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Two men stood at the bar of a pub called the Duke's Arms, watching as the barman poured their drinks. They both winced at the price of beer. It had gone up since the previous week – a sign of the fact that even though there was no blockade against the islands in place, luxuries like beer were getting harder to get hold of. Great Anglia itself was being invaded, after all, so the mainlanders had more on their minds than making sure their isolated colony was getting steady supplies of morale-boosting beer. What imports there were were getting increasingly diverted to the garrison of the islands.

Like many pubs and bars on Albinia, the Duke's Arms was ostentatiously Anglian in its style. There were even horse brasses and scenes of hunting on the walls and pieces of agricultural tools that were never used on the island hanging from the ceiling. It looked like a country pub that had been transplanted from the Anglian heartlands of rolling fields, small wooded copses and hedged sunken lanes. It was incongruous in the tropical setting of the island. Most of the pubs like the Duke's Arms had only come into being after the Anglian reconquest of the Far Islands in 1912, when Godstone became determined to make the islands a permanent part of the kingdom. The pubs had been introduced to showcase Anglian culture and its benefits and they were supported by subsidies from the kingdom. They mainly remained the haunts of the Anglian population of the islands and tourists from Europa and other parts of the wurld who came for the beaches and the weather.

The shape of the building did little to dissipate the heat that had built during the day and all of the windows were open, trying to take advantage of the evening breeze. Non-essential businesses had been ordered to reduce the amount of electricity they were using, in order to conserve the reserves of coal and oil on the island. That meant most businesses were closing earlier than they had before the war. Once, the popular tourist beaches were busy all night, with signs from bars, restaurants and clubs lighting up the dark sky and shining off of the sea. Now they were all dark.

The restrictions on the use of electricity also meant that air conditioning systems weren't being used as much. At least the flagstone floor meant that the room felt cooler and the heat of the island meant that there was rarely a fire burning in the large fireplace.

“How's things going?” said one of the men, Chris, to the other once they had sat down at one of the tables near a window. A cool breeze blew in off of the sea, bringing with it a hint of coming rain. There was a storm brewing out to sea. Both men looked like the stereotype of the mainlander settler on the Anglian Equatorial Islands – red-faced from too much sun, overweight from subsidised alcohol and almost permanently dressed in shirts and shorts.

“Pretty bloody shittily,” replied the other, Pete. “We're starting to run out of spares for the harvesters. They're all Ioannes Kervos, so it's not like we're getting any more any time soon. I remember there being a bit of an argument about which we were going to get at the time. The Ioannes Kervos ones were said to be better but parts were going to have to be ordered from Aromania. I wish we'd gone for the Lukebro ones now, as we'd still be able to get the spares.”

The other man was silent for a moment, as if he was judging what was best to say. The Major-General was coming down harshly on anything that could be viewed as undermining the public morale. Saying anything that was critical of Anglia could be viewed as an attempt to undermine public morale. You never knew who was listening – paid informers, true believers, police out of uniform, soldiers out of uniform, Royal Domestic Security agents... the list seemed to be getting longer and longer. There was a rumour that the Major-General was considering enacting emergency legislation that made even listening to someone “undermine the public morale” an offence. Anglia had once prided itself on its freedom of speech and the war was doing away with that.

After the pause, Chris decided to break the silence with something non-committal. The water pipe decontamination company he worked for wasn't struggling at all. At least, not yet. “That must be getting annoying.”

“Yeah, it is,” said Pete, giving a brief shrug. “Needs must, I suppose. Although it's not like we're really suffering at the moment, I'll admit. Yeah, we're not selling any to the Aromans or Gallambria or any of the others but there's still the other OCA countries, the ones in Azania. Even the EOS is still buying from us.”

He paused for a moment and thought about that. “Well, not us directly, of course. My company just grows the sugar cane and then chops it down. They buy it from the companies that buy the cane from us. But the war is making things dry up. It's spare parts now but it'll be other shit later.”

Chris pulled a bit of a face and placed his beer on its mat, trying to get it in the centre of the round piece of cheap cardboard. He really didn't know why his friend seemed to be trying to go down a path of conversation about the war. He surreptitiously looked around the pub. It was a Monday evening and not a traditional time for people to go out drinking. There was only one other table occupied by an elderly man who seemed to be engrossed in a newspaper crossword and who had a quite impressive collection of empty glasses on the table in front of him. Little real news got printed these days, as the war censorship had taken almost all information about the conflict out of the media. In some ways that was good, as all it had been about was the wurld turning more and more against the Occidental-Azanian Pact.

“I am sure things will improve. God is an Anglian, after all.” Another cautious but patriotic platitude. But it was a safe thing for Chris to say.

Pete pulled a face. “God must really do some shit to those who really piss him off, then.”

The other man looked down at his pint again. It was almost finished but he felt like it was necessary, even if it was the start of the week.

“Do you want another one?” he asked. “I'll get this one. You got the last. Same again?”

He went to the bar and ordered another two pints. It took Chris a while to get the attention of the bar staff. There were two of them behind the bar, a young man and a woman, and they seemed more interested in talking to each other than serving him. He came back to the table and placed them down. Both men were quiet again for a while.

“What's got into you?” asked Chris quietly, leaning forward in his chair. “You know it's not exactly the best of ideas to talk like this, even if you don't think anyone is listening to us.”

Pete's face became frozen for a moment. “My brother was on the Royalist. He is listed as missing in action.”

The INS Royalist was one of the ships lost by the Anglian navy in the Battle of Cascadia.

“I know that.” Chris didn't mean it to sound as harsh as it did but he was getting nervous about how his friend was talking. “I had a nephew on the Royal Katherine.”

The INS Royal Katherine was also lost at Cascadia, one of the many squandered in a battle that some were whispering was pointless. But the invasion of Galahinda was supposedly ordered by the King himself, so it certainly could not be criticised. At least not in the air of oppression that was beginning to build on the Anglian Equatorial Islands since that attempted invasion had seen much of the naval forces that had defended it stripped away.

“Another nephew of mine, my other brother's son, is with the Duke of Widdebyshire's Own Lancers,” Chris continued. “Last I heard, they were being sent to Suverina. But talking like this isn't going to help anyone. Not them and especially not you.”

They were quiet for a moment again. Chris felt like he had to drive the point home.

“It is martial law right now,” he said, stabbing his finger towards Pete. “And it probably will be until this whole thing ends. I heard about some people getting shot over Newmarket way. They were trying to resist getting interned. Supposedly they might have had something to do with what happened to the cables between the islands.”

The submarine communications cables between Albinia and New Woldsey had been recently severed. Although the cause was yet unknown – it had been damaged before by fishing trawlers, ships' anchors and on one occasion, by a shark bite – there were rumours that it was enemy action this time around. Despite this uncertainty, the military government had ordered all of the residents on the islands who were descended from populations from countries that Anglia was now at war with to be rounded up. Residents holding passports from those nations had been interned or expelled at the start of the conflict with TRIDENT, the Aurelian nations and Aromania. That had been expected by everyone but the internment of people who had always called the islands home was a shock to most Anglians. They had never thought that their country would do something so barbaric to its own people.

Supporting brutal regimes in far off lands was just geopolitics and something that every country did, after all, and easily excused or forgotten. The Anglian government couldn't be blamed for the excesses of the Sefesians, for example, even if their conquest of Great Xio was being done with Anglian weapons, equipment and supplies. Besides, the Xioans were brutal savages themselves – they used slaves in their bauxite mines and the whole wurld turned a blind eye to it. But the Anglian government turning on Anglian citizens, with all of their deeply held and cherished freedoms, was something that shocked many of them to their core.

“No one knows if people getting shot is true,” replied the other drinker. He didn't say it in a firm tone, though. No one did know if anyone had been shot.

And if it wasn't true right now then there was the feeling that it could well become true in the near future. A feeling of oppression was beginning to build over the islands. Since the declaration of martial law, the military was being used to supplement the police in the enforcement of the Major-General's rules. But it would definitely be shocking for Anglian soldiers to execute Anglian citizens in such a manner.

“That might only be because of the news blackout,” Chris carried on. “We all have to be careful with what we say and do at the moment.”

“Maybe but no one can agree on where they were supposed to be from,” said Pete, his voice sounding more firm, although he wasn't actually raising it at all. Both men weren't really talking above a whisper. The bar staff were too busy flirting with each other and the old man was still engrossed in his crosswords. “I've heard it that they're from Aromania or Aurelia, even f*cking Lysia. So I reckon it's bollocks.”

Neither man said anything for a moment. They quietly drank for a few minutes. Both men reached the bottoms of their second pints at roughly the same time. Pete pointed to Chris' empty glass and raised an eyebrow. The other man nodded. When he returned from the bar, they sat in silence again.

Pete broke the silence this time. “Do you think the Islanders are going to use this as an excuse to do something?”

That question was definitely one on the minds of most of the Anglians on both islands, especially the administration. Godstone had attempted to integrate the Islanders more completely since the islands had come under its rule again in 1912 but events had shown that the Islanders themselves chafed under Anglian rule. The events of Black March, almost a quarter of a century ago now, played on the minds of most of the Anglians living on the islands. Islanders had made up a good proportion of the protestors against the war after the news of the failure at the Battle of Cascadia had become clear. There had been no violence yet, however.

“I don't think so,” replied Chris, although not in a decisive manner. Most people of Anglian descent didn't think of themselves as 'Islanders'. That was a term solely used for the native groups who had lived on the islands since before the islands themselves had fallen under the sway of Great Anglia. “My lads seem to be pretty happy with the way things are going, or at least they give me that impression. What else would they do? The Major-General would come down hard on any protests at the moment. And I doubt any of them are stupid enough to try to start that independence horseshit up again.”

“No, you're probably right.” Pete fidgeted with his glass thoughtfully. None of the Islanders who worked for his company had made any noises about independence or even said anything against the new martial law. But then why would they? They always felt somewhat separate to Pete, especially since they tended to do the more menial work on the sugarcane farm. “Do you think that these islands will stay Anglian after the war? I mean, if anyone were to invade us.”

Now that was a dangerous question if anyone else was listening in. Chris made a theatrical show of looking around to see if anyone else was nearby. He leaned in close.

“Look, you can't keep asking these things,” he said. There was irritation in his voice now, perhaps tinged with a slight edge of fear. “It might be dangerous now. I said before, you have no idea who might be listening.”

He leaned back in his chair and took a long drink. He rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth before he spoke.

“Anyway, everyone knows that the islands are better off under Anglian rule. I doubt that anyone will take them from us. Anglians are always victorious, whether on land or sea, in the long run.”

He looked at his own glass, now empty.

“My round, then?”

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  • 2 weeks later...

Major-General Sir Reginald Foxley-Dereham was the very model of the modern Imperial Army officer – disciplined, driven, deeply patriotic and somewhat despotic. He wore the Imperial Army combat dress and his short salt-and-pepper hair and pencil moustache were impeccably groomed. The general lived and breathed the idea of an ascendant Anglia, as he had been brought up from a young age with patriotic stories of the heroes of the Anglian Empire. The Major-General then sought to emulate these heroes, although that opportunity had not come until he was in his late forties, as a colonel during the invasion of Lysia and the occupation that followed. He had led an infantry brigade during the invasion but the general had really made his name with occupational duties in the aftermath.

But Sir Reginald was struggling to come to terms with the reality that Anglia wasn't on the cusp of ruling the waves and the lands and that, instead, Godstone was reaping what it had sown. It was causing him a severe mental struggle as he was attempting to hold two mutually exclusive facts in his mind at the same time – that Great Anglia was predestined by God to rule over the rest of the Eurth and that Great Anglia was in the process of getting its arse kicked by the rest of the Eurth.

“After investigating the damage to the submarine cable, it does appear to be accidental damage, rather than any deliberate attempt at severing it.”

Lieutenant Commander the Honourable Alfred Shifnal of the Imperial Navy was appraising the Major-General and his small group of advisers on the ongoing investigation on the damage done to the undersea cable connecting the two islands. They were in one of the meeting rooms of Meonwaran House, the administrative centre of the islands. It had been taken over by the military administration for the duration of the period of martial law. It was mid-morning and the heat had begun to build but the general was adamant that the air-conditioning was not to be used unless absolutely necessary. Anglians conquered without such things as air-conditioning, he had said, so they would tough it out now. Besides the general, the small group consisted of the chief constable and the section chief of the Royal Domestic Security branch on Albinia, as well as the commanders of the two brigades defending the islands, a naval officer and several civil servants who had been co-opted into the military administration. The room was comfortable enough at the moment despite the heat, with heavy teak furniture, white walls and a black and white tiled floor. The group was sat around a long rectangular table, the general at its head.

“That is somewhat good news,” replied Sir Reginald. It was, in a way. The loss of the cable made communication between Albinia and New Woldsey more difficult but if it had been enemy action, then it would have meant that one of Great Anglia's many enemies had been able to sneak in undetected and unobserved to damage the cable. It would still need to be repaired, however.

“Perhaps less good news, general, is that it may take at least a week to repair the cable,” carried on the naval officer. “This is partially because the cable repair vessel from the company contracted for this work is currently undergoing repairs.”

“How long is that expected to take?” There was little patience in Sir Reginald's voice.

“They are sourcing parts for the engine,” said Shifnal, finding that he was making excuses for the company without really wanting to. The general had a reputation for making sure that his deadlines were met. “I've been told that the ship was built in Seylos, so they're having to try to find a way of replacing parts without having access to the actual parts necessary. I have been assured that it is to be a week at the most. I have also impressed upon them the fact that it is of utmost importance to their king and their country to get the cable repaired as soon as possible.”

The general gave a slight nod, satisfied that the contracted company would work as hard as they could. “Good.”

A tall, gaunt man in an old fashioned double-breasted suit leant forward and looked the general in the eye. Very few of the others in the room had been doing so, as all of them were slightly afraid or at the very least wary of Sir Reginald. He was becoming more unpredictable as the crisis ground onwards. The gaunt man was Edmund, the 5th Duke of Albinia. The Duke was a distant cousin of the King himself and a member of the House of Odell, albeit of a cadet branch. Edmund was both the civilian governor of the Anglian Equatorial Islands – now replaced by martial law – and the feudal overlord of the largest island. His long tenure as both meant that his inclusion on the small group of advisers to the major-general gave the new regime legitimacy in the eyes of many of the inhabitants.

“It is unfortunate that a number of Anglian citizens have been shot due to hasty actions by our security forces,” the Duke said.

There was an emphasis on the words 'Anglian citizens'. If there was an outsider listening in, then that emphasis might have struck them as ridiculous, considering the fact that Great Anglia had instigated war across all of the continents of Eurth apart from Antargis. The chief of police shifted uncomfortably in his seat but the RDS officer seemed nowhere near as put out by the duke's words.

“Regrettable.” The general's tone and terse comment made it clear that he did not regret that people – Anglian citizens! – had been killed during the security operation in the aftermath of the cable being severed.

“It is more than 'regrettable', Sir Reginald,” the Duke growled. “If the investigation had been more thorough before any arrest attempts were made, then several Anglian citizens would still be alive.”

“I shall stop you there, your grace,” said the RDS Albinia section chief. She was the only woman in the room and wore business casual rather than the uniform of most of the others. She was in her late thirties and had her blond hair in a short bob. “These individuals attempted to evade internment through overpowering the arresting officers. If they had submitted as they were ordered, then they would still be alive.”

The media blackout over the number of people killed whilst resisting arrest had been successful in keeping the true numbers unknown to the general public of the Anglian Equatorial Islands. Seven had been killed in three separate incidents.

The intelligence officer continued, her face almost in a smirk. “It is, of course, not the habit of Anglians to murder other Anglians. But the people in question were of Lysian and Aroman descent – countries that have long stood against Anglian supremacy in the Occident and the rest of the wurld.”

There were some nods from the other military officers and civilian officials in the room. Any true Anglian was always suspicious of its rivals in the Occident. It took years for any stain of descent to be washed from any citizen and for them to be considered a true Anglian. The death of a few of these half-breeds was not something that any real Anglian would shed any tears about.

The section chief still wasn't finished.

“And these particular individuals were known for protesting against the war. They had the means to do damage to the cable, as well as the opportunity. It is right that they were to be interned, in case they did anything that truly damaged our nation's ability to resist those that resist our God-given right to dictate our future.”

“And the penalty for resisting arrest in a time of martial law is clear.” Sir Reginald stared back at Edmund. “I will not have it thought by our enemies that Great Anglia is weak. By God, I will not.”

The Duke said nothing to that and the look on his face was grim. Sir Reginald knew that Edmund would agree with the sentiment, if not what was actually being said. Oddly, the man seemed to genuinely care about the fate of the inhabitants of the islands. And not just those of Anglian origin, either. He had even taken part in some of the natives' ceremonies and he had looked favourably upon the campaigns to reduce or commute the sentences of those arrested during Black March. The Major-General did note that that had only happened after they had served sentences equivalent to any Anglian, rather than giving the rioters any early release. There was hypocrisy alive in the Duke after all.

Sir Reginald placed his hands down on the table in front of them. He didn't slam them down, he merely placed them. He did not usually raise his voice, as he did not have to. There was no need to shout at the officers and civilians in the room. They all knew there was a war on and Anglia was fighting for its very life. Although it was one that it would win, of course.

“Really, it is clear that we all know what we must do.” The general was not precisely talking to Duke Edmund. Instead, he was looking at each of the occupants of the room in turn. The civilian officials did not try to meet his gaze. This was probably the first time that the true realities of martial law were coming home to them. Even if it was half-breeds today and maybe native islanders tomorrow, it might well be proper Anglians the day afterwards. “Our duty, to both our God and our King, is to defend these islands. This will mean that we come down harshly on any protestors, malingers and recidivists who threaten the authority of the King or the war effort.”

Now he was looking at the Duke again.

“If that means that sometimes some foreigners are shot, then so be it.” He held the elderly duke's gaze and the old man was forced to look away after a moment. “It will mean that the rest of them will fall in line.”

Sir Reginald had not been selected as the military governor of the Anglian Equatorial Islands because he was a particularly adept tactician or personally fearless. He had been selected because he had been a commander in the Anglian forces that were occupying Lysia. The Major-General had seen to it that the area under his command had kept up the production quotas necessary to keep the war running and the Anglian homeland free of any shortages that might have otherwise brought the reality of war back to Anglian civilians. He had done this by being what he termed 'corrective harshness' – not heavy-handed enough to cause outright rebellion amongst the Lysians but harsh enough that they knew what they would get if they stepped out of line. Usually, that meant imprisonment but Sir Reginald certainly did not shy away from physical punishment and the occasional execution. He found that once the Lysians got a whiff of gun smoke, they usually fell back into line.

The general was still staring at the duke but he was speaking more to the room rather than the old aristocrat. No one else was trying to meet his gaze, apart from the RDS section chief. She was nodding along with what Sir Reginald was saying. They were natural allies in the military regime that the islands found themselves under. Both knew that it was discipline that was going to keep the islands free of any internal dissent.

“I do not expect to have to use such a heavy hand as I did when I was in Lysia.” There was a tone in the general's voice that communicated the contempt he had for that country and its people. “They are a cowardly and flighty people, prone to revolt and anarchy. But I will not back down from taking any steps that I feel are necessary to make sure that these islands do not fall to our enemies.”

There was a knock at the door and an officer stepped in without even waiting for permission from Sir Reginald to enter. The officer, one of the Major-General's aide-de-camps, was red-faced and breathing hard and clutching some papers in his hand. Despite that, the captain snapped a crisp salute to the general before he entered into the room further. Sir Reginald expected everything to be virtually textbook in its precision and running into the room without knocking was already a gross breach of what the general considered correct.

“What is it, Captain Raunds?” The general sounded extremely displeased at the interruption. “Can you not see that I am conducting a meeting?”

“Yes, sir,” Raunds said through gulps of air. “You'll want to see this message, sir.”

The general held out his hand expectantly and the captain almost ran across the room. As soon as the papers were near Sir Reginald's hand, he snatched them from the captain and quickly skim read them. His eyes snapped from the page and to the aide-de-camp's face.

“When was this reported?” The question was asked sharply.

“Just now, sir.” Captain Raunds stood at parade rest as he fielded the rapid questions from his senior officer.

“Confirmed?” Sir Reginald's face was still impassive but the man's eyes seemed to have taken on a different light. Perhaps now was the time that he could prove himself amongst the Anglian heroes of the past. Pro-imperialist literature was full of heroic stories of small garrisons holding out against larger forces and either dying to a man or being saved by relief forces.

“Spotted by radar and then a maritime patrol aircraft from Thrapston, sir,” Raunds replied.

“Are the numbers accurate?” Sir Reginald demanded. His hands clutched the pieces of paper hard and they were making audible crunching noises. “Are they definitely Tagmatine?”

“I couldn't say personally, sir." The young officer's face creased into a frown. He had not been shown any actual images of the vessels themselves and he knew only what he had been told by Imperial Navy personnel. It was likely that the general was going to get definite confirmation from them later on. Lieutenant-Commander Shifnal was watching the exchange with a lot of interest and an expression on his face that looked a lot like worry. “I was told that the vessels' appearances match with those of the Tagmatine navy, sir.”

“And they're not headed towards the islands?”

Raunds shook his head. “That does appear to be the case, sir.”

The papers were almost completely balled up in the general's hands and he released them as he processed the captain's reply. He almost sighed before he said anything else.

“Thank you, captain.”

The Major-General was silent for a moment. All of the others in the room were staring at him. They had breathed a sigh of relief at the information that whatever the Tagmatine armada was doing off of Azania, they were not steaming towards the Anglian Equatorial Islands. They all knew that this would probably be the end for the quiet period of life on the islands in wartime. Even if the Tagmatines didn't directly try to take the islands any time soon, they would likely stop or heavily reduce trade between the Azanian members of the Occidental-Azanian Pact and the two islands. It would mean even harsher rationing for everyone on the islands, from everything from food to fuel to clothing. Of course, they had rationing and recycling programmes in place but they had never been properly cut off from the rest of the wurld so far. The war that the Anglians had caused would truly begin to bite once that happened.

“I do not see how this affects what we are doing, at least in the main.” The strange light in Sir Reginald's eyes had dimmed but it was still present. “Our plans are in place, in case anyone attempts to strike against us. Anglian force of arms will see us through. You may go, captain, but I expect to see more in-depth information on my desk as soon as possible.”

The captain gave a crisp salute, turned on his heel and quickly left the room. But almost as soon as the captain had left, there was another knock at the door. Again, the door was opened before the general could respond.

“Forgotten something, captain?” Sir Reginald asked sarcastically before he saw that the person at the door was his other aide-de-camp. The lieutenant was as equally breathless as the captain.

As Raunds had done, the lieutant snapped a perfect salute before she spoke to Sir Reginald. “Sir, there's a communication from the Tagmatine naval force in the Dragonryders' Deep. They request a parley.”

The general straightened up and the light in his eyes shone again. Maybe this was the time, after all.

“Tell them that I shall agree to it.”

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Under the shade of an awning set up in front of the main building of Imperial Naval Air Station Thrapston, Major-General Sir Reginald Foxley-Dereham stood ramrod straight. Despite the heat, he wore the full parade uniform of a general officer of the Anglian army. All the buttons and medals were polished to a mirror shine and the creases on his uniform were so crisp that they could cut. There was even a swagger stick tucked under his arm. It was as if he was visiting the Royal Palace in Godstone rather than meeting with a delegation from one of the powers that was ruining Great Anglia's chance at reforging the wurld in its image. The rest of the Anglian party were as finely dressed as the general but they all looked like they were suffering in the tropical humidity. The sun-bleached tarmac they were stood on radiated heat back up as it beat down from the sky. The palm trees off in the distance moved little, as there was not much of a breeze to take the edge off.

A fly circled and landed on one of the Major-General's cheeks. He did not flinch or twitch as it landed and then began to wander in a random pattern across the general's face. The other officers and officials standing with the general could not help but keep their gaze on the fly as it moved. They all felt a sudden dread that it was making its way towards Sir Reginald's left eye. After almost a full minute, the general's junior aide-de-camp could not take it any more and stepped forward. The senior aide-de-camp made an attempt at stopping the lieutenant but could not grab her arm in time. She flapped the creature away as it was mere millimetres from touching the eyeball of the commanding officer of the military forces on the Anglian Equatorial Islands.

“Get back to where you were!” the general snapped. He was either totally oblivious or uncaring about how close he had come to getting an insect in his eye. “This is not the time to break formation. I shall have a word with you later, lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant replied. “Sorry, sir.”

As she stepped back into place, the junior officer caught the eye of the Governor of the Anglian Equatorial Islands, Duke Edmund of Albinia. The old man gave the lieutenant an appreciative nod. She had stopped what might have been one of the most disturbing things he had ever seen in his long years from ever happening. Although the islands were now under martial law and administered by Sir Reginald, it was considered to be unthinkable that the duke was not present when the representatives of the Aroman military arrived.

The sound of their helicopter was becoming louder and before long, an El-07 Tabanos in the livery of the Imperial Navy – the Tagmatine Imperial Navy, that is – touched down on a landing pad. The rotor blades spun down and the rear ramp of the aircraft descended. An officer from the Imperial Navy walked down from the ramp, along with a small group of aides of her own. One of them carried a white flag of parley. The Aromans were not quite ostentatiously uniformed as the Anglians were, which was almost a surprise for a country metaphorical for its pomp and ceremony. However, unlike the Anglians, they were dressed for the heat of the island.

The Tagmatine naval officer leading the delegation wore a white shirt, trousers and shoes and had the insignia of a Droungariokomes (Commodore). The tall domed Aroman officer hat was still there, however, although it was also in white. The Anglian general's face twitched slightly when he realised that the Tagmatines had not sent an officer of an equal rank to his to the parley. Instead, the representative was a more junior officer. That rubbed him up the wrong way on an intrinsic level. Some of the Tagmatine party were also taking not-very-subtle looks around at the naval base. Presumably they were treating this as something of an intelligence gathering exercise, too.

As was tradition when Anglian and Aroman officers met, each gave their opposite nation's customary salute to the other. Sir Reginald bowed from the waist and the Droungariokomes – or in this case, Droungariokomissa – gave the army salute, with the palm facing outwards. Both stood opposite it each and were almost staring each other down.

“Commodore Sofia Ooryfaina of the Imperial Navy, at your service,” the officer said once they had finished exchanging salutes. Her Anglish was accented but passable. Usually, when Occidental nations came together for diplomatic meetings, the languages traditionally spoken were either Fragran or Lysian, rather than any of the others. However, the Holy Imperial Government had wanted to make sure that there were no mistakes or misinterpretations made during this discussion and had chosen Anglian. Ooryfaina was fluent enough that she would be able to disseminate the Holy Imperial Government's message to the Anglians without the need for a translator.

“Major-General Sir Reginald Foxley-Dereham of the Imperial Army at yours,” replied Sir Reginald. His face was expressionless.

Usually, the pleasantries between the two nations lasted longer and involved a tea ceremony that saw the representatives from the two nations supplying the other with samples of tea and polite conversation. In the past, it was considered to be a way of defusing any tensions and trying to make sure both nations were on an equal footing. The two nations were never direct competitors in the power struggles in the Occident but they were usually on opposing sides. Great Anglia considered Aromania to be a backward nation obsessed with the past whilst Tagmatium thought that Great Anglia had a reach that far exceeded its grasp. Since this meeting was a parley between military forces, the usual diplomatic formula for a start of a meeting did not apply. Still, it went against her instincts as a Tagmatine to not begin the meeting with any ceremony, but Ooryfaina got to the point of her presence on the island.

“I shall cut to the chase, general,” the Tagmatine naval officer said. “There are two carrier strike groups, three surface action groups, one carrier escort group and numerous other formations currently operating off of the coast of Azania. All are within striking distance of the Anglian Equatorial Islands, or can be within a day or two. It is not in the interest of any of us to spin this out longer than it needs to be, especially considering the civilian casualties that will result from any conflict on these islands. Therefore, I have been empowered by the Senates, People of Arome and his Aroman Majesty to discuss surrender with you, Sir Reginald, as the officer commanding the forces of Great Anglia on these islands.”

There was a very brief pause before Sir Reginald spoke. The look on his face was almost beatific, as if his entire life had come down to this one moment. That expression caused the Tagmatine naval officer to take a step back out of surprise. In his mind, the path was laid out before him and Sir Reginald knew exactly what he had to do. He was able to exercise the future of his own country and live up to his own ideals and his duty to his King and God. Unfortunately, the Tagmatines had no idea of what they were facing.

“I am afraid, Commodore, that we don't have the facilities to accommodate such a large force,” Sir Reginald said. His face was carefully blank despite the emotion that he was feeling. Those close to him, like his aides-de-camp, could see that his eyes were welling up with tears of joy. “However, I am glad that you, the Imperial Navy and indeed the Leopard Throne have seen the gravity of the situation and the supremacy of Anglian force of arms and élan. Because of that, surrendering will not be considered a black mark against your or Aromania's honour by any nation, either currently or in the future. However, I would be grateful if you told your commander that I accept his surrender and that I expect the first of his forces to arrive off of Port Brownlow by” – he looked at his watch in a theatrical manner – “0800 hours, Albinia time. The rest are to arrive as soon as they can. I am sure that we will be able to sort out the logistics in a suitable manner.”

There were a few audible intakes of breath from the Anglian delegation when the Major-General's words sunk in. Aromans were similarly shocked. It clearly took Ooryfaina a moment to mentally translate the general's statement before her mouth dropped open and she looked aghast. Was the man making a poorly timed joke or was he delusional? She looked at the other Tagmatine officers who had accompanied her. They all exchanged equally surprised looks. Was this the famed Anglian dry humour at work? Was this man's brain cooked by the sun?

“I am afraid you are misconstruing my words, general,” the Aroman naval officer said once the shock had worn off. She spoke slowly and carefully, as if to someone who was hard of thinking. “I am here to demand the surrender of all Anglian forces on Albinia and New Woldsey. If not, the Imperial Navy will begin to strike military and logistical infrastructure, as well as prevent anything other than humanitarian supplies from reaching or leaving these islands. This will continue until the point that the Anglian forces present on the islands surrender. I am sure you are aware of what the Imperial Navy did to Dolchland. The Aroman Imperial Navy, that is. An amphibious invasion may also be undertaken but I am not to confirm or deny that. Shall I put the terms to you?”

It appeared that the Major-General was about to bluster or gibber some more, so the Duke of Albinia stepped forward and cut him off. The old aristocrat received a death glare from the army officer but he did not attempt to stop him from talking.

“What are your terms?” the governor asked. There was an authority to his voice that even an Aroman could not deny and they did not have the culture of obeying their feudal superiors that the Anglians had.

“Unconditional surrender, your excellency.” Ooryfaina did not look over at Sir Reginald again. The man was undoubtedly fuming at being sidestepped but he was also clearly either being facetious with his previous reply, or he was mad. And it seemed like he was the latter rather than the former. “Nothing less than that. This war has gone on too long for anything else.”

“What of the Anglian armed forces present on the island?” asked the Duke. The Major-General stepped forward and, without looking back towards the army officer, Edmund held up a hand that stopped Sir Reginald in his tracks. He wanted the Droungariokomissa to finish before there was any other input.

“They will be interned for the duration of the conflict, your excellency, as per the traditional rules of war. Afterwards, they shall be repatriated back to Great Anglia.” The Tagmatine commodore was now clearly trying to get back onto the script that she had been given.

“And the islands themselves?” Edmund was asking a lot of questions. “What shall become of Anglian rule over them?”

“Your grace, I have not been empowered to discuss the ultimate fate of the islands. That will be up to whatever settlement takes place once the war is over. I can not and will not indulge in any supposition or speculation over the fate of the islands.”

“May we talk about what has been put before us, Droungariokomissa?” the Duke gave the Tagmatine a smile, although it was certainly a pained one. He also used the Tagmatine rank rather than the Anglian equivalent. “As you can imagine, it is a lot.”

The Tagmatine naval officer nodded. “The Senates, the People of Arome and his Aroman Majesty expect a reply by 0600 tomorrow morning, local time, your excellency. I am to return to my ship until then. It may not be me who comes to discuss the situation further. May God have mercy on the people of the Anglian Equatorial Islands.”

The Tagmatines turned and began walking back towards their helicopter. Once they had got on board and the blades had started to spin back up again, the Duke turned to the junior aide-de-camp. He totally ignored the senior officer. However, the Major-General definitely did not turn a blind eye to that and he stared at both the Governor and the lieutenant. The man was clearly fuming.

“Well, that was like f*cking pulling teeth, wasn't it, lieutenant?” The question asked by Duke Edmund was entirely rhetorical, or at least the junior officer hoped. The lieutenant wilted beneath the combined gaze of the Governor and the Major-General. Although she was an aide-de-camp to a major-general, she was the Baroness Wrington, as a family tragedy several years ago had put her as the head of her house. Anglia still preferred to promote nobility to officer ranks. In the relatively complex social hierarchy of Great Anglia, it could put senior officers in an awkward position but military rank took precedence over social rank. Still, it wasn't as if the lieutenant was going to try to push it. Certainly not now the Major-General was clearly as angry as he was.

“You had no right to discuss the surrender of the islands, your grace.” The veins were sticking out in his neck. His face was darker than the red that the usual Anglian inhabitant of the island was. It was almost a puce. “That is an outrage and I shall bring it before the king.”

“You were not going to discuss it at all, Sir Reginald.” The Duke's reply was calm and measured but the man was definitely as furious as the general. “I know what is going to happen. You will intentionally bring down destruction on these islands. I cannot support that, even if it goes against the wishes of his majesty. I have the people of these islands interests to look out for. How are you even going to get to the King? Row over there?”

The general began. “Anglian strength of arms –”

The Duke stood up and bunched his fists. The man was in his eighties and was now apparently thinking about squaring off against a soldier thirty years his junior. The lieutenant did not know how to act, whether she should come to the aid of either of the two men or pull them apart. The rest of the Anglian delegation were equally unsure of what to do next.

“You tin-pot fool,” the voice of the Duke boomed. “It isn't as if I handed the islands over to that officer. But you know as well as I do what is at stake here. It isn't just a case of armed forces fighting each other. There are millions of people living on these islands. There will be significant bloodshed if there is fighting.”

Apparently Sir Reginald did not know it or he didn't care. For a moment, the man spluttered with outrage before he found the ability to speak again. The veins in the commanding officer's neck were almost erupting from his neck. He knew exactly what he wanted to do but there was no way he could move against a relative of the king. So, instead, he ignored the belligerence and remained still.

“The sun is clearly getting to your grace,” the general said calmly despite his obvious anger. “You know as well as I do that this is my call. I am the military governor, as appointed by the king. If you pull anything like that again, I can – and will – arrest you for treason. Your grace.”

The Duke nodded and turned on his heel towards the buildings of the naval air base, out from under the shade of the awning. As he left, he spoke over his shoulder.

“There will be blood on your hands, Sir Reginald. You know it and I know it.”

The Major-General gripped his swagger stick so hard it broke in his hand. He also walked off in the same direction, although making sure he was far enough behind the governor that he would not catch up with him. Behind the general, Lieutenant the Baroness Wrington picked up the pieces of the swagger stick and scurried after the general.

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