to you. You never really held a high opinion of him."

"No, I didn't," Valentin said. "And yeah…I didn't expect it. He might be trying to placate me, but I don't know. There are easier ways to do that, and I'm not in a…" he waved a hand. "Symbolic position. I get involved in meetings, I get shown places they're building and projects they're doing, I get to look over any research or docs I want. It's information overload at times, but I can't really say Bray is trying to hide things from me."

"Wish the Politburo thought the same," Fang muttered. "They want me to support them, but, if I don't? They want nothing to do with me. I'm a distraction to the people, or so they say. Now we have this…" Fang trailed off.

"What are you thinking?"

There were a few long seconds. "Maybe something a bit drastic. Probably treasonous."

"You're not worried someone is listening?"

"Valentin, I should have died today, and thanks to Shadow, I didn't. I hope someone is listening, because I'm maybe the one person here who has the power to make a change somewhere. What are they going to do? Kill me?"

"If you're right, someone has tried."

"Actually, I just thought of something," Fang said suddenly. "You want to help? Ask Clovis to guarantee my and my family's safety from retaliation. If President Li will listen to anyone, it will be him. Liana is being treated well, last I talked to her, but she's not close to Quinn like you are with Bray."

"Liana does know Holliday though," Valentin reminded him. "She has some connections. Holliday could pressure Quinn to also address this."

"Right, right," he could imagine Fang nodding. "I'm also reaching out to the other Chinese Terra One personnel. Not a lot of us, but, if they went after me, they might have gone after others. None of them have as high a profile as I do."

"I'm surprised another more favorable one wasn't elevated," Valentin said.

"Probably can thank the Traveler for that," Fang said. "Most of them are regular people, and don't have many ties to the Party. I'm one of the exceptions."

"Alright, I'll talk to Clovis about this," Valentin said, rubbing his chin. "He's…busy though. I don't know if you've seen, but there's a country that's actually working with Hussein."

"I heard about that," Fang said. "Somewhat surprised they haven't responded yet."

"From what Clovis has said, they're going to try it diplomatically," Valentin said with a shrug. "If that doesn't work? Said he's 'keeping options open'."

"Hm, not exactly subtle with that implication," Fang was silent for a moment. "That's harsh. But…"

"Terrorists, I know. No one wants another Israel."

"They'd better act before someone ships them a nuke," Fang said. "I get that they're probably wary with the Traveler watching, but this isn't like some of our more dubious past actions. The guy is a literal terrorist mastermind. Especially after Gopal, it's borderline unacceptable to just let it happen."

His sentiment was one Valentin was seeing more and more of. Pretty much everyone – from Soviet, to American, to Chinese, and especially Indian were united in the universal hatred of the terrorists, and Morocco, since their decision to ally with them. Sooner or later, they'd have to do something.

What would that be? Well…as he was involved in quite a lot of the process, or at least keeping informed, no one could say that a chance hadn't been given. Unlike certain previous instances, this was one time where the Triumvirate would be justified in its actions.

Vigil was…not as convinced, but there was a line that needed to be drawn, and even Vigil was not exactly thrilled with the situation. Valentin returned to the conversation, realizing Fang had said something. "Sorry, what was that?"

"Got some MSS people here, interrogators probably. I've got to go," Fang said. "Take care."

"You too, good luck," Valentin said, as the Ghosts disconnected, and he was alone in his room. Hopefully, Fang would be able to find out who had tried to kill him. For his part, he'd try to help as much as he could.


RESISTANCE CHAMBERS | TEL AVIV | ISRAEL

Hamaza had not fully known what would come after that fateful day when the Triumvirate's authority had been irrevocably challenged, but he had admittedly not expected it to be quite like…this, this manifested feeling of unease and dread which now hung over all of them.

Far from the moment of optimism and hope they had expected, they had instead been filled with a sense of foreboding. Fear of a sort, for the first time in decades, the eyes of the world were seeing a defiant action like this taken, one not of the violence that had previously been perpetrated.

Yet, something Hamaza had failed to anticipate was how that past had come to haunt them.

There was no sympathy, no exterior support. Of course, it wasn't as though they expected such, but the sheer vitriol they had seen hurled, not just from the propaganda mouthpieces of the Triumvirate, but from the ordinary people in the Triumvirate, had shaken their faith that this was something that was even viable.

The worst part was, it was not true disinformation. They were killers, they were terrorists. But they were a response to the injustices perpetrated by the Triumvirate. Unfortunately, a fact that would not be relayed, and the hardliners were already murmuring that this was a doomed plan, that the Triumvirate would act.

But the Triumvirate wasn't acting – at least not in the way they had expected.

What had they expected? A public statement, universal condemnation, sanctions, shows of force, an invasion, if they were especially furious. Something. They had needed something. Yet, the Triumvirate had done…nothing. No sanctions, no public statement, not even an acknowledgement that it had happened.

That worried Hamaza.

He knew for a fact that there was some degree of coordination going on here. The Triumvirate would never take this lying down. It struck him that the Triumvirate may have been publicly ignoring him, but they were certainly directing their media puppets to highlight every single action his people had taken, alongside the internal national corruption of Morocco.

Scandal after scandal by useful journalist tools, unearthing embezzlement, affairs, and controversial statements by government figures. To his frustration, it didn't seem like there was direct government involvement, just the actions of a Triumvirate who was treating this with far more intelligence and restraint than they should have been.

There was a plan here. He was not naïve.

It was a scimitar hanging over their heads, and they were waiting for it to drop. It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

Time was fast becoming a sword, and, if he took hold and cut with it, he felt with an eerie awareness it would be taken and used against him instead.

Even their successes in Morocco had the shadow of risk thrown off of them. There was economic investment, Amjah had Quds Force teams building up a more organized guerilla military, and things were stable, despite the scandals. Normally, Hamaza would have been thrilled with the progress, but the corrosive rot of uncertainty robbed him of any comfort.

Prayer and meditation had not eased his mind, and Isaiah was similarly growing concerned with the lack of action on the Triumvirate. Now, he was seated opposite Arya, whose face belied concerning news.

"The game is revealed, it sounds like," Arya said, slapping down a file. "MI6 is expecting the Triumvirate to open up negotiations with Morocco soon, citing 'public pressure'."

"Only three weeks late," Hamaza muttered. "Opening up slowly, are they?"

"Seems like it, but they're going to play hardball," Arya said. "They are going to demand the full and complete disassociation from any 'terrorist-linked figures', expel known terrorist groups, and pledge to disavow you and the Resistance."

Hamaza raised an eyebrow. "Demand?"

"Demand," she glanced at the file. "If Morocco doesn't back down, they slap sanctions on them, force companies to make a choice. It sounds like this will be coordinated. Now – that can sort of be gotten around, the problem is that it will expose businesses that operate cutouts through the UK and Canada. Ones we have influence in."

"You think this is a trap?"

"Truthfully? I think we miscalculated here." Arya pursed her lips. "We expected the Triumvirate to do something, and they aren't. Worse, we have no idea what they are doing, and I can't help but think we've accidentally lost our advantage."

"What are you suggesting?" Hamaza asked. "We also have our allies follow suit with the sanctions?"

"Morocco is one country, one which I don't think we will continue to be able to influence," Arya said. "The Sterling Cell is not going to compromise our own economic lifeline to make a grand statement against the Triumvirate. What I suggest is that we prepare to transition to a sole smuggling ring. I don't like it, but the alternative is that the Triumvirate comes after our assets, and if we lose those…" she shook her head. "Things get really bad."

Hamaza sighed. "Unfortunate. I don't think Kadeen will bend over, so we'll at least have some support. Though, I fear that this prolonged exercise bodes poorly for the Traveler's support."

"Hamaza, you keep portraying us as something we're not to the Traveler," Arya said with some exasperation. "Isaiah does it too, but he's not as bad. You really thought the Triumvirate wasn't going to pull out the footage when we did this? Face it, we've done some fucked up things. Were they justified? Yeah. Did they kill people? Also yeah. We're not going to successfully make some moral argument to the Traveler that we are 'better'. We're going to have to force her hand."

"And, truthfully, whose side will she fall on?" Hamaza asked.

"I don't know, but I doubt it's ours," Arya said with a shrug. "We're tainted, for better or worse. No one decent can support us, and the Traveler seems to prefer decency and a veneer of nobility to facing the truth of what the Triumvirate is. They'll say pretty words, show her the bodies we've produced, and she'll decide that – even if there are some things she dislikes about the Triumvirate, she can't say that they're wrong to kill us. Simply put, they're more useful to her. They have the manpower, the armies, the scientists, the land – compare that to what we offer. Remnants of lost wars."

Hamaza's lips pulled into a sad, almost defeated smile. "The ultimate cruelty of the Triumvirate. Their monstrosity has created an ugly creature born from the sins and corpses in its wake. Violence which has bred returned violence which justifies more violence against the noncompliant."

"Nice philosophy, but I don't regret any of it," Arya said without emotions. "This was always the only way. Peace was a pathway to assimilation. Violence is ugly, but it works. On a mass scale, they still fear it. Israel has a nuke, and that halted the Indian march. We have more, though we still play the role of servile nation. Will it be enough to deter? I don't know. Not anymore."

Hamaza was silent for a few moments. "I suppose we will know we are lost if the Triumvirate invades Morocco without consequence. I do not think I can stop what will come if our effort for peace does not succeed."

"You'd best prepare how to deal with that," Arya said, her face set in a grim expression. "Because it is coming, and we should not rely on the Traveler to intervene."


OFFICE OF THE GENERAL SECRETARY | MOSCOW | SOVIET UNION

The board was primed, the pieces were in place, and all that waited was to make the final moves.

The Pawn exposes the King, and the Queen moves, sweeping across the board. She takes the King. A Fool's Mate. Readied and prepared. A trap sprung to its only possible conclusion.

Checkmate.

Another game done, another victory.

Unlike the blindside the terrorists had initiated, there had been no more surprises since their response – or lack thereof. It had, admittedly, been amusing to watch the growing outrage as the Triumvirate did nothing while the media propagated every sin and scandal throughout the world.

Frustrating, he had to admit, for he preferred being seen as a man of action.

Yet, he was here to play the long game, and the game required patience and subtlety.

Fortunately, the time for the jaws of the trap to snap shut was fast approaching - a trap that none were going to be able to stop, even if they suspected what was coming. Morocco continued to refuse to cooperate, and their side had been irrevocably chosen. Now, there was a path for a message to be sent.

The Triumvirate would not tolerate those who supported, enabled, and permitted terrorists. A Casus Belli which would later prove useful when Israel was dealt with. There was the pesky issue of their nuclear weapon, but he suspected that, in a few months, there might be something to deal with that.

To deal with Israel, and any other traitors who were supporting the terrorists.

Additionally, according to Fox, there were a few important leads to follow up on. The rot of the terrorists ran much deeper than expected on first glance. That, though, was the next issue to deal with. Here and now, he was to deal with the situation at hand. All was primed, only a phone call was left.

Though, first, there was a meeting with a friend to smooth some things over.

"I'm glad that no one was seriously injured in the whole incident," Clovis said as he poured out some tea for his guest opposite him. "I suspect your situation would be more untenable otherwise."

"Undoubtedly," Li answered. "He is becoming problematic."

"A gift for understatement you have," Clovis said dryly. "I heard that you have determined the culprit responsible?"

"Please, do you think I would be idiotic enough to order a hit?" Li wrinkled his nose. "I am not suicidal, but yes – though your intervention was quite uncalled for. These investigations take time."

"Mr. President, it was a personal request from Valentin after he talked to Mr. Sov, who explicitly asked for outside pressure," Clovis sighed. "And, as a man who is interested in justice, and listening to the plights of the common man, what choice do I have to not do everything in my power to ensure it is delivered?"

He decided to drop the passive-aggressive tone. "My job right now is to keep Valentin happy and on my side. If you can't keep your troublemakers under control, then there is little I can do for that."

"It is not as simple as you make it sound," Li grumbled. "You do not understand the anger he has provoked, nor the norms he is breaking. Such cannot be tolerated, not openly. I would never suggest lethal action, but he should not be rewarded for his rebellion."

Clovis resisted a sigh. That, in his view, was the ultimate failing of the Chinese system. When it worked, it worked quite spectacularly, but the problem was when the veil was torn, and it could be seen for the authoritarian system that it was. It was too rigid. Brittle. Mere propaganda and illusions of choice , the divisions hidden from public view. To the average Chinese citizen, seeing such a major split between a now-national hero and those they believed as infallible leaders would have been truly alien.

It made people think. Thinking, to the flailing despot, was frightening.

And Fang Sov was in the unique position of being resistant to the Chinese indoctrination, and now realizing he could do something about it. On his own? A problem to vanish. Unfortunately, thanks to the Ghosts, such troublemakers couldn't be dispatched in an empty alleyway on a dark night.

No wonder the Chinese were panicking. Such basic, obvious methods and mindsets could not be applied to those with the blessing of the alien. Li was smart enough to realize this, but not willing to put the effort into trying to bring Sov onto his side, which he could understand, to a degree. Doing so would bring about change, and if there was something considered anathema in the Communist Empire, it was change.

Unfortunately for Li, he'd failed to bring the young elite into the fold, and now change was inevitable in some way. "You need to get Sov on your side," he finally said. "Unless you want the Second Cultural Revolution. According to Valentin, Sov was quite angry. He does not trust you, your Politburo, the police, or much of the media."

"As I mentioned, we have found the culprit responsible," Li said, taking a mechanical sip of his tea. "One of the Politburo. Unsurprising, if problematic. Sov went against the Party, and that simply has consequences. I faced resistance because I killed the legislation after Sov sabotaged it, and further veiled threats because I did not retaliate afterwards."

"Yes, yes, and what will you do?" Clovis waved a hand.

"A number of his subordinates are being prepared to be rounded up," Li said. "They will be tried and executed. The good member in question will retire."

Clovis wasn't impressed. "Sov is not going to be placated."

"He will, when they swear before a judge that they orchestrated it themselves."

"Please, even I know that such actions aren't undertaken by subordinates. Sov was raised as an elite. He knows the game, he just hates it."

"And I suppose you have a better suggestion?"

"Of course I do. Arrest them all. Try them all. Kill them all," his words were the clinical and controlled ones of a man discussing a diagnosis. "Burn the whole family for all I care. Purge the dynasty from your records. Show not only him, but the people, that such acts will not be tolerated. The stakes of what we are aiming for are high. If you are not willing to do what is necessary, then we might as well accept that the Triumvirate is done."

The board would not be sabotaged. The dance would not be halted. A trip, a simple failiure during this waltz, and mankind's fate was slavery.

Unacceptable.

"You have no idea of what you suggest," Li's eyebrows furrowed. "Such action is beyond the pale of what is acceptable. The Party would revolt. He is a highly established figure, and his family has ties to Chairman Mao himself. I cannot bring the Triumvirate into the future if I am deposed, can I?"

Utterly unacceptable.

Clovis smiled. "Do you wonder why I have been able to make such changes to the Soviet Union without revolt from my own government? Why I have permitted rhetoric and actions which would previously be unthinkable? With no restraint?" He leaned forward. "Because I have the only one who matters on my side. I have the chosen man blessed with alien authority. I have been given the modern divine mandate, and, ultimately, I have the authority to bring my vision of the Soviet Union to fruition. I fear no politics or assassins when I have every single card."

A King ruled by his court was not a king. He was a peasant, an ingrate. A ruler unable to rule as a King rules is a puppet.

He leaned back. "You have a choice, Mr. President. Will you fall victim to the Second Cultural Revolution, or will you lead it?"

Puppet?

Or King?

He'd never seen one of the elite blanche quite like Li did, but he resolved he should do it more often. "You have no idea what you are saying." Li said incredulously.

"Oh, I very much do," Clovis said in an artificially light tone. "My friend, have you read Soviet history? I have, and I have also perused the KGB records that span decades. I have been mentored by those who orchestrated the Worker's Revolutions, I have learned to recognize the indicators of unrest, or revolt, and, I say this without malice, Mr. President – China is becoming primed for a revolution. You have thus far failed to maintain the status quo, and you slide further and further towards change, no matter how much you try and fight it."

The mistress of Change was as humorous and fickle as an ocean tide, it could not be defeated, only ridden. It could not be stemmed, only withstood, but, sooner or later, it would break through, drowning the ants in its wake.

Clovis disliked his ants drowning.

He rested an arm on the table. "The people are a forest that is dried and starved, Sov, and the other Chinese who have been chosen by the Traveler, they are the flint. Should they spark, the Communist Empire will be set ablaze. The KGB intentionally started such fires, but they can happen on their own just as easily. So, my question to you is this – what are you willing to do to preserve what you have? Is this family worth the cost of priming the coming fire?"

King, or peasant?

Li was silent for a few moments. Clovis spoke again. "I am ultimately providing this advice from one peer to another. I cannot make your decisions for you, but I am not blind to the consequences if the situation is not contained adequately. You cannot count on my support if it deteriorates, because the stakes are too high. I do not downplay your domestic situation, but merely state the cost of failure."

A long minute passed. "I do not think you truly understand our culture or situation, General Secretary," Li finally said. "Nonetheless, you are not wrong in certain notations. I will have to consider what to do very carefully. The stakes are, as you have noted, high, but there will be no Second Cultural Revolution. That cannot be permitted."

King.

Good.

Acceptable.

Severe change would almost certainly be proof to the Traveler than the Triumvirate was shedding the skin of its past. However… "In the end, so long as we can maintain our control, it is acceptable. The projects are in development, Morocco is primed to fall, and we maintain the blessing of the Traveler. We should do our best to not lose it."

A shame his court was not as perfect as it could be. But only a poor craftsman complains about his tools.

"On that, we are agreed."

The meeting concluded shortly after. Clovis was largely confident his Chinese partner in crime would be able to contain the situation, despite his sloppy handling so far. Now, though, he had to turn his mind to other matters. He picked up the phone. "[General Secretary?]" Commander Calumet asked.

Though she knew why he had called. This was a formality, after all. "[Commander, a good day to you. Begin executing the operation. It is time to bring this chapter to a conclusive end.]"

"[With pleasure, General Secretary. It will be done.]"

With a satisfied smile on his face, he ended the call, and picked up the red phone. The old, frankly, outdated machine, which was nonetheless symbolically significant. It had only one connection, one line, to one very important person. "Clovis, I assume we're ready to go?" President Quinn asked.

"That we are, Madam President. Calumet has been given the orders. The operation has started."

"I heard as much. I suppose I'll see you in a few hours."

"If all goes according to plan. I shall see you soon."

The phone was put down.

While this was not going to be a typical state visit, it was one which he had to ensure he was properly prepared for. Some might question the decision to go into a place infested with terrorists, but Clovis Bray was not someone who would cower in fear. No better way than to showcase the ineptitude and powerlessness of terrorists than to walk into their strongholds and watch them scatter like cockroaches.

He dialed another line to his secretary. "[Is my plane ready to go? Yes, the one to Morocco. Excellent, I will be down there shortly.]"


MOROCCO

When the Navy of the Confederation of American States entered Moroccan waters from the North Atlantic Ocean and the Soviet Fleet entered through the Mediterranean, the small boats comprising the Moroccan Navy requested hails and sent demands for identification. The demands were ignored, and the fleets moved forward.

Like wildfire, the news spread to the mainland that the Triumvirate was coming. Videos blew up on social media, depicting the encroaching ships, while Soviet fighters roared over the nation, launched from Spain, and American bombers rested on carriers, waiting for the orders to take off. The legions of Confederation Marines in landing crafts reminiscent of the invasion of Normandy sped towards the Moroccan shores in the early morning hours.

The Moroccan state found their networks compromised, and within half an hour, the Internet was under control of the Triumvirate – only permitted traffic was authorized, and with it came a simple message for the entire country.

Stand down.

The consequences for refusal needed not be said.

Within one hour, every major port was secured. The Soviet forces invaded from the north, while the Americans came from the west. There was no organized defense, the Moroccan forces were insufficient to deter either faction. Most surrendered on the spot, those who did not were swiftly cut down.

Those who bore witness believed that the number of soldiers was unending. They poured from the Soviet borders, and were augmented by the thousands of American Marines invading the shores. Special Forces had been inserted into the capital, and, within hours, it was broadcast that the entire government had been secured, and martial law would be instituted until order could be restored.

It was speculated that the Triumvirate had tried to entice Prime Minister Achaari to personally make the army stand down, and give legitimacy to the takeover, but he had refused. Joined by his government in his own jail cells, he could only observe helplessly as the Triumvirate systematically locked down the country.

Clovis Bray and Jamie Quinn had landed shortly after the capital was secured, accompanied by the Red Guard and Secret Service, respectively, along with several hundred of the most elite soldiers from each respective superpower. A speech had been given, one which had been broadcast throughout the Triumvirate.

A speech where they had stated that they could not tolerate the spread of terrorism any longer, and that their failure to act would lead to hundreds more dead. They cited the unwillingness of the Prime Minister to work with them, and his refusal to divest from known terrorist entities.

With this, the Triumvirate justified their invasion.

They stated that they would leave – but only when the rot of insurgency and terrorism had been wholly and completely purged. A local leader would be elected, one who would be given control once the nation was secured. How long that would be? No one knew, but it was said that the more cooperation there was, the sooner martial law would be lifted.

Sharply-suited professionals of the CIA and the black-clothed KGB soon arrived in the cities of Morocco, and began their work to unravel the insurgency which had taken root. Dozens disappeared over the course of the investigations, and those who were released were never the same. Teams of Soviet and American forces isolated and hunted down pockets of violence, both from Moroccan military holdouts and national insurgents.

The fighting would continue for weeks, as the uprisings were put down.

The Prime Minister, and most of the Moroccan government, were extradited to Switzerland, where they were tried before the Triumvirate Court of Justice, found guilty of facilitating and supporting terrorism, and condemned to life in prison in the Hague – with no possibility of appeal.

The aftermath chilled the world as the shadow of the Triumvirate fell over the region. Clovis reveled in satisfaction as report after report came before his desk, detailing non-aggression and coordination pacts with other African nations, fearing retaliation. African militaries cracked down with reckless abandon, arresting and killing anyone they suspected was a terrorist, fearing an invasion of similar numbers.

Hamaza felt despair sweep over him, as avenues which had once shown promise dried up, and those who might have been allied severed all contact. The whispers began as the cells prepared for conflict, and the last remnants of hope for a peaceful solution failed. The hardliners could not be stopped, they would not accept another plan when this one had so utterly failed.

He hardened his heart, the struggle had not yet ended, more blood and steel awaited them.

Valentine observed the fall of Morocco in a mixture of horror and concern. He had merely expected the Triumvirate to assist in rooting out the terrorists, perhaps operate in the country. Not directly take it over, depose the leadership, and systematically purge the population of any suspected threat.

This was neither what he'd wanted, nor what he'd expected. This was going too far, even to end a terrorist threat.

As Isaiah was forced to depart the country in the wake of the invasion, he knew there was no going back. It did not matter what they tried, or what they did, the Triumvirate would never change, nor would it fall through any peaceful coercion or resolution.

The final straw had been broken. There would be no restraining what was to come. The Triumvirate would not tolerate dissent, be it through violent or peaceful means. There was no point in pretending it would be any different, and if the Traveler found the idea of the Resistance's past violent actions a line too far…then so be it.

Sagira was silent as they fled, and, already, he was thinking of how best to strike back.

They may have been irrevocably doomed, but, if he was going to go down, it would be fighting the Triumvirate. There was no other path, and he could not justify to his men or peers anymore that another solution was viable, though he knew that this would simply feed into the Triumvirate's justification.

But there was no other choice.

They would either wither away or fight.

And he?

He would fight.

And the Triumvirate would burn.


TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER XII | CONSPIRACY