On Earth As It Is In Hell - The Dunwikki/Lengan War

From: So Hebiðdräkhskapiz af hizos Landwairduskapiz

To: The Ministry of Agriculture, Dunwik

Due to unprecedented rainfall for two years in a row, we are currently experiencing issues with flooding in certain agricultural districts. Likewise, the current temperatures caused by the eruption of Vaalsberg in Heel have led to climatic conditions unsuitable for plant growth. We view it likely that the next half a decade is going to be dominated by cooler summers and longer winters, though we hope that growing conditions will improve after this year.

For these reasons, we would like to request that land be assessed for possible rapid development into farms for the Raikh and we would urge that your government seek a cease-fire with the Tholes should you find yourselves running a food deficit as we might. We are unable to confirm our commitments to supporting your military operations nutritionally should you continue and we are unable to source suitable alternative farmlands.

January 20th, 1915.

With the stroke of a pen, Isaac Arthur condemned another man to die. One man for tens of thousands, two capital ships, and more than half a dozen other vessels. A poor exchange. 

Heavy bags hung under Arthur's eyes and in his trembling left hand, he held a large mug of coffee. On his desk, Arthur had an ashtray overflowing with tobacco ash. In Arthur's cabinet was a small bottle of amphetamine tablets - 10mg each. Arthur had taken one, and the uncomfortable feeling of out-of-place euphoria and the mingled kinds of energy from various stimulants made his jaw tremble and twitch. He drummed his fingers on his desk, sorting through papers and looking at the operational map of the war on the desk as well.

Isaac traced his finger over the map, small wooden cubes showing the concentration of Dunwikki and Lengan soldiers across the front. He squinted and stared at Trevor Lucas, the aged, Dunwikki general leaning forward in his chair. Neither said a word as they stared at the map quietly. It was Arthur who spoke first.

"I understand attrition," Arthur's voice was low, dangerous, "and I know attrition is our order now  - but do tell me why we have lost this much for this little?" 

"Loonies saw it coming, sir, and they had all monsoon season to dig in" Trevor said softly, a small amount of sweat beading on his forehead, "drew back just enough to draw our boys in, then closed the line behind 'em. Naval support got hit by those Tholish bases, and we've lost-"

"We lost the Spirit of Flight and the Wall of Iron,"  Arthur jabbed his finger into the ocean on the side of the map, his frown so deep it showed his bottom teeth, "for nothing. We need to find something new, hit the Loonies where they're not expecting it. I expect you to come to that." 

Lucas leaned over the map, pushing the cubes across it as he considered his options. The Dunwikki front had projected slightly forward on the east coast, and Lucas looked down at the map.

"We have dislodged the Lengans from their position," Lucas said, "they'll probably expect us to shift back away from their center and hit their right again."

"So you want to keep pushing in the center?" 

"I don't see what else we can do, aside from-"

"We're not going to war with the Tholes themselves yet. Not until the Sadaler recover," Arthur pointed at Lucas, "Minister Jones is already at the end of his rope trying to keep our... pest control ignored. If the Tholes go in all the way, I don't know if the Hansa will aid us. We play it cool for now. Don't try your fancy maneuver tricks - the trenches slow us. Our war is simple: maximum profit, minimal investment. We do this by exchanging lives. Our order is simply killing Lengans. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Grand Chairman."

"Good. Go get yourself your men and draw up our plans."

"You should get some sleep, sir."

Arthur said nothing, merely staring at his map.
---
February 14th, 1915. 

At first, Jon Goldthumb thought the incoming planes were Dunwikki. The Lengans didn't have planes and for good reason, sudden storms came down off the mountains and would dash almost any airframe to pieces. But the closer these new planes came, the more nervous Jon became, and soon he was racing to the hangars, pure instinct driving him. Soon, he saw other pilots streaming in too, and heard the low wail of a siren, watching the aircrews race out to fuel and launch each and every plane. An observer with a pair of binoculars in hand shouted that the planes were making for the dock - and emblazoned with unfamiliar symbols.

Jon leaped into his aircraft as the clouds overhead suddenly darkened and the crack of thunder split the air, his hands flying over the controls as his flimsy biplane was rolled out onto the dirt runway, each little bump setting his teeth on edge. The smell of wood glue and motor oil filled his nose - a bad sign. This was a new, untested plane. Older planes didn't smell as bad, and weren't as liable to break. Jon forced the thought from his mind as he strapped himself into his seat.

The minutes passed in a blur as Jon took his place behind the squadron leader, the ramshackle arrangement of twelve planes diving ahead into the cloud of enemy aircraft. As they started to descend, Jon got a better look at these enemy planes. They certainly weren't Dunwikki. Slightly larger and more polished, their sleek red paint was highlighted with white crosses over the wings and tails of them. The cross - a foreign symbol, the Tholish symbol. It meant something to them, it was their emblem and spiritual armor. Jon wondered, in the back of his mind, how well the Dunwikki cog would fare against this enemy idea.

As each squadron melted into a confusing, whirling melee, Jon found himself above the swirling mass, twisting unseen to dive upon an enemy pilot. Each maneuver and twist fell into the other. The Tholes looped, dove, and twisted about, and Jon would lose one only to find another and tail him, trying to line up his shots. Most flew wide, but some - some!

There was a thrill, an exhilarating moment, the rain over his face, pattering against his wings, running down his arms as he held down the trigger, the bursts of flame from each downed enemy. Jon was so lost in the moment that he barely noticed the Thole behind him, not until the gunfire ripped open his plane's upper left wing.  Jon was jolted from his high and pulled up on the yoke of his plane, then shunted downward, peeling off sharply to a side, his plane spinning out through the air. But just as the Thole was shaken off, Jon felt the wind hurl his plane sideways, and desperately grabbed the yoke again, forcing it upward with all his might. His plane groaned under the strain, and then, with a resounding crack, the damaged wing sheared off.

Jon screamed in terror, grabbing desperately at his controls and straining with all his might as his plane twisted and plummeted, and managed - barely, - to steer his plane upward, just enough to where he bounced against the ground before his craft came to a stop, a twisted pile of splinters on the edge of the airbase. Jon smashed his face against the instrument panel, and both heard and felt the crunch of his nose breaking. Astonishingly, he didn't feel too much pain, and managed to claw his way from the downed aircraft, sitting up against the side of it and watching Tholish bombers fall from the sky. 

He wiped the blood from his nose, and counted the fallen planes, before stumbling back to the airbase. He'd bagged three Tholes today. Three. That oughta count for something. 

February 25th, 1916

"Bolt more anti-aircraft guns to the ships, I've said this a thousand times," Arthur said, looking at Lucas, "that was close. How went the scouting effort?"

"It..."

"Failed, I can tell because you hesitated," Arthur scratched his chin and sipped his coffee. The bags under his bloodshot eyes had receded slightly and his twitching was under control, "freak storm, I take it?"

"Yes, Grand Chairman," Lucas's voice was much softer than usual, "you look a bit better today. I'm glad you've gotten some-"

"How went the central push this month? Any progress?"

"It was... mixed, sir. We've bled them, but haven't advanced very far."

"Good, good. If we kill them, they can't replenish their numbers. Leng had a population of thirteen million before this war began?"

"About."

"Of that, I'd hazard about... thirty percent of that population are able-bodied men. That's a gator's walk of four million," Arthur guessed, "and we've killed an estimated... two hundred and fifty thousand of them by now?"

"Correct, sir."

"That means we're a sixteenth of the way there. I don't want fancy maneuvers, Lucas. I want dead Loonies. You'll give me dead Loonies."  

"You need to sleep more, sir. That incident with that Tholish ship-"

"Nothing came of it. Back to the war room. I want to kill the Lengans on the East coast again - they're probably shifting to their center now. If we can kill them in the East, their Tholish supply hubs will get strained. If we break the East of Leng, we break all of Leng. Without Tholish aid, they can't continue."

"Understood, Grand Chairman," Lucas said, "anything else?"

"That is all."


March 17th, 1915
Fingers jumped, brandishing his shotgun like a club as he sailed over the Lengan parapet, the shouts of the Dunwikki troops drowning out the gunfire and Lengan screams and prayers. He was moving on instinct more than training as he brought the butt of his gun down on the face of a Loonie priest, watching the man crumple to the ground in the chaos. 

The thick green fog obscured both friend and foe alike in the trenches, and Fingers stumbled forward, sticking close to men he knew and firing at the taller, slimmer forms of the Lengans that melted in and out of the gas. Sometimes he'd see a man clutching at his throat, his mask askew or broken. He'd seen it all before by now, but the screams never seemed to leave. As Fingers looked down at his gun and began to reload it, something moved in the fog. As Fingers tried to discern whether it was friend or foe, the being - a Lengan - lunged at him with an obsidian blade, thrusting forward towards his neck.

Fingers dropped his shotgun, ducked to the side and grabbed his pistol, but the Lengan tackled him before he could aim, the two of them slamming up against the wall of the trench as they wrestled. The Lengan raised his blade again, but Fingers grabbed his arm and held it tight, while the Lengan fought for Fingers's pistol. The gun went off and blew the Lengan's hand off, and in the panic Fingers headbutted the man, shoved him backward, and then emptied his pistol into the Lengan's head and chest. The body fell to the ground, and Fingers slumped against the wall of the trench, picking up his shotgun, breathing heavily as he loaded it again. Once that was done, he loaded his pistol, and then picked up the Lengan's sword, plunging back into the fog.


April 16h
(WIP. To do: Dunwikki labor riots, Arthur pissed at Dunwikki reversal.

June 1st, 1915:

"Any clue what that thing is?"

Fingers pointed at the strange vehicle, motioning to Paddyshack. The two of them had just seen it approach from behind their own lines, the Dunwikki cog and nail still wetly panted across the front and sides of the thing. To Fingers's eyes, it looked something like a field gun had done something unmentionable to a car. Paddyshack poked his head up from the dugout, his hands still wrapped around the can of peanut butter he was eating.

"It's a gun on wheels, from the... Salader mob guys," Paddyshack said.

"No shit, it's a gun on wheels," Fingers said back, pointing at it again, "I'm outta Providence, you fucking know I've seen a drive-by or two. I'm askin' whether you know what the fuck it is."

"Bottom of it looks like a tractor, the way the wheels are. Looks like they put a belt over the wheels and then slapped some armor on it."

"Okay, dumbass, what's it called."

"It's called a... uh..." Paddyshack looked at the vehicle, "It's probably called a haragahaatraaha-" 

Paddyshack made a bunch of strange gargling noises and gesticulated with his arms for a time, while Fingers crossed his arms.

"It's called a what?"

"I dunno. I don't speak Salader." 

"Great," Fingers sighed, fishing through his pockets and finding a small bag of cocaine chews, "bet you the driver will tell for a cokie."


July: No monsoon, religious turmoil in Leng. Arguments amid the Lengan trenches.
"Why is there no rain?"
Tilitaryian's voice boomed out over the trench. A blindfold now over his eyes, his hands a mangled wreck, he still paced back and forth in his trench, black robes hanging tight to him. It was surprisingly dry, and the young hero pointed off towards the Lengan host behind him, all sitting in the dugout. Despite the lack of rain, the mud still covered them all.

"It is the will of God! It is a punishment! For there are those who do not repent, who wish to follow the old way, who close their ears to virtue! They make an idol of themselves and declare they suffer more than the Christ, and this is our penalty!" He shouted, stomping back and forth, "this war is a war not for Lengan lives, but for Lengan souls! To die is nothing! When you die - and all of you will die in your time - you will enter into God's eternal kingdom, the land of Heaven, the land of perfect order and paradise, where Sin has no place and Evil is unknown! But! It is only if you follow the path! Those now, who have heard the path and reject it, stain Leng, and God has heard! The old way was misguided, and an abomination! We slew our kinsmen, we slew ourselves, we died pointlessly to exalt ourselves! We forgot the Prophet and misunderstood his lesson! When He left us, it was not because we didn't follow him, but because we followed false ways! But now, now we have the True Way, and this is our final test! Cast aside the Old Way, and embrace Christ! Then, and only then, shall the rain return!"


----
In the capital of Leng, far away from the front, sitting on a small island in a great lake, Palakaia paced back and forth, her white robes, her long, straight white hair trailing behind her. She too wore a blindfold, hands resting on a large cane as she settled behind a large podium, a megaphone in front of her. Surrounded by pristine marble sculptures of prophets and heroes surrounded her. 

"Why has there been no rain?" She asked, "we know what this means. No rain means no harvest. Without food, it is not a matter of if, but rather when Leng dies."

She placed her hands on either side of the megaphone, long fingers flicking impatiently as she considered her next words. The crowds in front of her - though she could not see them - remained silent, staring at her. The statement was offensive. One did not just say a 5,000 year old civilization was going to crumble. But she was holy. An awkward dilemma settled into the Lengan mind. 

"Think of the Dunwikki. They do not act like Dunwikki now! They are cowardly and venal people, but now? Now!? Now they come in numbers unseen, animated by a will far beyond their own. Where they were misers, now they spend freely. Where they were cowards, now they charge our lines, swords and shotguns in hand. Think of their weapons! They call up fire and choking clouds! They cloud themselves in smoke and call forth golems to crush us. Masking their flesh, masking their faces. Who taught them these arts? So far beyond what was known, I say, these are not natural things. The true cause, I will get to, but there is one thing everyone in Leng can agree on. That this unnatural force is none other than the King In White himself, taking up a new form. This... this is the King's greatest attack, and the Time of Ending is coming!"

She shouted, the small, crude megaphone giving her shrieking voice wings, echoing over what felt like the whole city. Crowds of tens of thousands waited with rapt attention, and they seemed curious.

"The learned priest asks: should the Time of Ending not come until the Faith is gone? They would be right. But the King is clever. The King has no true faith, but he can create a false one. So... he did! He appeared, long ago, and so deceived those beyond Leng, who had no defense against his wiles. They had no relics, they had no warning, and followed his creed. We know one branch. The mastery of the world, the bent of Arthur. But the other has been hidden to us until now - and it is the King's greatest weapon! He came, and distorted the story of the Prophet, bending those to his will. He called himself Anointed over all the world, King of Judea, Jesus! Now, he has come in two heads to crush us!"

She smashed her fist against the podium, stomping her feet and adjusting her wooden mask, adjusting her robes and hair quickly. She flicked her hair behind her.

"The gods are angry! They see us being deceived, and so have begun the End! There is only one recourse! We must banish the King, we must banish the false idol, we must banish them! Then, the Dunwikki will return to cowardice, then the rains will return, then, all will be right! Death to Christ!"



September: Tholish aid dwindles in Leng. Elite soldiers given amphetmaines. Territorial gains made against the Lengans. Lengan army starts to break down.

October: Last month in this post. Lengans lose many men but push forward. Lengan supply is failing.  Arthur thnks the war will end in a year from this date.


Character Tracker:
Name - Nationality - Unit - Status
John "Fingers" - Dunwikki - Hands Of Satan - Alive, highly decorated. Singlehandedly seized a Lengan trench. Survives the war with an incredibly heroic record.
Harold Stoker - Dunwikki - Elite Landing Forces - KIA by Nov 1914
Jon "Flyboy" Goldthumb - Dunwikki - 1st Air Force - WIA April 1915, sent back to Dunwik to train recruits. KIA near the end of the war in March 1917.
Harold Menser - Dunwikki - Elite Physician - WIA Nov 1914, crippled. Remained in Sheen for some time to oversee medicine distribution, sent back to Dunwik to train field surgeons. Ultimately became part of the Dunwikki bioweapons program. 
Manfred Brandman - Dunwikki - Ace of Aces, 1st Air Force  - Sent to Dunwik to train recruits. Wounded a few times in plane crashes but survived multiple ones.
Tilitaryian - Lengan - Christian Priesthood - KIA Sept 1915
Lilikian - Lengan - 1st Army, East Coast - WIA Sept 1915, expatriated to WTC. 
Stratherokian - Lengan - 1st Army, East Coast - General. Died due to bubonic plague in November of 1916.

After a good amount time enjoying ourselves in Sheen, we were once again considered fit for service. Many of our injured compatriots returned to us, but we were not yet separated from our odd Yamato and Ezoborn friends. It was decided we were to be made into a brigade, at least until such a time as we were deemed capable of fully independent operations again. This came as a bit of a shock to my lads, who were fully immersed in the local customs and culture by this point, greatly helped by our linguistic commonality with the Sheenish. The others were standoffish and generally did not seem to care much for anything other than their work, though it was clear it was not a case of them being simple.

As the troop transports arrived and we saw the new lucky winners disembark and get organised to replace us, we were once again made to feel dread as the ships themselves were painted so as to dazzle and very much armed in an obvious manner. The Dunwikki boarded first and seemed eager to do so. Much like the odd fellow from the west, the Dunwikki did not seem to care for Sheen, though this time it was likely due to the Sheenish being too uptight for their liking. Several breaches of conduct had been reported over our stay and none of them were from the Raikhsmen. It made one wonder about those southerners, as it was made abundantly clear by them that they were rather exceptionally pious compared to their countrymen.

After spending an afternoon boarding our ships and getting settled, we were now party to possibly the most boring travel of my entire life. The ships were smaller than the vast one we had originally arrived on and did not have much space for games, and our officers gave us lectures on plant life, animal life, cultural norms, phrases, and protocols we were to follow. It was somewhat shocking that we were not to be allowed to so much as speak with the locals and that fraternisation was to be treated almost as seriously as if it were with the enemy. Stranger still, was that we were not going to be tried under our own courts and tribunals, but rather by the local ones. A few of the boys were curious as to why this was, but no proper answers were forthcoming. 

...

Arriving in Dunwik was beyond awful, as the air became steadily heavier and hotter as we progressed. We had spent two weeks ill due to inoculations and our water supply had been switched out for a bitter drink known as tonic water. Mercury powder, monkey's blood, and tonic water were the order of the day. If something seemed slightly infected or if we received a cut, we were to report it immediately. Our new uniforms were interesting too, as they were patterned and coloured green, brown, and black. They were based off of the desert uniforms, covering the whole body and made from lighter materials than our usual ones, but the colouring was different and they seemed newer with a different stitching pattern. I felt greatly saddened to see my blue coat go, but the rules were rather strict and so the switchover was made. It was somewhat odd though, as even the men who wore the drab uniforms were forced to switchover, telling me it was not just about us standing out.

Our kits were messed with too, beyond just the clothing and powders for dealing with tropical rashes and diseases. We had our canteens replaced with drinking skins, as apparently the canteens were prone to fouling. The skins could be undone and then turned inside-out in order to allow for easier cleaning, which was somewhat appreciated, but they could also be burst if fell on while full. It was not an ideal solution, but the fear of bad water seemed to dictate this change and so we went along with it. Our boots were also changed, with the new ones being more cut down to the ankle: this was less popular and resisted by most, with the end result being that we now had an extra pair of boots which we could switch to, but few used.

With these and a few other minor things, we were finally allowed off of the ships and onto Dunwikki soil. We were quickly ferried off to the front lines, after a short stay near a certain house of ill-repute. Thankfully for my sanity and the health of the brigade, it was strictly segregated and the men of the Raikh were not allowed in at all. Once at the front, as much as it existed, we were introduced to the realities of this war and made to feel somewhat welcome. The old-hands did their best to explain things to us, but we spent the first few months as a blocking unit as we were ill-suited to offensive operations at first. It was because of this time, that I had the fortune to learn how to fly and I was soon given wings, so to speak.

Following one of our advances, we were instructed clear a patch of forest and build a flat runway for aeroplanes, as well as build the proper shelters and such for them. At first we somewhat resented this, as the work was backbreaking and we had few tools to carry it out, but once we were done and the machines came in, all thoughts of resentement flew out of our heads and were replaced with wonder. Seeing them land and up close drove home firstly how fast they were and secondly how large they were. It was an odd realisation, as for weeks we had seen them flying overhead and thought them small. Up close, the noise they made was truly something and we could appreciate their abilities more. It is through this, I came to speak with some of the pilots during the evening.

As they were relaxing and drinking amongst themselves, I took the liberty to come up to them and offer some of the coffee I had brought with me from Sheen. A bit apprehensive of the stuff, they soon found themselves as taken by it as I was and good cheer soon abounded, as they too had been forced to give up their barley tea due to the shortages. They told me of the war and of the enemies we were facing, as well as of the fact that the way we drank chocolate was seen as practical heresy by the Dunwikki, too similar to that of the Lengan style. This caused a good round of laughter to come up, as someone suggested that maybe we should eat it in blocks like they do. It was following this laugh, that I managed to finally speak my admiration of their flying machines and I was given a good long stare by the man closest to me. 

At first, I thought I had said something to offend him, but after a bit he stood up and then wrapped his arms around me in order to heft me off the ground. Shocked by this, I instinctively tried to break free, but it was no use as he had pinned my arms. More laughs went up and then he put me down again, before saying with the flattest tone one has ever heard 'You'll not weigh it down.' This stopped me from socking him in the mouth and he soon elaborated as to the meaning of his exercise. I was thusly taken up for my first flight, as he had judged me to be of slight enough figure and low enough weight to make a decent pilot, if I could manage to learn the controls. It was a frightening experience and one which I wish had been during the day, as we now flew over dark forest and almost no light to see by. Due to the lack of trainers at this aerodrome, both of us had to sit in the same seat and I was in his lap, obstructing his view to a degree which I was not comfortable with. He showed me the pedals, the dashboard, and how to turn the aeroplane. Once I had answered his questions, he put the damnable contraption into a nose dive and let go of the controls.

His instinct for teaching was sharp, as I soon was forced to implement all I had learned over the course of twenty minutes and I pulled the thing level. From there, he took me through some basic exercises and then had me land again once he felt satisfied with my ability. His comrades were on the field waiting for us and all seemed to approve of the landing. He informed them of his assessment and I was given many a pat on the back and congratulations that evening. Thankfully, they were all tired by this point and so we retired. For the next three days, I was given reprieve as the men were required to fly missions and thus I was unable to be put up in the air again, but that was not to last.

A new aeroplane arrived at the aerodrome, as apparently the discovery of a new pilot candidate was enough to warrant it and they determined they could always use it as a back-up even if I failed to take to it. Another single-seater, I was forced to take-off without an instructor and I was soon flying alongside them as I now had to learn to dogfight and spot on the job. This was not ideal by any means, but I feel it was a good way to learn, as it certainly did not allow for any sort of misconceptions to form. For the next two months, I was made to fly and I did my work as best I could, improving all the while. My superior officers did not seem to mind, as we were more or less permanently by this aerodrome due to the front becoming somewhat static and it was deemed not that costly for me to fly rather than be on the ground in my platoon.

During one of our sorties, I was almost shot down as a red triplane...

...

Finally, after months of defensive operations, we were considered sufficiently trained and ready to fight independently. It helped that the armoured vehicles we had been missing since Lussia had finally arrived, but to be frank, I believe we could have made do without them. Bidding fair well to the airmen, I was once more happily slogging through mud and brush as a man in the infantry. I suddenly became acutely aware of the fact that while it was less harrowing than flying, I would miss not having perpetually soggy footwraps. Our first real operation as an offensive unit took us deep into the mountains, as there had been reports of possible supply caches there and we were of a sufficient size as to deal with whatever might come our way.

While the mountains might conjure images of cold white peaks, these ones still had greenery on them and we were flea bitten and dealing with bugs all the way. We were lucky in a way, as we found that the insects were edible and non-poisonous, as one of our western comrades decided to try his hand at frying some of the nasty buggers who had been giving us bites at night. While we at first were repulsed, it turned out to be all right, especially the winged ones which made terrible noises in the heat of the day and during the evenings. Their carapaces gave a satisfying crunch and the flavour was nutty, so we soon became used to the vittles we ate.

In an officer's club, somewhere in the tropical rainforests of Dunwik, a Hebiðman walked in with a bundle of forms from his soldiers. Due to the lack of rain this far south, his clothes were thankfully mud free, but he was drenched through his shirt in sweat and redder than a tomato.

'Busy day?' said his colleagues already deep in the jars.

'Not the best.' he replied, turning around to firmly shut the door and stop the coolness from leaving the club. Surveying his surroundings, he saw that it was mostly men from other regiments and other provinces around him, not too many he knew. Dropping the paperwork next to his friend, he soon returned with a nice pitcher of cucumber water and tonic.

Not looking at each, the two of them got on with their tasks. The new arrival flipper through requests, the other nodding off and sipping his drinks periodically.

'Hey, lookit. You see this pile? That's all the requests stuff like slaves and farm equipment or land, right?'

'All right...'

'And these piles...' he said while waving his arms at the larger group. 'These are all the requests for money bonuses, radios, and nylons... Blooming nylons!'

'Lower your voice!'

'Sorry, but nylons!' he hissed now, quite a few decibels lower. 'I exaggerate a bit, but the number of things asking for nylons, fags, and chocolates has gone up. Either the men are fruits, or they are planning a good time. Either way, I am gobsmacked.'

'What's it to us if they're asking to be paid in nylons, gold, or washing machines? Seems reasonable 'nuff.'

'Jan, do you remember when we were private soldiers? Remember how all the other lads reacted when it came time for them to ask for their bonuses and such?'

'Please... No government names... And yeah, I remember. We got our farms.'

'Exactly. We got our farms, almost all of us got our farms. These boys... They're not interested in land, they're interested in girls, toys, and one has asked for his bonus to be paid almost exclusively in various types of alcohol. We have a real generation crisis here!'

Looking up at his all too sober friend, the drunkard considered whether to just crawl off and find a water trough to sleep in before finally opting to cup his head due to the headache he could feel coming on.

'You stupid sod. You're telling me that you are panicking over them not wanting to be farmers? WHY DOES IT BLEEDING MATTER TO US!'

'BECAUSE WE'VE GOT SO MUCH LAND TO GIVE, YOU LOUT!'

By now, most of the club was staring daggers at them and someone had opted to bang his cane against a table and point with it at a sign about keeping civil. Sufficiently cowed, the two returned to reasonable voices.

'We've got land to settle and no settlers! Both of us, you and I, barely have neighbours around where we live... It is a good fifty miles from my farm to yours. As bizarre as this might sound, I was hoping for some of them to end up near us too.'

'Why did you feel the need to tell me this now?'

A bit ashamed now, the sober man took a sip of his water.

'Well, I thought it was interesting.'

The drunkard feeling his headache worsening, took a hold of the pitcher and began drinking from it directly to run off the worst of his hangover.

'Give me those papers... I'll help you go through them so you can finish signing them faster. Once they're signed, we'll go out and spend some of our pay on those nylons and chocolates and see where they take us. You're too work focused if you think that was interesting.'

June 15th, 1915.
Brandman had a waddle in his walk, the scarred and swarthy man in his showy red suit swaggering back and forth with every step, the summons clenched in his fist. Perhaps it was necessary - the man was only four foot ten. Wiping a mixture of grease and sweat off of his forehead, he stumbled into an office, coming face-to-chest with a couple of engineers, and other pilots. Brandman blinked once, then waddled over to the table they were crowded around.


"Ya called?" Brandman asked coolly, completely ignoring the men and walking over to look at the blueprints. They displayed a few different aircraft. Four different kinds of plane. As he examined them, an engineer walked up to him.

"What do you think?"

"This one," Brandman placed his hand on a blueprint, "you fuckin' dunce, ya put the guns behind the propeller. It'd blow our face off!"

"No, we figured something out. There's a gear," the engineer said, "it's a way to synchronize the gun with the propeller. It's always shooting past the propeller."

"Alright then, lessee 'ere," Brandman said, looking at it, "this one's fine. Like it, there's two big guns in there. If it's in the cockpit, you can fix a jam. Foldin' wings seem nice, can fit a lot more on the runway, and those Sadaler hooks are great if you need a shorter strip. Could ya make the guns bigger?"

"Bigger?"

"Yeah, bigger. Bigger bullets. If you're up and get hit, you can shrug off quite a few rounds, 'less you're personally shot. Bigger bullets, fewer shots needed, and our flyboys could knock someone out faster."


The engineer shrugged, taking a few notes.

"This one?"

"That one? Looks like a bomber?"

"It's a fighter. New kind. Four guns. Two with the gear, two on the wings."

"Well, look, 'ere. You could put a bomb there too, can't ya?" 

"Yes?"

Manfred thought for a moment, trying to figure out what he was thinking. He considered trains, saddles, and shoes for a moment, before thinking, looking at the scope on a guard's rifle, and the way it slid onto a railing.

"What if ya had some kinda... rail. You'd slide your kit on or off 'pendin' on what ya need. So ya can have it either shoot or bomb. Kinda like a scope rail, ya just... slip on what ya need."

The engineer nodded again, scribbling down the notes. Brandman walked over to the other diagrams, but had nothing to note. 

December 2nd, 1915.

Harold Menser slowly wheeled his chair over to the holding tank for the new weapon, brushing his red doctor's cloak off to a side. He wasn't quite sure what he was looking at. To his eyes, it looked like a large mass of cotton, frequently specked with tiny black spots. Each and every one of them was moving, forming a nauseating, wavelike motion. These piles of cotton were kept in glass cases, fed with a constant drip of pig's blood. Fleas. These were infested with countless fleas, held on a warm heat plate and forced to eclose at proper schedules with a carbon dioxide pump. Other rooms in this laboratory held other, stranger things. Piles of grain covered in fungus, and barrel after barrel of a curious white powder, nicknamed "Arthur's Personal Coke Stash."

A man had died after snorting that one. While these were all made by Arthur, they weren't anything like weapons before. Menser continued wheeling himself along. He'd been exposed to innumerable foreign diseases in his adventuring days abroad, and knew them by name, the formal, Latin ones used in the scientific communities abroad. He had sat on a committee discussing these agents, one of historians, physicians, chemists, and logisticians.

Y. pestis, P. infestans, C. purpurea and B. anthracis. These were both new and old weapons. They predated civilization, and yet men had never wielded these. Not in the way Arthur was planning. The plan was deceptively simple when spoken, and, as Menser glanced at the exhausted chemists, virologists, the dozens of janitors who were assigned. The air reeked of bleach and ethanol, and Harold's skin was raw. All his clothes had been routinely replaced - and the old ones burned. 

"Did we ever try variola?" 

Harold turned, looking up from his musing to see Michael Ott, a chemist. Harold wheeled over to Michael and shrugged.

"It's not as useful, transmission from objects is hard and it's not like we can drop anyone infected in. Not to mention, vaccination," Harold said, "Tholes would sniff it out damn fast and would throw more needles than a Goldwater back alley. They probably started inoculating as soon as they landed."

"Not in the west."

"Alright then, how do we spread it? Not like the Loonies will just pick up a blanket that falls from the sky."

"Kids. We cover toys in it, drop 'em there. Kids grab 'em. Kids get sick. Kids spread it o'er to their parents. If we do it on the west, they'll run east for medical help, an' spread it there. It'll look real natural. Loonies will spread on a broad front across the coast, and that'll stretch the puye manchildren out too thin to get everywhere."
 
Harold shrugged, wheeling himself out of the room, and heading off to the director's office. What would this agent be called? Agent Red?



See post - frpfp.boards.net/thread/643/isaac-arthur-raises-dead