June 30, 2042
Caracas, New Order Venezuela
"So…" Alfred mused, mouth half full with the Arepas[1] he'd ordered for lunch. He chewed and swallowed before continuing. "This mist… fog… whatever. It hasn't gone away?"
Elisa Paez, or the country of New Order Venezuela, nodded, eating her own Arepas more slowly and politely.
"No," she replied, looking out the window of the little café that they'd taken a spot in. Looking past the construction in the city that was replacing many of modern-era buildings with hybrid ones, and the cars that lacked wheels and simply hovered a foot or so off the ground, there was a slight gray fog winding its way across the ground and floating through the air. "We have no idea where it's coming from. We suspect hybrid energy to be the cause, but you can never be sure. It hasn't really been anything but a nuisance, but it's been a decade and nothing has changed."
"Venezuela suggested that you might be able to help," Mauro Duarte, or Brazil (a darker skinned man with curly dark brown hair) added in, picking at his own food but not eating. "You were crucial in helping China clear his air pollution. I know that was during the modern era, but you're the closest guy to having any kind of experience with this that we've got."
Alfred shrugged. Elisa kept her eyes on the elder man for a moment before taking another bite, tapping her fingers on the table.
Besides Africa, of course, South America had been the region to profit the most off of the Hybrid Revolution of the past decade. Venezuela had found herself the regional leader of the continent, with Brazil slowly beginning to catch up behind her. Caracas had become, in her own humble opinion, one of the most beautiful cities in the world, long recovered from the country's depression under socialism in the early 2000's. She'd even started her own alliance, the New South American Order (or the NSAO), just two years earlier. Both Argentina (currently going through a peaceful set of reforms to root out her rather rampant corruption and thus unable to come to this meeting) and Brazil had joined. They still remained very close to NATO, with Venezuela remaining part of the alliance, but preferred to stay as their own entity to protect their interests in South America.
"I'll do my best," Alfred conceded, nearly finished with his lunch. "But I can't promise much at this point." His eyes perked up, as if remembering something. "Hey, Aren't you excited for 2044?! The UN's finally approved you to host the Olympics!"
Elisa blushed furiously as Mauro smiled softly. "You were… very kind," she mumbled back a reply. Alfred grinned.
The 2044 Summer Olympics had originally been planned to be hosted in Richmond, Virginia, but due to recent events (namely America's annexation and the mysterious deaths of Namibia and Botswana), he'd given up his bid on hosting two years earlier. He'd instead sponsored Caracas as the city to host, much to the rest of the world's shock. America had helped a lot in securing the Olympics for her capital, and Venezuela couldn't help but feel grateful for it. With the rapid reconstruction of the city, the companies necessary already been in town to build the Olympic Village and other venues, and the attention would hopefully aid the economy and help the NSAO as whole gain more worldwide recognition. That was honestly just the kind of person Alfred was, and why she thought so highly of him.
But as much as Venezuela was grateful to her northern ally, she couldn't help but feel like something was up. Alfred wasn't typically a manipulative person, but something seemed off about how he had been so eager to change locations at the last minute. Brazil had even initially been against accepting the offer out of suspicion. But she'd taken it, and it seemed whatever had prompted America to make this odd decision seemed to be a strictly internal affair.
Still, she worried a bit. She quite liked Alfred as a person and liked to think that they were friends now, and knew that the American was a lot more clever than he tended to let to let on.
"My people and I are very excited," she admitted. Alfred finished the last of his arepas and leaned back. "Thank you for the opportunity."
"No problemo!"
Mauro rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Can we expect your teams soon?"
"Definitely," Alfred nodded. "Now, I'm spying some rather curious onlookers who've been staring at us for the last couple moments. I move to leave before we get stormed by the paparazzi. Again."
This time Mauro did laugh.
"You are a bit of an odd one, Alfred," he remarked, standing. Alfred and Elisa followed suit.
"We can go over to my place," Elisa offered. "There we can finish up the specifics…"
January 4, 2043
Havana, Cuba
"You know, if you really just wanted to complain about the new world order, I would've just called you over the phone," Carmen Paez, or Columbia, huffed, shifting in her seat. She and Carlos Machado, the personification of Cuba, were sitting in the Cuban's living room, which consisted of several lavish sofas and a television. The latter of the two was taking a drag on whatever the newest strain of cigarettes were these days, while the former sat across from him, relaxed.
Cuba shot the South American a deadpan look.
"I'm not complaining," he huffed, shooting Columbia a long-suffering look.
"Yes, you are," Came her reply. "I mean, I get it. We're all a little bit upset that Venezuela is refusing to accept us into the NSAO. But if you're only going to complain, I might as well have stayed home."
"You're insufferable."
Columbia grinned. "That's kind of my job these days, my friend. Now, what do you really want to discuss with me?"
Cuba took a long drag before continuing, now much more serious.
"Loathe as I am to admit it, I do believe that my… complaints about Venezuela has been a factor in me asking you to come," He admitted. "Though I would like to believe that the consequences of doing nothing about our current situation would be rather dire. Ever since World War III… no, ever since her revolution, Venezuela's been getting all close and cuddly with America. Trade deals, joining NATO, fighting in World War III itself, even forming the NSAO. It's all aimed at forming closer ties with America. I'm honestly astonished that Brazil and Argentina are just going along with it."
"Why am I hearing this again?" Columbia questioned, shifting in her seat. "You forget how well I know my little sister. I did raise her, you know. She obviously has a crush on America. A passing phase. She's only gone this far in acting on it because it's beneficial to her people."
"Perhaps it's only a passing crush, but it's having long-lasting consequences. Just look at the NSAO. America may not be a superpower any longer, but he's most certainly a regional one, and their exclusive trading deals with him have been specifically targeted to leave us out. I mean, they think they can get rid of this fog with just a couple American scientists. They don't even realize the full extent of America's fall."
Colombia blinked, mildly surprised. "Full extent?"
Cuba took another drag, raising an eyebrow at her. "I'm not surprised you don't know. His government's keeping it very hush-hush. You remember when America gave up his bid to host the Olympics?"
"And gave it Venezuela? It's hard not to forget."
"He didn't host it because he couldn't afford it."
Colombia froze. America couldn't… afford it? That was like saying the sky was pink. "America" and "not affordable" just didn't go in the same sentence.
Cuba pressed on once it was apparent she wasn't going to respond. He placed his phone flat on the table, where it projected the files proving his claim into the air.
"America went deep into debt funding the war against New Abyssinia. Unlike the last few wars, he couldn't just make a profit selling weapons or supplies; he was putting in more manpower and tech into the fight than any other country, save for the African nations involved, of course. His losses, especially in the first couple years, were just as high. The loss of PXT 2020 was especially devastating." Cuba waved a hand, and the files changed. "Post-war, most of his time was and is spent rebuilding Africa—the Allies burned down a lot more villages than they saved, and Algeria, Libya, and Egypt weren't going to be able to make the postwar years without heavy foreign investment."
Finally Columbia found her voice. "And Europe?"
"A bit too caught up in the Hybrid Revolution to really notice. Save for Spain and Germany, they didn't really help out."
Despite the situation, Columbia couldn't help but be impressed. Even if it had cost him more than met the eye, America had funded WWIII and just afterwards buoyed the economies of Northern Africa almost entirely with the force of his own. It was honestly impressive.
Meanwhile, Cuba continued his explanation.
"And with other countries finding little reason to invest in or loan money to him—the annexation of Namibia and Botswana dented America's GDP and it has yet to reach prewar levels—he's starting to flounder. Thus giving up the Olympics and having such exclusive trading deals with HERA and NSAO. It costs millions that he just doesn't have. At this point he's taking what he can get."
"How did you get this information?" Columbia questioned, feeling quite intimidated. "I mean, there have been rumors about America's financial problems, but those have been popping up ever since the 1890s. And who exactly knows?"
"Besides the American Government? A defector passed this information on to me, so him, my president, me, you, and probably Italy Romano if America's investments in Libya back when it was still an Italian colony are anything to go by."
"And why tell me?"
Cuba took the cigar out of his mouth and flicked some ashes into the ashtray.
"The NSAO have tied themselves to a crumbling nation. America may or may not recover; right now, whether he does doesn't matter." He grinned, eyes flashing with an emotion Columbia couldn't identify. "There's a vacuum in South America now. Venezuela's being highly selective with who she trades with, America's paralyzed, and half of Central America is still running on modern technology. Mexico and Peru are floundering as they combat the cartels and corruption."
"You haven't answered my question."
"You and I form a new alliance. A New Order, you could say. We offer Latin America a second option to combat capitalism. We aid Latin America, gain enough power to combat the NSAO, and profit. Simple enough. We don't have to be weak, Columbia. With Hybrid Energy, any country can become a world power."
Columbia paused. It was tempting, she had to admit. Peru and Mexico weren't the only ones struggling against the drug cartels, and a chance to profit and stop the problem, coming on a silver platter like this? It seemed almost too good to be true.
And it was. There were certainly risks. Forming an alliance to rival the NSAO would drastically increase tensions across the continent, and if Cuba was lying about the US or they didn't get influence over Latin America, then everything would fall apart.
But what was world politics—and life in general—without a little risk?
"Very well," she relented, holding out a hand. Cuba shook it. "I'll go along with this if my government can validate this information. But keep in mind, I have my own plans and like to go through with them without much interference."
"As long as we are both willing to sacrifice," Cuba replied. "First off, I have a plan to remove this fog. I have to admit, however, some nations will hate us for what I plan to do, and it is riskier than most of my ideas, but if it works it'll get us an immediate foothold in South America."
Something twinged in Columbia's stomach, almost like a warning, but she ignored it.
"Tell me what to do, and I'll consider it."
April 19, 2043
RAAF Base Williamtown, Australia
Australia, or Jett Kirkland (whichever name you prefer) grinned, adjusting the collar of his uniform as he strode down the runway of the national military base. Wearing the standard blue camouflage that had become the staple of the RAAF[2] and a pair of sunglasses to protect himself from the sharp fall sunlight, he, to the casual onlooker, just seemed to be another soldier off to fly in the training run scheduled in an hour or so.
Humming to himself, the 20-year-old male waved to some passing officers as he approached a large warehouse at the end of one of the runways. Standing perhaps 50 meters in front of him were two more men. The first was a 17-year-old teenager who looked much too young to be given access to the current area where they stood, but his navy blue commander's uniform, stapled with several World War II era medals fastened to the front, singled him out as Zachary Kirkland, Jett's younger adoptive brother and the personification of New Zealand. The second was another of his (many) adoptive siblings, an African woman in a uniform similar to New Zealand's, save for a short-sleeved shirt and folded hat.
"Mella! Zach!" Jett waved to them, skipping a step and speeding up to meet his siblings. Zach shook his head, laughing shortly to himself as Jett approached, while Melokuhle Gumede (South Africa) just rolled her eyes with a long-suffering sigh. "What's up?"
"My economy," Zach shot back, a twinkle in his eye. He and Jett embraced shortly before Jett caught his brother in a chokehold, forcing him to bend over.
"Last I checked we completely destroyed you in our last rugby game, Kiwi," he shot back as Zach struggled, finally stomping on Jett's foot and forcing him to let go.
"We're at a military base," Zach huffed, re-adjusting his hat. "Do you always have to do that?"
Jett stuck out his tongue. "You started it."
"You two really haven't changed, have you?" Mella chuckled, rolled her eyes. "Absolutely no regard for protocol, and always finding a way to one-up the other."
"Aw, love you too, sis."
"I won the Mandela Challenge Plate[3], too, so stop bullying Zach. You have nothing to say."
Jett narrowed his eyes at his sister. "Okay, that's a low blow. Next time I'm pulling ahead, you know that."
Mella scoffed. "In your dreams, domkop[4]. Now, what's this new invention of yours that I'm hearing so much about? I'm sure you're dying to show it off to me."
Jett grinned, gesturing to the warehouse. "It's right in there. My pride and joy: the Hybrid Meridian 3200. The finest machine I've ever pioneered, and the first Hybrid Energy aircraft meant for long distance travel. And we want you to help us test it."
Mella let out a long breath as they began walking down the runway once again and towards the holding building for the plane.
"It's only a prototype," Zach said. "The only one we have right now. Jett and I had to work together—" he emphasized the word, sending Jett a look. "For over four years to build it. I know you can understand why we don't want to risk losing it."
"It'd be an honor," Mella replied with a friendly smile as they approached the warehouse. Jett flashed his keycard at a guard standing by a regular-sized door off to the side, and he nodded firmly, opening the door for them. "The African Elites have taken all the glory for the continent. It's about time I change that."
They entered the warehouse. Inside, there were several offices and trolleys off to the left, most likely for those in charge of the project and supplying it. To the right was the main chamber, hosting the HM-32, as his people had abbreviated it. It was a sleek plane, not dissimilar to the modern-era jets that most of the world powers still used. However, small tubes lined the outside of the jets, glowing a faint neon blue, with dark spots appearing and disappearing every few seconds. The last of its paint job was being applied, the Australian and New Zealand flags halfway finished as a man carefully painted them on. Mella whistled lowly.
"It is a beauty," she said, taking it in. Jett grinned.
"Yes it is! Now, let me show you the specifics of it."
April 28, 2043
Leh, India
Leh was a small city situated in a high-altitude valley, largely cut off from the world. The frosty Himalayan mountains that rose above the city gave a rustic, homely feel to it. In the Old Town was an old Tibetan-style palace above a bustling bazaar, which could just be seen around the bend of the mountain. As night fell, the lights made it seem as if the city housed embers of a smokeless fire, reaching to the starry sky.
But, if one looked out into one of the smaller, neighboring valleys, they would see a large mining operation taking place. Buildings, hardly a decade old, had sprung up over the area, giving the region an industrial-era look, save for the perpetual smog the had dominated the 19th century. The side of one of these particular mountains had been carved out, and carefully, blocks of black stone, laced with lines of red, were being removed from the mountain.
In a building near these warehouses, close enough to see the operations taking place there, was a young woman. She seemed to be around 19 or 20 years old, and had light brown skin and dark brown hair that lightened near the front (though most of it was covered by a hijab). She wore the common miner's uniform, a bright orange overcoat and cargo pants, as well as white gloves, and was sitting near a window, watching the mining outside almost intensely. She was alone.
And then she wasn't. The door opened, and Rana Jindal entered, dressed in a black dress shirt and slacks. His eyes fell on the young woman, and he scowled for a moment before schooling his features to erase the anger from his expression, closing the door behind him. The woman did not acknowledge his presence.
"Kashmir, I do hope you can explain your way out of this fiasco," India huffed, crossing his arms as he strode towards the woman. As he spoke, her eyes flickered over to him, then back to the mining continuing outside.
"I have an explanation," The Indian territory of Jammu and Kashmir replied softly, clasping her hands together. "I just doubt that it will please you."
India's expression flickered towards a darker anger, but he forced it back down again. "You know, it would do you well to answer one of my questions in a straightforward manner for once. My shipments of Mortantite[5] have stopped, yet, as you can see, the mining operation here is still operating at full capacity. You are also here, instead of at New Delphi like I requested."
Kashmir's lips twitched upwards. "Indeed I am."
"You're stealing the shipments."
"I'm taking what is rightfully mine. Or should I go to the UN and tell them that you aren't disposing of the mineral like you said you would?"
India's eyes flashed, and this time it took a visible effort for him to not lash out at his state. "What I do on my land is none of their concern. If we can figure out how to combine Mortantite with hybrid energy, I could become the world's next superpower and—"
"And what?" Kashmir's head whipped towards India, eyes blazing. "Finally destroy Pakistan, like you've desired for so long? Put my people in the midst of another conflict that would kill thousands? Introduce a weapon similar in destruction to the atomic bomb? I don't think so."
"You cannot tell me what I can or cannot do! I kept you out of Pakistan's grasp during the partition, and this is how you repay me?"
"You made me a center for military and terrorist attacks for the better part of a century. Because of you, my people, Muslim and Hindu, are more divided than ever. Only by uniting the two religions by their ethnicity can we begin to deconstruct the hatred between their ideologies."
India shot her an unimpressed look.
"You plan to rely simply on patriotism for this rebellion to succeed?"
"Yes. How else did the West become so powerful? More specifically, America?"
"You will regret this."
"Perhaps. But this is my decision to make, not yours. I will see you at the negotiating table, India."
India scowled. "Jammu and Kashmir, you will rue the day you crossed me."
"Get out of my land." For the first time, Kashmir's voice took on a definite tone of anger. "If you have something to say, we'll see it on the battlefield."
India stood there for a moment, as if considering something, then whipped out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.
[1]- A traditional Venezuelan dish. It's a flat, round, unleavened patty made from corn flour. It can be fried, grilled or baked. Arepas are filled with a variety of ingredients depending on the region and style of the cook.
[2]- Royal Australian Air Force
[3]- The Nelson Mandela Challenge Plate is a rugby union trophy contested between Australia and South Africa.
[4]- South African slang meaning "idiot."
[5]- The explosive mineral from the last book has finally been named. I gave it the name Mortantite: Mort- from Mortis, is a Latin prefix meaning death; Antaka, a Sanskrit word referring to the God of Death; and –ite, the traditional end for a mineral name.