ACT II | THE TYRANT'S HUNGER
CHAPTER XII | CONSPIRACY
RABAT | MOROCCO | UNDER TRIUMVIRATE OCCUPATION
The atmosphere of the city was disquieting.
If one wasn't careful, they could miss that it had just been invaded from a distance. There were no signs of battle. No smoke. No artillery or gunfire. No shouting or screaming. Once they reached the city, however, the soldiers became apparent. Battalions hanging off or sitting in jeeps, marching in formation on the streets, and standing guard in front of buildings. There was no civilian movement - The Triumvirate had paused it temporarily as they assumed control over points of importance.
It was quiet now, unnaturally so.
The air was thick with an uncertain fear, an exhaled breath, released only now that the world could see what the Triumvirate had done. The majority of the soldiers here were American Marines, supplemented by the KGB, who were beginning their systematic work.
Valentin felt like the odd man out as he watched the aftermath, feeling conflicted and uncertain about what to do. Sure, there was no question that Morocco working with terrorists was unacceptable…but he hadn't even been thinking that the consequences would be outright annexation.
Not permanent annexation, anyway, and he'd seen no indication that the Triumvirate intended to return the country. It was only a question of who would govern it. Probably the Soviet Union, considering the proximity to Spain, though, considering the American investment, they might also lay claim to it. The murmurings he'd heard in the Kremlin were unintentionally clear as to what the intentions were – there wasn't even a question of whether that was what the people of the country actually wanted.
Technically, he probably shouldn't even be here.
Nevertheless, this was, to some degree, his fault. Regardless of intentions, he likely could have made sure that Clovis didn't go through with his plan, and he hadn't, being under the assumption that both men were on the same page as to what was and what was not acceptable. Clovis clearly had a much different interpretation than he did.
He was receiving some looks as he trudged down the street, though the Ghost hovering at his shoulder seemed to deter any questions. The soldiers tended to stop looking at him if he glared back, but for the most part they seemed to think he was someone else's problem, or authorized to be here.
His face was a bit more common after all, he wouldn't be surprised if they knew who he was, even if they were Americans.
The press had long since cleared out, outside of a few brave (or stupid) journalists, who were trying to not get the attention of the occupying soldiers. Probably independent journalists, not part of the American or Soviet mass media machines. The mainstream outlets knew not to antagonize the authorities, but there were still some who tried to go outside the norm – for whatever that was worth these days.
Of course, he suspected the real reason the Triumvirate forces had cleared out the media. The sun was going down, and the KGB had arrived. Probably CIA special agents were also in tow, but he'd read about how the KGB locked down cities and towns when there was a terrorist incident. To his knowledge, though, this had never been done on a city or scale like this.
He imagined the stillness of the air would be broken by intermittent gunfire and screams shortly. The creeping dread was persistent, he knew it was coming. No longer in the isolation of the Kremlin, and back in the world, every doubt and concern he'd had came to the forefront, enhanced by walking through a military occupation.
He wasn't sure what to do.
No doubt Clovis would justify this. He could, and even Valentin wouldn't contest that something had to be done…but not like…this. It was too late to reverse it, and what was he going to do? Tell the soldiers to go home? No, the only thing he could really do was learn from this, and make sure it didn't happen again.
Or, at least, not like this.
He'd have to talk to Fang. Fang would know a bit more what to do.
Probably.
I don't suppose you have any ideas?
Vigil had been silent as he'd walked, seeming to know better than to intrude on Valentin's thoughts. At the prompt, the Ghost visibly perked up – literally bobbing a bit higher as the telepathic link manifested. Are you giving up?
Valentin frowned at the Ghost. What?
You think you can't do anything. Why?
Valentin motioned around with a flicked wrist. Have you taken a look? Soldiers everywhere, the country captured, leaders imprisoned – guilty leaders, I would add.
I'm not talking about the leaders – they can be judged. But the people – you can help them.
Oh? Valentin snorted. Do tell. I'm one person.
With the ear of one of the most powerful men in the world. Your influence is greater than you know. Vigil floated up before his face. He will listen to you. He's afraid of you.
Valentin rolled his eyes at that. As much as he appreciated the confidence of his Ghost, he was pretty convinced that Clovis feared little, let alone him. If there was only one thing he feared – it was the Traveler. If that. He'd not encountered a single situation where Clovis had been anything but composed and pragmatic.
"Fear" is stretching it, he thought. But…you're not wrong. What do I even say, though? "Hey, I think you should let the people decide if they want to join us"?
Yes.
You're a bit mad.
Am I?
He's the General Secretary!
And?
It's…he sighed. Ok, fine. But I'm not going to be making a bunch of unreasonable demands. I'm not happy, but I don't want to start taking over. Like, I get why Clovis did this, but it's…well…
Well…
It's not right. Not really. There are better ways to do that. Get rid of the terrorists, respect the people. You can do both.
"Excuse me?"
A cough. Valentin abruptly paused, as his mental train of thought was broken, and turned to see a rather young, nervous man who was standing in the shadow of the street corner. He was Caucasian, short hair, wearing civilian clothing. There was a phone in his hand. A journalist? He made a motion with his hand near his mouth. "[You speak English?]" He asked in extremely accented and halting Russian.
"Yes, I speak English," he said, cocking his head.
The man was visibly relieved. "Oh. Good. You're Mr. Kozhukhov, aren't you?" The man slightly mispronounced his last name, but he didn't mind that overmuch.
"Valentin is fine, who exactly are you?"
"Ryan," the man said.
"No last name?"
"Prefer to be safe, especially here."
"Right," Valentin looked around at the dimming light as the sun set. "What are you even doing here? Media? All of you were supposed to get out a long time ago."
"Well, yes," Ryan said nervously. "But…well, I want to know what's actually going on here. After the Triumvirate media parade. You know they only show what they want people to see, right?"
Valentin crossed his arms. "You're rather forward. And bold. You do know I've been directly involved with General Secretary Bray for months now?"
"Yes, but…" the man visibly swallowed. "But I've been following your…impact, I guess. You're not like the leaders, not really. Call it a feeling, but I think you can be trusted, or at least that you don't believe all of the propaganda the Triumvirate pushes on us."
This conversation was interesting, and, by all rights, he should have walked away. He was probably one of those anti-Triumvirate media types, revolutionaries who had no actual plan beyond disliking the status quo. Not groups that Valentin especially wanted to associate with - but he was reminded of Fang meeting with a bunch of similarly minded people. Maybe some good could come of this. "I appreciate the vote of confidence, but what do you want from me? I don't think I want to be your government source."
Why not? Vigil asked.
Shut up and let me talk.
"No! No, nothing like that," Ryan seemed a bit startled at the suggestion. "I just want to get your opinion on this. What's happened, what the Triumvirate did. Without all of the talking points and obfuscation."
"On the record."
"Well, yes."
Valentin considered it for a moment. "Fine. Let's do this."
"Re-Ok, let me set this up!" Ryan briefly fumbled with his phone, a smile on his face. Valentin supposed this was going to be his big break. Finally holding up his phone upright, he began – though his voice was noticeably subdued. "I'm in the Moroccan capital city of Rabat, which is currently under Triumvirate military occupation as a result of the Moroccan government having terrorist ties. I'm also here with Soviet hero of Terra One, Valentin Kozhukhov."
"And Vigil," Valentin added, motioning at his Ghost, who bobbed in the air and spun his fins.
"And Vigil," Ryan repeated. "I'll only take a minute – what is your reaction to the Triumvirate annexation of a sovereign nation?"
If that wasn't a loaded question, Valentin didn't know what was. Technically accurate, but still as loaded as the guns the soldiers were carrying. He waited a moment, formulating his thoughts. "Annexation was a drastic step, and one which did not need to be taken. The actions of the Moroccan government in colluding with known terrorists was unacceptable, but I know that we could have resolved the problem with methods less blunt than taking over a nation. We should work with the Moroccan people to root out the terrorists, not assume every single one is an enemy. We should immediately restore power to a legitimate Moroccan-"
"[Hey, stop right there!]" A voice shouted from behind him.
"Shit!" Ryan cursed, frantically trying to put down the phone.
He looked behind to see a duo of black-uniformed operatives marching up, a man and a woman, clearly KGB. "Let me handle them," Valentin muttered to the now-terrified journalist.
The KGB operatives seemed to slow, and the eyes of the man narrowed when he saw the Ghost hovering. "[There is a curfew in effect, sir. You're not supposed to be out here.]"
"[My name is-]"
"[I know who you are, Mr. Kozhukhov,]" the man continued. "[The curfew still applies – and we did not receive notice you would be in the area.]"
"[I didn't inform the Kremlin.]"
"[That is outside our jurisdiction, but regardless, it's time for you to leave. We are going to begin counter-insurgency operations shortly,]" he said.
"Hey! Get off me!" Ryan moved away as the female KGB operative approached, slapping down her hand.
"Stop it," Valentin raised a hand. "He's with me."
"[Unlikely,]" the KGB man wasted no time calling his bluff. "[Press were supposed to leave hours ago, I don't know what you were doing with this one, but it's best not to interact with them. We expect some of them are terrorist sympathizers.]"
Valentin resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "[He's definitely not a terrorist sympathizer.]"
The KGB woman had grabbed his arm, and easily overpowered him, pushing him to the ground and trying to wrestle the phone from his hand. Stupid as the kid was, Valentin wasn't going to let him be punished for a relatively harmless crime. "[That's enough,]" Valentin marched over and put a hand firmly on the woman's shoulder – and immediately heard the click of a weapon behind him.
"[You may answer to the General Secretary, but that does not give you the right to interfere in a KGB operation,]" the man said, a pistol raised in his direction. "[Step away now. You do not have legal immunity.]"
"[You won't shoot me.]"
Valentin wasn't confident of that.
The KGB were not afraid of him. They weren't afraid of anyone, and only answered to their own authorities. He doubted even Vigil being near would deter them, yet he still felt confident enough to say that. He wouldn't walk away from this, not after everything else that had happened. He could do something.
Though, he needed to do something fast.
He heard the softest click of the trigger – and a bright beam of light burst from the head of the operative, who fell to the street with a thud, revealing a red-eyed Vigil behind him. The female KGB operative immediately jolted up, her own weapon in hand. Before Valentin could process what was happening, the beam of light shot from Vigil's 'eye' and burned a hole through her skull, and she collapsed similarly, also dead.
Ryan scrambled away, and Valentin just looked, dumbstruck, at the two bodies Vigil had just created. Ryan seemed similarly shocked. "You killed them…" he said in awe. "KGB, and you just…killed them…"
Valentin just looked down numbly, the smell of cauterized flesh in the air, still not having completely processed what had happened. It had happened so fast...This had crossed a line, and he didn't know what to do.
"[They were about to shoot you. I would prefer you didn't die.]" Vigil said, floating to his side.
"[I…suppose. What are we going to do?]"
"[First, I will dispose of the bodies.]" Vigil floated to each one, and his shell segmented partially as light emanated from his core like strands of webbing to wrap around the bodies, and they vanished moments later, leaving no trace of anything. Even the blood was gone, probably teleported them somewhere far away, preferably the Sun.
While he was doing that, Valentin turned to Ryan. "Use the original quote for whatever you want," he said. "But…I think we both don't want this to get out."
A mute nod. "And also," Valentin said. "I think we should all get teleported out of here. It's not safe – especially for someone like you."
QINCHENG IMPERIAL PRISON | BEIJING | CHINESE COMMUNIST EMPIRE
A phone call, and it had been one that Fang hadn't been expecting. A call from the President himself.
"[We found him.]"
An hour later and he was at the Empire's maximum security prison. The guards had been expecting him, and had escorted him deep into the complex, through multiple checkpoints, with Shadow beside him the whole time. The Ghost had remained ever-vigilant since the attack, and was no longer content with hiding in the background.
Well, most of the time.
Truthfully, Fang wondered just who had been found. A hit like this likely came from a powerful, wealthy family – one closely tied to the Party. One did not simply target even a distant member of a powerful family unless they were equally or more prominent. Whoever he was being brought to face would either be a clear subordinate or, less likely, an actual person of power.
If President Li was here, that was a cautiously optimistic sign, though he wouldn't get too excited yet. The President had made an effort to give him daily reports on the investigation, which seemed genuine enough – and Fang had kept in contact with those who were attacked. Thus far, none of them had been targeted again. Yet.
He wasn't taking chances. He'd asked a few of the other Terra One returnees to watch out for them – something they were happy enough to do. President Li was waiting in front of a locked door, one that Fang knew would contain the mastermind – or the scapegoat – on the other side.
"[Mr. President,]" Fang did a short customary bow, no reason to ignore manners, even now.
"[Mr. Sov,]" Li gave a slight nod, his face unreadable. "[I suspect you want answers, and I will not delay. The one who orchestrated the attack on your life and the bystanders was Xia Ming.]"
Fang felt himself freeze, unsure if he'd heard correctly. He'd expected it would be a powerful family, a person in a position of power for sure. But one who sat upon the Politburo itself? A family as influential and powerful as the Mings? That was…incredible, terrifying, enlightening, it was many things…but he couldn't say it was a scapegoat. No way would the head of the Ming family willingly take the fall for another.
"[As you might expect, what he permitted was unacceptable, and he has immediately been stripped of his position of chairman,]" Li continued. "[There is no defense for him. His confession has been willingly acquired, and all those who participated or were aware have been arrested. This kind of action will not happen again.]"
"[I see,]" Fang swallowed. "[What is he being charged with?]"
"[His charges are unimportant,]" there was an odd tone in Li's voice, accompanied by a dismissive flick of his wrist. "[He is guilty. Orchestrated assassination against a family member of a Politburo member is a crime worthy of capital punishment. However, his fate I will leave to you.]"
Fang was taken aback. "[Me?]"
"[Yes.]"
"[But…I am no judge or arbiter?]" Fang said again.
"[You are the one who was targeted, and I want it to be made clear that such actions are, and forever will be, unacceptable,]" that tone again, and to Fang it sounded like irritation. For what, he couldn't say. "[If you wish him to be charged under the courts, that is perfectly acceptable. But the decision will be yours.]"
Fang considered for a moment. "[I want to talk to him.]"
Li did not seem surprised, and motioned for the guards to open the door. "[You are under no time constraints, but he may not be willing to talk to you.]"
Fang mutely nodded, waiting until the massive doors opened, and entered. Xia Ming sat upright, opposite another thin pane of glass with a shelf under it. He was old, proud, his hair dyed black, as with all of the families of status, despite his clear age. Wrinkles and sagging flesh were not enough to hide the sharpened anger in his eyes as he beheld Fang enter.
He said nothing, though, merely stared, his uncuffed hands resting on his lap. The door closed behind him with a clang. Fang snapped his fingers. I don't want anyone listening. On cue, Shadow buzzed up to about head height, and his back fins started spinning.
It's done.
"[He's emanating white noise,]" Fang said, taking a seat opposite the man. "[No one is listening, if you cared about that.]"
Ming sniffed, though decided to speak. "[So, why are you here, Sov? To gloat? To kill me yourself?]"
"[No,]" Fang said calmly. "[I want to know why you did it.]"
"[You're a clever boy, why don't you tell me?]" Ming smiled without humor. "[That's what you do now, isn't it? Walk around and make decisions like you know everything?]"
"[I don't claim that.]"
"[You have an odd way of expressing yourself then,]" Ming leaned forward. "[But you didn't answer my question – why do you think I did it?]"
"[I made enemies, clearly. I spoke out against the Security Legislation.]"
"[Of course,]" Ming snorted contemptuously. "[I would expect such a simple deduction. Cause and effect, because that is how you see the world, the mind of a simpleton. Disappointing from one who bears the Sov name.]"
Fang felt he was intentionally trying to provoke a reaction. He kept his voice level. "[Then enlighten me.]"
"[It is because you are a traitor,]" Ming said quietly, deliberately, eyes locked onto his own. "[To the Empire, to the Party, to the people, to the family. You have no understanding of what has been built in the past century or why it has been maintained as such. You should have stayed in exile on the Moon, and lived in the West which you so clearly favor.]"
"[I understand the systems perfectly well,]" Fang replied. "[I've observed all of the systems. American. Soviet. Imperial. Each of them has their strengths and downsides. Is it a crime to improve those of my homeland? To speak out against actions which run in violation of that?]"
"[And what is it you want?]" Ming demanded. "[To replicate the Americans? With their constant bickering, inconsistent policy changes, and reactionary mode of operation? The Soviets and their nepotism and stagnant economy? There is a reason we do not emulate the West, Sov. It is how we have reached where we are today.]"
"[And why is that?]"
"[Because we understand the fundamental truth, that not all men are equal,]" Ming stood, and seemed to adopt a firm, passionate voice. "[The minds of men are malleable, they are vulnerable. The average man holds no beliefs or virtues except those absorbed from outside influences. These influences can be harnessed to turn them against their own.]"
His voice turned disgusted. "[The Soviets exploited this masterfully. They conquered Europe without firing a shot, merely by turning countryman against countryman. Where they elevated ideology, the base instincts of man, above their people, their community. We have built a nation to resist this manipulation. One single, united people. Uncorrupted by the division and debauchery of the Soviets and West. One which strives to do everything for the state, driven not by fear of the KGB or the self-destructive mechanisms of capitalism, but by patriotism and a love of their nation and those who lead it.]"
Ming paused his pacing, and stared at Fang directly. "[You believe that only those chosen can achieve greatness in the Empire, Sov. That is false – only those who are exceptional can rise to earn the power and authority they are destined for. As the generations have passed, those who proved themselves exceptional produced heirs who continue their legacy. The people, Sov, do not want to choose their leaders – they want to be protected and cared for. We are parents for a nation, and the citizens are our children. Children we love and care for – but whom we must sometimes discipline and monitor, to prevent them from making the wrong decisions. You have no children, do you?]"
"[No,]"
"[You will understand this, yourself, one day,]" Ming nodded once. "[Freedom of the people is Western philosophy and propaganda – propaganda we have observed and thoroughly rejected. Your actions are those of a juvenile. You scold the parents, you rebel against the orderly household that is the Empire - this threatens everything. I am not alone, Sov, I am merely the only one who had the courage to act before the children must be more harshly disciplined, lest they walk down a dangerous path.]"
"[You are talking about these people like children, but they are like you and me,]" Fang said. "[Walk in Beijing and you will see this. Why do they not deserve to lead, to have a say any more than you or I?]"
Ming's face contorted. "[What does a grocery worker know about managing an economy? What does the electrician know about terrorism deterrence? What does the mother know about governance? Why would we place any degree of control into the hands of those who are not educated to, and do not know the first thing about leading a country?]"
"[You may be surprised,]" Fang said. "[Many times, the workers know the flaws, the issues that need to be fixed. They may not know the details – but they do know what needs to be corrected. They can conceptualize solutions, they can make rational decisions to put the right people in charge.]"
"[And you would risk a country on such a theory?]" Ming demanded.
"[Yes, I would.]"
"[Then you are as I said,]" Ming said softly. "[A traitor.]"
"[To you,]" Fang looked around. "[Yet, right now, only one of us is in a cell. If anyone is a traitor, it is you.]"
"[Politics, Sov,]" Ming's lips curled up. "[You lost all friends when you defied the Party. I was unfortunate enough to be the one to be caught, but make no mistake, Sov – I will not be the last, and one of those will succeed where I and my people failed. If I were to offer some advice?]"
"[Please, I can hardly wait.]"
"[Leave,]" Ming said simply. "[I do not care the excuse, but leave the Empire. Live in the Confederation or among the Soviets, if you prefer them. Do not change the Empire, otherwise, it will not be you who is punished, but your family, friends, and associates. This is larger than a difference in politics, it is the order and social cohesion of a people and nation at stake – one which the patriots will not allow you to change.]"
"[Is that a threat?]"
"[In here?]" Ming bowed his head. "[No. I have lost. But I know my nation and my people, and I can say this as a promise. Enjoy your victory, Sov. I will die with my head high and the knowledge that I did what was right for the Empire.]"
Fang was silent after the declaration. Initially, he hadn't been sure what he would do. His instinct was to let the courts render the punishment, but he knew that ultimately wouldn't accomplish much more than making a martyr. All Ming had done was confirm to him that he had made a lot of enemies – and that this was not going to end anytime soon.
If there was to be a war – well, this may as well be the time for an opening shot. An idea had come to him.
"[President Li said that I am to decide your fate,]" Fang finally said.
"[I suspected as much. I warn you that it would be ill-advised to let me live.]"
"[Perhaps, because of your wealth and connections,]" Fang nodded. "[But, despite that risk, no, I will not kill you. You will be tried by the courts. They may find you worthy of death, but I do not. You want to die, to go to the grave as a martyr. I don't especially wish to give you what you want – so this is what I will do.]"
"[Please, go on.]" Ming seemed amused. Fang suspected that would not last.
"[You and your family currently own one of the largest metalworking companies in the world,]" Fang began. "[It will be removed from the control of your family and given to those who work in it. I suspect they have some ideas on who would be best to take over – don't worry, I'll hold some talks.]"
Ming went still as stone and the amusement faded nearly instantly. "[You cannot. You…cannot just take that away! It does not just belong to me, it belongs to my family!]"
"[I can, and I will,]" Fang was unmoved. "[Your family has other businesses to manage, I assume. Less successful ones, and, if not, then, being as they are so superior to the common man, it should be no issue for such superior people to rebuild from "nothing", a term I use generously, as they are lifetimes richer than the average worker.]"
"[This is theft!]" Ming shouted, standing up. "[You are trying to destroy my legacy!]"
"[You tried to kill me, and many innocents,]" Fang said. "[Exactly why would I want to preserve your legacy? I am not done. Your vast wealth, all thirty-five billion yen, will be donated to your workers – and the little shop your men shot up – with a third of that going to those journalists you tried to kill. It might do China good to have some independent media.]" Fang smiled. "[And don't worry – the entire nation will know that it was all because of you, and they will thank you for your generous donation. We are purportedly a Communist nation, it would do us some good to employ the redistribution of wealth.]"
Ming sank to the ground, his face bloodless. "[You…you are going to ruin me. My family. How could we ever overcome such dishonor? What you are doing…it will damage the Empire irreparably. You have no idea what the consequences will be. You take our business, our wealth…how are you better than us?]"
"[I somehow think that your rich family will manage just fine,]" Fang smiled coldly. "[I want you to understand this came as a result of your own actions. You destroyed your legacy by coming after me. If you wish to pass on a message to those you know who hate me – tell them that, if they make an enemy of me, I will destroy their families, just as I have destroyed yours.]"
On that note, Fang stood up and looked down upon the defeated man, who was now realizing that, not only was he denied his martyr's death, he would live to see much of what he had worked to achieve be given away, both to those he had tried to kill, and those he had taken advantage of.
Fang didn't especially care what happened to him now, live or die, it didn't matter. The message would be sent clearly, and perhaps – perhaps, that would be the start of some lasting change. Ming might have had contempt for the average citizen, but Fang knew better.
Perhaps this was for the best – he was the only one who could really force change, and if he did not do it, then no one else would. Enemies be damned, if they came after him, they would be dealt with the same way.
Perhaps he was a bit overconfident, but he believed that the Traveler approved of what he was doing, and he also had a feeling that, if she was paying attention, she would be proud.
Valentin was going to love this.
OFFICE OF THE GENERAL SECRETARY | MOSCOW | SOVIET UNION
A hand picked up the phone at his desk as Clovis fixed his eyes on the muted screens and fingers dialed the memorized number. A few rings and he was connected. Luka wasted no time. "[Clovis, what is it?]"
"[Yes, what?]" Clovis asked rhetorically. "[I'm currently watching the Valentin clip be played on American national news.]"
"[You didn't know that had happened?]"
"[Of course I knew it happened, I want to make sure no one is playing it here.]"
Luka didn't bother disguising the annoyance in his voice. "[Of course not. Do you have that little faith in me?]"
"[Considering we fucked up what should have been an easy win, I'm not taking chances,]" Clovis said. "[Good to hear it. I've got a meeting with Valentin shortly. I dislike playing damage control, but we have no choice.]"
"[Do you think he'll be amenable?]"
"[Yes, it might take some talking, but I think I can prevent him from doing anything foolish – though please tell me exactly how an uncleared journalist got into the city, if you don't mind?]"
"[Bad luck,]" Luka grunted. "[Curfew was put in place, majority compliance. There's always a few brave ones who stay behind for a scoop, and we usually root them out. Unfortunately, one of them found Valentin first. I wish you had told me he was going to be in the area instead of finding out on the ground.]"
"[I didn't know he was going to be there,]" Clovis rubbed his forehead. "[The problems of a man who can use his Ghost to go anywhere. Little to be done about it now.]"
"[Do you want me to chat to the CIA and MSS and kill the story?]"
"[Too late now, it would just look suspicious. I doubt the Chinese let the story go to air, and Quinn won't play ball now that it's out in the open. You can forget about the Indians, too,]" Clovis sighed for a moment. "[It'll burn out of the news cycle soon enough. Let it go for a day, that gives us time to prepare our talking points, and maybe announce a new breakthrough. BrayTech has a few civilian pieces ready to go. The plan was for holiday, but, considering the circumstances…]"
"[Change the narrative,]" came the verbal nod. "[I agree. However, if this is the worst that comes out of this, we still come out on top.]"
"[Indeed,]" Clovis looked at the clock. "[Glad you're on top of things. I'll handle Valentin.]"
A grunt. "[Good luck.]"
A click and the line hung up, and Clovis set the phone back down, and leaned back in his chair.
And it had all been going so well.
The perfect narrative, expert buildup, the actors performing their parts exceptionally, all leading to the crescendo that signaled to the world the consequences of defiance, of associating with agents of subversion and terror. Not even Hollywood could have devised such a perfect finish, with the heroic Americans and Soviets marching in to end the corrupt government and terrorist threat.
Now, an unexpected plot twist and cliffhanger.
That would teach him to make assumptions about Valentin. To be fair, he had certainly not expected that Valentin would react so harshly. There was universal agreement that the terrorist alliance was unacceptable, and Clovis had assumed that he would be supportive of clearly justified action. He'd even allowed the escalation from sanctions to annexation, to soften any potential blowback from the morally-minded man.
Yet, even that wasn't good enough. Clovis was, admittedly, confused as to his thought process here, something that he was hoping that Valentin could clarify. Still, Luka was right that this was, ultimately, a major win – even if Valentin had undermined it in the end. The message had been sent, and the people who mattered weren't going to pay attention to Valentin's condemnation.
That wasn't even mentioning the very interesting pieces of information that had been acquired in the interim. This was only just the beginning, and next time he wouldn't have to worry about an off-script national hero. He was fortunate Valentin had only caused this kind of disruption, because, in comparison to how the Chinese were managing their own 'national heroes', it was positively immaculate.
He was almost disappointed that he had not been the one to manage the Sov, he was certainly more assertive than Valentin, and even Li's simplistic attempts at managing him were backfiring in spectacular ways. Depending on how things went, it was not out of the question that he'd be dealing with a much different China in the next few years.
So long as such reformative spirit didn't spread, that was an acceptable loss, but if Li could keep it together for a while yet, then all the better.
A knock at the door.
Showtime.
"[Come in.]"
Valentin walked in, and Clovis noted that there was a definite difference in his demeanor. He seemed a bit more composed and confident, and his eyes, which were usually filled with wariness or interest, were now marked with determination and resolve. If he didn't know better, he'd say the man was showing signs of a spine.
Let us dance, Valentin.
"[Valentin, welcome back,]" Clovis stood with a flawless smile. "[Your visit to Morocco appeared to be informative.]"
"[I'd describe it as enlightening,]" Valentin said back, his voice neutral. The Ghost at his side bobbed in the air, before settling in orbit around his head. "[What drove you to annex them?]"
Clovis cocked his head, and it seemed that, for this conversation, he might not have to act. Not only had Valentin piqued his curiosity, he'd legitimately confused him. "[Valentin, I've made sure to include you as we've monitored this situation. The terrorist associations, the suspected insurgent movements, the smuggling, I had thought-]"
"[I know all that,]" Valentin interrupted, raising a hand – a very bold move, interrupting the General Secretary. "[But outright invasion and occupation? I read all the reports, it wasn't everyone in charge – hell, the KGB outright said that a lot of Achaari's cabinet was opposed to the decision. Why…couldn't we have worked with them?]"
That was annoying; it appeared he had been paying attention, and wasn't just eating up the condensed highlights. Irritating, but he respected that. "[The Prime Minister had significant power, and, even if sometimes they privately oppose something a superior does, they won't have the courage to act. Those who stand by and abet terrorists are…unreliable in the end. No one would have been comfortable with them in charge.]"
"[And how long are we going to be there?]" Valentin asked.
"[Until the terrorist threat is removed, of course,]" Clovis said. "[They were, unfortunately, able to establish working cells that will persist for a long time – unless we stop them now.]"
"[And the people?]"
"[The Moroccans?]"
"[Yes, do they just do nothing while we work?]"
"[No, no of course not,]" He reassured Valentin. "[The curfews are only temporary, and the KGB expects they won't be necessary in a few days. They are for security, as the insurgents flee. People will be going back to their normal lives very shortly. You didn't think we were just going to keep people under house arrest indefinitely, did you?]"
"[Of course not,]" Valentin shook his head, though his expression was still firm. "[But what about the government? Or is this a new Triumvirate state?]"
A brief glance at the Ghost, and Clovis knew he'd have to word this carefully. It was almost certainly the Ghost which was encouraging this kind of behavior, and a question like this? That was bait, and, fortunately Valentin was not subtle about where he was going. "[A new state?]" He asked rhetorically. "[Hardly. Only if they want it. And who would assume control? Us? The Americans? These talks don't just happen on a whim, they are the result of tenuous negotiations over months - years, even, - negotiations which we certainly didn't have. No, we have no such imperial ambitions, our concern was the terrorist threat – one which has now been contained.]"
The firm expression briefly cracked, showing Valentin's relief, before it hardened again. "[But you didn't answer my question – what will be done with it?]"
"[Obviously, that will be for the people to decide,]" Clovis said smoothly. "[Once the KGB and CIA have finished, the government will be returned to the Moroccans. We are already speaking with individuals to fulfill vacant government positions. How the Moroccans will choose their next leader, I cannot say. All we will do is give the power to the interim government.]"
"[That's…good,]" Valentin nodded slightly. "[Probably the sooner the better.]"
"[Probably, but these are matters that cannot be rushed.]"
"[All the same…]"
"[Out of curiosity,]" Clovis switched the subject, noting that he'd not addressed the fate of the soldiers in the nation. Clovis had no issue turning the government back over to the Moroccans, the only people left were malleable puppets who would be useful clients of the Union. He wondered if Valentin would ask that later. "[You seem surprised by this action. Truthfully, what would you have done? What Morocco did was not acceptable, and I fail to see how any step could be taken which did not necessitate the removal of the government.]"
"[It was too…]" Valentin searched for words. "[Heavy-handed. You said yourself that not everyone was corrupt, and the military could have been on our side. I don't know the answer, but in these kinds of situations, we should work with those who support us, and surgically remove those who don't. Otherwise, all we are is conquerors, masquerading as peacekeepers.]"
Another fine blueprint that he'd have to work from. Useful enough, though someday he'd have to find a way to pinpoint a few more details on Valentin's outlook. For now, though, it was sufficient. "[That is a perfectly fair outlook. I ask because…well,]" he shook his head. "[If the data we have gathered is any indication, there are nations who are worryingly tied to these terrorist networks. I do not want to alarm, but action may need to be taken if they are confirmed. I do not want another misunderstanding like this to happen again, and you can be sure you will be involved in future operations of this kind.]"
He held out a hand, and after some hesitation, Valentin took it. "[I would appreciate that.]"
Clovis smiled, and he internally breathed a sigh of relief. "[Excellent.]"
Another crisis averted. For now.
DEAD CELL OUTPOST THETA | JERUSALEM | ISRAEL
For the past weeks, dozens of Dead Cell operatives had funneled in and out of a small, unobtrusive site within Jerusalem like clockwork, each one receiving their missions directly from their leader, Osiris. Few personally knew the man, but those who had even met him a few times noted he was more intense than usual.
There was a new fire about him, a cold fury that something had ignited. A ruthlessness that rumors had said had faded after his return, rumors which had been proven false when they saw the scope of his plans. The Dead Cell was no longer acting in isolation, but in concert with many other cells.
The enigmatic Osiris was no longer interested in the petty actions of suicide bombers targeting the masses. There was a war to be waged against the Triumvirate directly. Their infrastructure, their factories, and their soldiers. Their officers, their scientists, and their enablers would be identified, tracked, and dealt with.
Assignment after assignment had been given out. Dozens of potential recruits were reviewed,\ approved, and smuggled out in crates, trucks, or other uncomfortable places. The machine which had floated faithfully by his side could move people across entire continents instantly. It could insert agents into places previously unreachable.
How Osiris commanded it, they did not know, but for that they were grateful. The success of the Resistance with the assassination of Gopal, followed by the annexation of Morocco, had enraged the partisans, and they were eager to strike, for they, too saw the end looming on the horizon. Every day, it seemed like a new breakthrough had been made, a new discovery was announced, and a new piece of tech debuted.
It was only a matter of time until the technological gap was so wide, there would be no parity.
However, it would be a long time before they could succeed to that degree. The Triumvirate was on the defense. For now.
The man whose name was Osiris stood alone, the last of the agents now departed on their assignments. The faint breeze of air conditioning ran as the silence took over the room, and he ruminated on what was about to come. Perhaps he was playing into the hands of the Triumvirate - it was likely, even.
But what choice was there?
Wait for the Triumvirate to reform? That wouldn't happen.
Create alliances with unaligned states? Impossible.
Give up? Go into hiding and accept defeat? Never.
The only path was the one which he had instinctively known from the start. The Triumvirate could not be bartered, reasoned, or negotiated with. All it could achieve was destruction, and the only reasonable option was to try and tear it down. Would it work? That remained to be seen, but a long shot was better than no shot at all.
Maps lay on the table, many of them with scribblings denoting points of interest, patrol routes, guard outposts, power grids, and places of importance. New York, Moscow, Beijing, Tehran, Canberra, Major and minor cities all across the world, held from the Americas to East Asia.
Go big or go home.
This was not how he would have wanted to wage war. It was preferable to be more incremental, slower. Infiltrate, learn, assassinate, sabotage, repeat. At this point, though, they didn't have the time. Wait too long, and the Triumvirate would have the technology to end them with little effort.
They had an army, and he only had a few good men.
And a helpful Ghost.
Oddly enough, Sagira had been rather helpful in planning the logistics of the operations. He wondered if something had changed, though it may just have been his decision to shift focus to operations which hurt the Triumvirate directly, instead of largely terror tactics. Those had their place, but terror was best used to precipitate fear and anger towards the government, and he believed the people were too far gone.
There would be no revolution. There would be no rising up. They were simply too content, too comfortable, too propagandized. Whatever the reason, they could not be counted on. What he needed to do, what they all needed to do, was locate and extract the ones who had woken up. Even if only a fraction of those people existed, that would potentially be enough to sustain them.
The silence stretched. "[Is She going to do anything?]"
Sagira also waited a few seconds before answering. "[It is unlikely.]"
"[Surprising.]"
"[Is it?]"
Was it? He didn't know, but it was the best that could be hoped for. Even still…if the Traveler was not directly assisting, She was indirectly assisting by feeding the Triumvirate science machines. And, of course, there were all of the Triumvirate members who still had their Ghosts.
He wondered how they would react when they learned of him, and the Ghost he had.
Maybe it would make them think. Or maybe they'd dismiss it as a hoax.
Sagira kept insisting that they were good people, reliable, and were willing to make the change necessary. Maybe, but he hadn't seen it, and there wasn't any time to waste in the vain hope that one of them would have a conscience. Platitudes wouldn't cut it, and, while seeing the Soviet – Valentin was his name – denouncing the annexation was slightly gratifying, it didn't mean anything.
The country was still a Triumvirate puppet, the message they'd sent was delivered, and the soldiers were still there as "supportive anti-terrorist elements". Valentin might mean well, but his actions were little more than virtue signaling. That was not how the Triumvirate could be resisted, and it certainly could not be changed. It was a machine, one that ran on hard-coded programming, intricate and ordained. Such a machine could not be changed without tearing down the system.
Such machines could not be reformed, only destroyed.
The hands of the clock ticked to the close of another hour. Another hour until the final war for Earth began, one which would spell the doom or salvation of all. Yet, he was not afraid, curiously enough, or even in low spirits, despite everything that had happened. If anything, this was…normal.
It was good to no longer be pretending, giving the Triumvirate a chance he'd known it didn't deserve, but it was more than that.
He felt that, even if the Traveler wasn't intervening, there was some kind of plan at play. What it could be, he didn't know, he only could accept what he was feeling, and hope that it was true.
Ah, here he was, now with faith in something. It wasn't the gods of Hamaza and Ryan, but it was…something. And he felt like he could understand them a bit better, now, their hope and optimism when everything seemed aligned against them. Yet, as he knew, gods and deities were not to be relied on. They may observe at most, but in the end, what he did was all that mattered.
There would be no god to save them from the hell that threatened them.
For better or worse, the Resistance was the final bulwark against the shadow of the Triumvirate.
If nothing else, if he died, it would be in service of something greater.
He reached over and flipped the light switch out. Time to get some sleep.
OFFICE OF THE GENERAL SECRETARY | MOSCOW | SOVIET UNION
The last several days had been a near constant show of contrition, defiance, and controlled anger. The media was fawning over him as they breathlessly covered the attacks, which were now happening in abundance. Not a day had gone by recently without hearing about a bombing, murder, or skirmish somewhere, from the largest cities in America to raids on small towns in the Middle East.
Glorious.
Clovis could not have asked for a better performance from his unthinking pawns.
His gamble with Morocco had paid off. The little incident with Valentin had been a temporary embarrassment, but Morocco was now a proud and "fully independent" client state of the Triumvirate, with a completely friendly government. Agreements for trade, military bases, and training had been inked and signed – all with Valentin's tacit oversight and approval.
Truthfully, Clovis felt that the whole incident still had made the man suspicious, but he'd successfully maneuvered around it, and, for now, Valentin was a contained issue. Perhaps that would change, but he would deal with it when it arose. One thing he secretly delighted in was seeing the reaction from the Ghost when he told Valentin about one attack or another, and Valentin's subsequent righteous anger.
Yes, the little Ghost clearly bristled. It was subtle, but Clovis could tell it was uncomfortable. It was like a little secret game they played. Valentin didn't know about the terrorist who also had a Ghost, and Clovis suspected that he hadn't been told. He wondered how he'd react if he heard about the Traveler implicitly condoning the attacks that were happening.
A trump card, one to keep for a moment of true crisis.
Although, as he read through the reports, he couldn't deny that there had been an operational shift in this 'Resistance'. Pure terror attacks were effectively non-existent now – the traditional ones, at least. Most of the attacks now targeted infrastructure, power grids, water plants, dams, other physical locations of importance. The second major category was military targets, usually soldiers on patrol or guard. Finally, they had begun more obviously targeting government and law enforcement personnel, technically civilians, but objectively state-connected. Usually they were precise, very targeted, but some attacks did have collateral damage.
A restriction enforced by the Traveler, or an evolution of tactics?
Not that it mattered, it played out exactly how he needed it to. Every law enforcement and intelligence agency was working overtime, and there wasn't even a need to play the books and let some attacks accidentally happen. The sheer number of attacks being detected and executed meant it was impossible to stop all of them.
A lesser man would be afraid of the numbers, perhaps wondering if the terrorist threat was more widespread and sustained than anticipated. Clovis was not concerned, as he knew exactly why these attacks were happening in such a volume. The terrorists had come to the conclusion that, if they did not act now, they would be defeated as the technological gap widened.
For them, this was literally do or die. They couldn't hold back anymore, they had no choice.
And, so, they revealed themselves, their true strength and numbers. Mistakes would follow, connections would be made, and they would be systematically destroyed.
Of course, that didn't stop controlling measures from being implemented. Luka was making sure the actually damaging ones were being stopped, while the less effective ones were given a lower priority. If a low-ranking bureaucrat perished in a targeted killing, that was unfortunate, but replaceable. A power grid was much more impactful and expensive, by comparison.
Ultimately, the terrorists would not leave a permanent mark. Every day, for each successful attack, many were foiled. They had yet to strike the foundation of power itself, and Clovis doubted they ever would. They would continue on their path and burn themselves out – or be put down.
And their actions were leading to some very interesting connections.
He took out a piece of paper, and, with a pen in hand, began writing, a satisfied smile on his face. The investigations the Triumvirate had conducted into the various companies tangibly connected to the Resistance had borne significant fruit, enough that it might be enough to bring the rest of the world to heel.
Hundreds of shell companies, known and unknown shipments to known terrorist groups or fronts, near-confirmation of British and Israeli influence in the highest echelons of leadership. What they had learned would be enough to shake the business world to its core. It was time for a summit of sorts, one between the Triumvirate and the rest of the world, to decide the path Humanity would walk.
Taking down the British would be a triumph like no other, and it was a feeling he drew upon as he wrote a letter addressed to the Queen herself. The Royal Family retained a sizable amount of influence, and had been more willing to use their powers to limit the Soviet expansion. The Prime Minister was a mere figurehead, and he would not bother with pawns.
King and Queen on a board of disguised pieces.
One move to signal checkmate.
This letter would be the signal, the prelude to the trap.
With a final signature, he folded the letter up, sealed it, and set it on the edge of his desk, making a mental note to deposit it at the end of the day. President Quinn was sending a similar letter to Canada. Israel, they would not bother with, as he suspected that it would become irrelevant once the British capitulated. Isolated, abandoned, and forgotten by their allies, Israel was just a state with a nuclear weapon.
Certainly nothing to scoff at, but Clovis was prepared to call the bluff of the rogue state.
And, if it wasn't a bluff?
Well, a city and a few million casualties would be a small price to pay for planetary unification – and an end to the Israeli terror state.
He leaned back, and, with a press of a few buttons from a remote, shut off the screens. That was enough foreign policy matters for the day, it was time to focus on more interesting developments – namely, those from the science departments, who, despite the threat of terrorism, were hard at work.
New discoveries, theories, and prototypes were being made on a daily basis. The trove of knowledge the Traveler provided was truly groundbreaking, and he would certainly be eternally thankful for it. There were civilian applications, of course, prosthetics were becoming perfected and energy would become near-free within the next year, which was to say nothing of the advances in medical technology and computers that the consumer market was eating up.
All side projects, when compared to the ones which truly mattered.
The Warmind Project was continuing, and preliminary simulations were showing promising results. Far from anything resembling an intelligence, but it was a start – and the components were starting to be manufactured, preparing the infrastructure for certain Warminds which would have…additional applications.
He hadn't lied to Valentin when he'd been given the tour, nor was Ana aware either, but the intentions for some of the Warminds hadn't been completely true. Of course, the intention was simply for their true purposes to be a side effect that would come into being. He would never have intended such a measure from the start.
He was only a man, after all.
The Deep Stone Crypt was beginning construction, and research regarding the Exo Project was also proceeding. The code name for the facility had caught on with surprising speed, to the point where it was likely everyone would just call it the Deep Stone Crypt instead of a more 'official' name. Clovis didn't particularly care too much, so long as it produced what it needed to.
The Traveler also continued to hop around the system, seemingly oblivious (or intentionally silent) regarding events happening on Earth. He wasn't foolish enough to believe she was blind – the Ghosts were her eyes and ears after all – but she'd clearly decided she was going to let whatever happened take its course.
Smart – though he was suspicious as to her true intentions.
She was by Venus now, and Clovis was certainly interested to see what she'd do with it. Mars was a cold dead rock, but Venus was acid and poison. What could possibly be done to improve that? Then again…the entity commanded her brand of paracausality, and, with that, anything was possible.
And speaking of paracausality…
He pulled up a recently written paper on the subject. He scanned through it, not understanding the intricate science, though he could comprehend the abstract and its implications. Paper by paper, day by day, this Light was being understood more and more clearly, bringing the secrets of reality itself closer to their grasp. Today it was theory, soon it would be implementation.
It was only a matter of time.
The throne mankind had been seeking, that ever elusive majesty they bowed and knelt to, it was in sight. For now, they were ants, picking at the table scraps, gleefully taking the pittances reality offered. Once that throne of reality was theirs, though...
A self-satisfied smile broke out on his face.
Homo Deus had a nice ring to it, Clovis mused.
The plan proceeded.
TRIUMVIRATE INTELLIGENCE COMMAND | TAMPA | CONFEDERATION OF AMERICAN STATES
Hayden Fox didn't like to consider himself a conspiracy theorist, even if, by the nature of his job, some conspiracy was expected. Even though he knew the term had its origins in obfuscating certain unscrupulous connections from the public, it was toxic enough for him to avoid it. At the same time, he was, by nature, somewhat paranoid and naturally skeptical.
One would make a poor intelligence director if they weren't. Or a dead one.
Nonetheless, he considered himself a fairly reasonable person, if not necessarily objective. He didn't rush to conclusions, he didn't make decisions until reviewing the available evidence, and solicited other opinions to gain a more holistic outlook. All responsible actions, and, the vast majority of the time, it directed him towards a clearly optimal decision.
Of course, all of those were related to subjects which directly had to do with his job, whereas the thought that had rooted itself in his mind was more problematic.
It was a buildup of small things, things that he realized had been accumulating over months, and which had only occurred to him today, a dam which had burst open and inflicted upon him the curse of uncertainty. It was a series of subtle, nigh-unnoticeable things. Most notably? He wasn't being talked to as much.
There had been a certain workflow he had become accustomed to, one which had rapidly ramped up when the Traveler had appeared, and had tapered back off to pre-Traveler levels more recently. Or so he had thought. He'd thought he was going crazy, but, looking back through his schedule, the numbers didn't lie.
There were fewer scheduled meetings with the various agencies and agency heads had been speaking to him less and less. It still happened, but it was definitely far less frequent. Instead of every few days, it would be once a week. Several meetings were consolidated to 'save time'. Others were canceled as things were being 'reassessed'.
It had all happened over a course of months, and it had only been by chance that he'd thought about this at all – because, ironically, the amount of time he had to himself now was large enough that he'd actively thought this isn't right. After that it was only a matter of realizing why he felt this way.
Not that he was being idle, of course. There was always work to do, but there had been a certain contingency he'd prepared for, which considered a scenario where Triumvirate Intelligence was slowly cut out from the wider dialogue. The difference was that, in that scenario, it was because the agencies or nations weren't speaking to each other.
The Triumvirate Intelligence Service was important because it facilitated those crucial inter-agency channels that allowed nations to work things out. They were the first line of dialogue, the diplomatic mediator to help solve disputes of intelligence. If countries, if agencies didn't talk to each other, it spelled dark days ahead.
The problem? That wasn't happening.
In fact, Fox was fairly convinced that the agencies were cooperating even more than before. The issue was that the Triumvirate Intelligence Service was no longer a facilitator, it had become a middleman, one which certain nations seemed to want to cut out completely. Normally, that wouldn't have been an issue, but that would require that he be informed of developments.
And he really was not.
It wasn't enough to immediately raise suspicion, but he was only informed after the fact now. The whole situation with Morocco was one where the TIS hadn't even been consulted, instead being treated as a joint CIA-KGB operation – ignoring that the TIS historically was responsible for facilitating joint operations like that.
He did not like being sidelined, and the implications of why they were doing that were even more concerning. It seemed fairly straightforward, but he was wary of properly vocalizing it. If there was a culprit, it was probably Clovis Bray. He'd emerged as the ringleader of the Triumvirate, and he had likely designated Fox as a troublemaker.
For what though? Fox didn't know, and he genuinely couldn't think of a real reason. He'd been doing this job much longer than Bray had been General Secretary, and it wasn't as though he'd done anything but maintain a professional relationship. Of course…there was another reason he might have done this.
That reason was currently hovering by the window, peering out over the skyline.
The General Secretary clearly trusted the Traveler about as far as he could throw her, and liked her just as much. His dossier indicated that he was a very private person, and the Ghosts were the closest things to perfect spy machines. Bray likely assumed (incorrectly) that he was now compromised in some way because of his association with Watcher-7.
It wasn't as though he'd tried hiding it. He'd reported the contact after the first encounter, and continued to note whenever it showed up. It was likely a combination of factors beyond just the Ghost, but Fox felt there was enough evidence to suggest that he – and by extension, the TIS – was being cut out from critical Triumvirate decisions.
Normally, there would be a process for addressing this, but he was unsure he should pursue it. Bray was a conniving and manipulative bastard, and he was unlikely to be cooperative, or worse, he was better at covering up whatever he was doing. It was tempting to let things continue as they were.
And if the Triumvirate wanted to try cutting him out, fine. There were certain measures he could take. Legal ones. Well, technically. He imagined that the General Secretary assumed one of two things about him – that he wouldn't notice this, or that he would notice and take action. What would he do if he pretended to be the former, but carry out the latter?
Unfortunate for Clovis that he had contingencies for situations like this.
He picked up his phone. There was a brief answer on the other end. "Yes. Send up Operative Bray."
It would be risky employing her. But one of Clovis's vulnerabilities was his family – so long as he trusted them. And unlike her father, Elsie was far more empathetic and genuine than he was – her willing recruitment had shown that. Watcher-7 floated over. "What are you planning?"
"To cover an intelligence gap." Fox answered.
"Concerning?"
"Several things," Fox said, lifting a beige file. "Mostly concerning the Warmind and Exo Projects. And what appears to be a concerted effort to slowly excise themselves from the TIS, but that doesn't concern Bray. That is something I'll address in other ways."
Minutes passed, and, soon enough, Elise Bray had entered his office, seeming slightly nonplussed by the sudden invitation. "Operative Bray, take a seat," he motioned opposite his desk.
"Of course, Director," she said, taking a seat. "Is there a problem?"
"Yes, but not with you," he said, pressing his fingertips together as he maintained eye contact. "I suspect you have heard rumors about how we've been behind the curve in terms of intelligence recently. I've had suspicions, and I've found enough evidence to confirm that the Triumvirate appears to be slowly cutting us out of the loop on important matters."
She blinked. "That's…they can do that?"
"Technically? No, there are certain requirements," he paused for effect. "Practically? Yes, they absolutely can. It is subtle, but noticed, and that is unacceptable for the Triumvirate, and for us." Here came the risk. "I do not know if you have guessed the culprit, but this decision can only come from four people. General Secretary Bray has taken a leadership position among the Triumvirate heads of state, and he is likely behind this decision."
To her credit, Elsie didn't react with outrage, but was understandably surprised. "Why? Are you absolutely sure of that?"
"Yes, I am." Fox nodded. "As to why? I have my suspicions – mostly concerning our friendly Ghost." He nodded to Watcher-7 – it wasn't especially a secret that the Ghost had been hanging around the Intelligence Service, there had been some amusing, initially panicked, calls at first, but, over the weeks, people had accepted it. "I do not know his true reasons, but the fact is that, not only are intelligence gaps developing, but this is a breakdown in one of the longest-established institutions within the Triumvirate. We existed before the Triumvirate officially was founded – it would reflect poorly on anyone if we were to be covertly excluded."
"What do you want me to do?" She asked. "Talk to him? This is likely a mistake of some kind, I'm sure of it. Clovis loves the Triumvirate, he would never intentionally damage it."
He agreed with her to some degree – but Clovis's idea of the Triumvirate was likely different than her own. Clovis was playing at a different game – one he could not see right now. "No, that isn't your place, and I would prefer not giving him more reasons to cut me out," he answered. "But I am authorizing action to fill intelligence gaps, especially as they relate to the security of the Triumvirate. We are supposed to be the secretkeepers of the Triumvirate – and we are being cut out of crucial projects."
He pushed over the file. "Have you heard of the Warmind and Exo Projects?"
"Only in passing," Elsie said, taking the file and looking through it. "Major Triumvirate initiatives – BrayTech is involved in both of them. Ana is a project lead on the Warmind Project."
"They are – and a number of other corporations linked to Triumvirate nations are involved as well," Fox confirmed with a nod. "What necessitates intervention is that, while the documents we have access to appear complete, there are major gaps. Chunks of operational infrastructure that are crucial to achieve the functionality their objectives state are missing. I confirmed this with our technical experts. They've never seen projects like this be so compartmentalized, and, while we can attribute some of it to forgetfulness, due to the sheer number of groups, one could be forgiven for thinking this is covering up something more malicious."
Elsie looked up warily. "You think that…they're hiding something?"
"Potentially, I'm giving them the benefit of the doubt," Fox said, drumming his fingers on the table. "Specifically, there is a software gap on MONROE, and a massive question mark on whatever SHIVA even is for the Warmind Project. Many of the details on the supposed "Deep Stone Crypt" are also missing."
"Ok," she said. "If you're giving this to me…"
"I believe you can be trusted to do the right thing," he said bluntly. "For the Triumvirate. I know Clovis is your father, but even he is not above the law – or do you disagree?"
"No, of course not," she quickly said. "I do think there's more to this; he wouldn't take this without reason."
"I have no doubt he has reason, I have doubt that his reasons are acceptable. I hope I am wrong, but, if the Triumvirate will not cooperate, these measures will be taken."
"And…I guess you want me to be covert?" She asked.
"You are a Bray, your sister is the Project Lead on the RASPUTIN Warmind, and you can enter BrayTech as you want," Fox said. "If absolutely necessary, you have legal authority to take what you need. It will alert Bray, but I'd rather he be furious and we know what's going on than remain in the dark."
"Ok, I'll do it, sir," she said with a sharp nod. "I don't know how long it will take…"
"Take what time is necessary, and directly inform me when you find something important," he said. "This is not a simple assignment, but I trust you can complete it."
"Without question, sir."
"Good. Dismissed."
Once the door behind her closed, he laced his fingers together. "If I could ask a favor, Ghost?"
"Of what?"
"Make sure that no one interrupts her mission. I wouldn't put it past Bray to try something if he learns."
"Of course, she will encounter no danger."
With that out of the way, he reached into his cabinet and pulled out the larger question mark that had arisen after some digging. It was large enough that it made even the Exo Project look miniscule by comparison. Hundreds of different groups, from all Triumvirate nations, each focusing on an extremely small-scale project, which almost certainly coalesced into some kind of hierarchy.
What that hierarchy looked like, though, was an open question right now, and the Triumvirate was being coy about it.
The only clues?
It was directly connected to the Triumvirate Paracausal Studies.
And it was code-named DÀINSLEIF.
CHAMBERS OF THE GRAND AYATOLLAH | TEL AVIV | ISRAEL
His stomach growled as he peacefully counted his praises on the prayer beads. The hunger was an almost calming reminder of a time past, of when he'd hid in the dark, his young frame emaciated, his arms and legs skeletal.
Among the rats and vermin he'd crawled, in the trash and bins he'd scavenged, and in the dark, lightless nights he'd shiver and whimper, his tears long dried on his cheeks.
Then, he'd tried to steal money from an old, white-bearded man in fancy clothes. It was the greatest failure of his life. He'd needed money to buy food with, so it was only natural to steal.
There was only a single mistake he'd made. Hamaza had tried to pickpocket the Grand Ayatollah on his stroll. Well, he had not been Grand Ayatollah at the time, of course. He'd been merely an influential preacher under the Shah's rule, though he would one day be the face of the Revolution. And he, a street urchin, had tried to steal money from the one who would briefly become the leader of their nation. A title, responsibility, and burden that he now carried..
It was not fate that he was where he was. It wasn't chance or coincidence.
Hamaza smiled involuntarily.
It was God's will, and he'd always did his best to live up to it. Kindness should only be repaid with kindness, that is what he had been taught, what he deeply, innately believed. There should be no reward for good but good.
Should.
An ideal that had been difficult to live up to - impossible, if he was being honest. Even during the Revolution he had tried, even against the bloodlust of the crowds which called for justice, but truthfully demanded blood. Blood not undeserved, yet blood nonetheless. It had been a lesson, one he had carried with him.
The ideal was rarely the reality of this Earth.
Maybe it was the sheer pettiness of their struggles, of the faithful fighting the faithful. Maybe they had deserved it, being so willing to spill the blood of the faithful in dispute, instead of spilling words and wisdom, yet, there had been hope, for a time. He remembered it vividly, clearly. Then, just as quickly as they had achieved liberation, it had come crashing down.
The Revolution, intended to liberate the people from the Western puppet, had been the simple excuse the Triumvirate had been looking for to sic the Indians upon them. The short-lived Islamic Republic was hardly the only thing to have fallen in the wake of the Indian march.
Mecca. Lost, taken, plundered and savaged.
Medina. Burned and occupied, the mosques demolished and the universities destroyed.
Tehran. Gone beneath the marching feet of tyrants.
A remorseful chuckle slipped past his lips. A pittance of pity for the fate of the Arabian monarchs flickered in his heart. The Indians had made an example of their resistance. From executing the captive Ayatollahs to parading the captured House of Saud through New Delhi to a jeering crowd before a public execution. A rare moment of martyrdom from their ilk. The Indians had certainly known the reaction it would provoke. Perhaps that was the point, or perhaps they had not cared.
He had never pondered it overmuch, such thoughts seemed pointless, these days.
He'd hoped, hoped beyond hope, hoped for the first time in years, that there could be a sanctioned path to walk. A chance to return what was taken, without becoming that which they fought.
That chance was gone. As gone as the palaces and grand mosques.
Now they were back to where they had begun.
Hamaza idly mused that, technically, this was a return to the status quo which had dominated prior to everything changing. Yet, it felt like an inversion, a backslide into something worse. A failure. Perhaps because he had seen, he had known, that there could have been change. There could have been another path to victory over the Triumvirate. A slower, less violent path, but a viable one.
Those hopes were now dashed.
Then again, it wasn't quite a return to the status quo – it was more aggressive. The Resistance was mobilized and motivated in a way he hadn't seen in a very long time. A sense of grim reservation had settled upon all of them, himself included. Sources, operatives, and simple logic indicated that, if something didn't happen in the next few years…
Well, there wouldn't be a Resistance left at all.
It was sobering.
Right now, it was still calm as he sat outside his home in Tel Aviv, the balcony overlooking the bustling streets as they were winding down. Most everyone was gone, returned to their home countries or places of operation. Liberman was here somewhere, likely giving a brief to the Prime Minister. Jilla was leading the offensive in the Indian theatre. Arya was dealing with a crisis where the Triumvirate was penetrating the vast British business network, and Amjah was managing strikes in the greater Middle East.
Ryan was working overtime, finding recruits and hastening evacuations from the growing violence in India itself, where Isaiah was…well, back to his old missions. It had been difficult to see the brief sense of hope and optimism be snuffed out. Regardless, Hamaza was proud that he'd at least tried, and, hopefully, it would stay with him.
Isaiah had had a brief spark of faith in something, a spark that still smoldered within both of them.
Hope did not die, the dream still breathed and gasped in its struggles. They were not done.
Not yet. Not all hope was lost, despite how it seemed. They'd faced the odds time and time again, and they could do it yet more.
Fate may have been written on the heavenly tablets, but God did not give a soul more than it could take. He knew that, he knew as the blind knew darkness. So, come what may, they would resist until their last breaths.
For, if not them, who could? Who could stand against injustice and tyranny, if not the faithful and scorned?
No one, he knew.
The stories were frequent and frightening. Mass law enforcement recruitment. Patrols of armed soldiers in the streets and cities. The Triumvirate media puppets blasting propaganda, rumors of new algorithms designed to suppress dissent and tighten control. People suspected of harboring alternate or subversive views being abducted or brought in for questioning.
Not universal to one nation. All of them.
More troubling rumors circled. Pressure, through both diplomatic and economic means, was being leveraged against the British and Canadians. There were preparations for the Canadians to submit completely, which would be a blow to the British economy, and, subsequently, the Resistance. Would that happen?
He didn't know. It was a worrying development nonetheless.
Pressure was gathering, and dark clouds were on the horizon. This would be the most difficult period of the Resistance since he had formally founded it. In those years, they'd come farther than anyone – the Triumvirate included – had likely thought possible. It was filled with men and women fighting for something far greater than themselves. Independence, freedom, God, virtues that the Triumvirate couldn't truly pretend to hold claim to.
The jihad was one that would, one day, end, and he could only hope he lived to see it. What a glorious sight would it be, that blood-soaked dawn rising when they no longer had to live in fear.
When Mecca would be returned.
When Medina would be reconquered.
When the streets of Tehran would fill with the cheers and tears of a people liberated.
If he could not live to see that sight, then he would die so that others may.
There were still pockets of hope. Small ones, but they were there.
The Soviet Union's greatest poster child had outright condemned the Moroccan Annexation, and had likely been responsible for preventing it from becoming a full client state. He was still taken by the propaganda, but there were cracks beginning to show. He wasn't the only one. Other Soviets who'd been part of the Terra One mission were raising small, but notable issues with various actions.
Even in America and India, there were stories about people interceding in front of lynch mobs and zealous law enforcement. Local stories that had no media coverage, but verified by eyewitnesses of the Wheel, Star, and Sterling Cells. All of them the same, people with the Ghosts around them.
Most interesting? The Chinese Empire was one of the hardest to penetrate, but it was impossible to stop the rumors of a particularly troublesome individual who had made enemies of the Communist Party – members of which had tried to kill him. Ironically, said individual belonged to one of the most entrenched Chinese families.
Fang Sov.
Difficult as it was to believe that such a person could persist in mainland China, of all places, there were too many verified reports to dismiss. Even as the Triumvirate tightened its grip, it seemed to be losing its control over the people who could make a difference. Slowly but surely, he believed it was happening.
It was a matter of time – and taking initiative.
He had, of course, wondered to himself why an entity like the Traveler, who purportedly was a just and caring entity, would ignore what was happening on Earth, as if it could not see the injustice and evil the Triumvirate perpetuated. He was no longer certain that it was apathetic. Not completely. There was a plan in place here, perhaps it was a coincidence, but perhaps the Traveler did not act because it knew something.
Traveler. The Light. The Darkness. A thing of greatness bending the natural world like clay, breathing its power into the dead soil that it may spring to life. He was not fooled, the world was not so simple that it could be explained in 'Light' and 'Darkness.'
It was preying on them, on their natural inclination for good and kindness, giving them a story with kernels of truth to guide them into its designs.
It could not be trusted. No creature of such power could be trusted, and it was not God, not their maker. He would give it no faith it did not deserve – but perhaps the alien had a greater role in the divine plan taking place. He would need to read and pray – and, in the present, prepare. Freedom would not come for those who did not act.
But that would be tomorrow. The sun was setting, and his body was weary. With some effort, the Grand Ayatollah stood, and exited the balcony, returning to his room. As he passed his TV, he flicked it on. As always, it opened to the news, an American station.
The headline made his heart skip a beat.
EUPHRATES RIVER DRY - Territorial Dispute over Mines Ends in 99 Men Dead.
He felt his mouth go dry. With a hesitant push, he pushed the TV's volume up.
The news anchor droned on and on as Hamaza listened with growing dread.
"The state of the Euphrates river has long been a cause for concern in the Middle Eastern region. The dams have caused it to dry recently," the anchor shuffled his papers. "The damage to local vegetation, farmlands and pastures has been heavy. However, the economic downturn has just had a fortunate upswing."
"As of yesterday morning the dried river has revealed approximately seven billion dollars worth of minerals in initial prospecting." Images of covered up dead bodies came. "The initial outbreak of violence has resulted in ninety-nine casualties, with three private military companies directly involved. The situation was quickly resolved by newly appointed acting Chief of Middle Eastern Affairs, General Arjun Gala."
The news anchor smiled. "Now we go to General Arjun. Hello General, what can you tell us about your..."
The man that came on screen made Hamaza's heart stop, causing him to miss the last part of the sentence. His eyes locked onto the man's features, seeing them and feeling a strange dread pooling in him.
One of his eyes was oversized, grape-like, and popping out. His other eye stood out, though, milky white and blind as it was. His smile was crooked, and his almost bald head was covered by a combover. Everything about the man was unpleasant.
Except his eye.
His singular deformed eye held a look he knew all too well. A look of exceptional intelligence, will, and desire.
"To aid the citizenry in living their life unhindered by insurgents and terrorists," Arjun replied, speaking accented English, as was typical when addressing an international audience. "Yesterday's incident was an exhibit in the great issues in governing this region. Many areas are thought of as…"
Arjun paused.
Hamaza licked his dry lips, feeling his guts churn.
"...free of laws, perhaps, is a good term. This understanding extends over much of the region." Arjun continued, his smile displaying a missing tooth.
"Yes, of course," The news anchor said, ever deferential, as all mainstream Triumvirate media were. "If I may, what will be your primary focus during your tenure over the troubled region?"
Arjun's head tilted slightly, his blind eye rolling left and right."It is quite simple - Bring security and safety to those who need and require it. No more, and no less." Arjun's eye seemed to be looking into Hamaza, the smile seeming to mock him. He knew that he was being watched by those he had clearly been sent to pacify.
"You did inform us, before the show, that you had an announcement to make?" The anchor prodded.
"I most certainly did," Arjun's ugly lips contorted into a smile, and his eye gleamed in delight. "I'm happy to announce the formalization of my office, and of our newly created task force, the Special Anti-Terrorism Garrison. Formally known as STAG."
The anchor blinked, and nodded along. "And, if I may, what can you reveal to our anxious viewers about it?"
The gleam in his eye sharpened; glistened. "That we've fully begun operations in cooperation with Triumvirate intelligence agencies as of-" He checked his watch. "Ten minutes ago, and we will be continuing our heavy operations until the security and prosperity of the region is guaranteed. To the citizens of the Greater Indian Middle East, on behalf of the Republic of Indian Territories, we appreciate your full and complete cooperation."
Hamaza knew then, fully and truly, that the final struggle against the Triumvirate had begun.
That night, he did not sleep.
TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER XIII | HUNGER
