by James Hunt
Chief Irons’s young face had aged much since the last time Dean had spoken to him. The tolls of leadership had etched lines of stress on his mouth and forehead. “You believe this army will try and war with us?”
The other chiefs leaned in eagerly. While a year was a short time for peace in Dean’s world, for the clans it was a lifetime. They fed on combat, and the prospect of returning to glory was temptation itself. It was something Dean had planned on leveraging. “Yes, I do.”
Throaty groans and rising tempers flared through the council. Chief Fullock was the first to stand, beating his chest with his massive fist, each heavy thud followed by a harder strike. “The Scarvers will not let some army take what is rightfully ours. If they come here, we will cut them open and carve their hearts from their chests while they still beat until they see the face of the great Burned God with their dying eyes.”
Chief Irons and Chief Kuthos rose as well, offering their own sacrifices to their gods of mountains and sky. The ritual continued all the way around the council until it was only Dean who sat. While the clans gladly accepted war, he wondered if they would accept fighting with each other, instead of against. “This enemy that gathers at our gates is not to be taken lightly. They will come in numbers like you have never seen, and they will be well trained and fearless.”
“You call us cowards, Governor?” Chief Fullock asked, the scars and tattoos along his face twisting in anger. “The Scarvers are not some herd of young pups, too weak to defend themselves.”
“No, you are not, but the fact remains that the only way for us to survive is to stand together.” Dean rose, forcing himself not to step into the center of the circle, which would cause more harm than good. “As fast and strong as each of our warriors are alone, they will become unstoppable when paired together. We will come down on the Russians with a united front that they will not expect, and we will push them back to the very depths of the north from which they came.”
An unusually cold breeze rushed through the council, blowing the hairs and clothes astray, and sent a frigid chill up each of their backs. The rest of the council remained quiet, and it wasn’t until Chief Irons held out his palm, face up, that the others reacted. “The Black Rocks will fight with you, Governor.” The young chief turned to the rest of the clans. “The Black Rocks will fight with all of you.”
Chief Kuthos held out his palm in the same manner, the common expression of acceptance and agreement among the clans. “The Molthays will join this fight as well.”
One by one the other chiefs agreed, a wave of relief washing over Dean until there was only Chief Fullock. “You bring us threats of war and coercions of peace. I remember fighting you, Governor, on the fields of my land, bloodied with my people.”
“We will need the might of all the clans, Chief,” Dean replied. “And you would do me honor to join this cause. The Scarvers were some of the fiercest warriors I fought. The Russians would do well to worry if they see you on the field.”
“If?” Chief Fullock flashed his crooked and stained teeth in a wild smile. “These Russians will do well to make peace with their gods, for the Scarvers will rip out their organs and devour them while they watch.” The Scarvers Fullock had brought with him that stood outside the circle lifted their arms into the air, shouting their clan’s battle cries, their voices shrieking into the sky.
The hysteria grew to the others surrounding the council, each clansman feeling the drum of war beating within. As long as the clansmen focused on killing the Russians instead of each other in the heightened bloodlust, Dean knew they had a chance at winning.
***
A constant stream of officers and messengers flooded into Delun’s quarters, bringing news of their small victories along the island coasts. With the bulk of the Australian Navy away, the Pacific Islands to the Aussies’ north had been taken easily.
The small colonies were united only by the Australian namesake and had no military to contest. A few forts on some of the larger islands were all that stood in Delun’s way, and his sheer numbers consumed the land like locusts. His invasion of the islands had been seamless. But when the timid messenger delivered the news of the Australian fleet returning from Brazil, breaking the blockade of Sydney’s port, Delun forced the surprise back down into the pit of his stomach.
The messenger kept his head bowed, the strong grip of fear trembling the boy’s limbs at what retribution the emperor might seek for bringing him such news. “I’m sorry, Emperor, for disgracing your eyes with such disappointment.”
Delun stood, ignoring the messenger’s pleas. The Australian fleet wasn’t supposed to have returned for at least a week. The only way for them to have arrived in Sydney so quickly was if they were sent word, and while he knew the Australians had formidable numbers, they lacked leadership that possessed that type of foresight. Which told him that the Mars brother was still alive.
Delun brushed away the thought with the same enthusiasm he would tend a fly pestering him. In the end, the Mars brother’s participation would be of little significance. Delun knew it was only a matter of time before the North Americans began to interfere with his plans; their alliance with the Australians was too important. But with Rodion marching on them in their own lands, they would soon have to divert their attention elsewhere. “What were our casualties in the Australian invasion? Both men and ships.”
The messenger stuttered, caught off guard. “I-I’m sorry, Emperor, I was not given that information.”
The first look Delun cast to the messenger’s face nearly sent the boy to tears. “I would suggest you find out. And do so quickly.” The boy bowed then sprinted out of Delun’s tent.
Even with the Australians regrouping, he still had the islands secured. He would send the bulk of his force south to aid in the infiltration of Australia’s mainland. While the Australian forces were smaller, the sheer size of the continent was a problem. The islands offered little places to hide, but the massive landscape of the Australian Outback presented logistical difficulties, yet victory was not impossible.
However, he knew that the conquering of a people was difficult. While the Australians could be beaten, they wouldn’t soon forget the atrocities of war. The creation of a sustainable empire started not with the conquerors’ will, but of the acceptance of those that were conquered.
Delun left his quarters hastily, the guards stationed at his tent nearly missing him leaving. No matter what each soldier was doing, the moment Delun passed, the soldier discarded whatever duties they tended to and bowed. It was an instant reaction to Delun’s presence, a respect that was hard earned, the culmination of a lifetime of building trust.
Beyond the camp that Delun had established as his forward operating base, on the very southern tip of the Philippines colony, was one of the colony’s largest ports. The city had flourished after the Australians bolstered the islands with trade at the end of the Island Wars. It wasn’t long before it had become the central hub for the rest of the island colonies under Australian control.
Much of the rural inhabitants that lived inland flocked to the coast and brought with them the culture of their people, and the port had become the beating heart of the islands, welcoming newcomers to the Philippines’ unique atmosphere. Aside from the military value of holding such a large port so close to the Australian north, arguably the second most important aspect was the fact that this is where the sway of the people resided. And if Delun could win the heart, then the rest would fall into line.
Delun’s predecessors had failed because their reach was beyond their grasp. They used bullets and whips, trying to cast their newfound prisoners into slavery, forcing them to build their ships, sow their fields, and fight their wars. But just like so many before them, their empire crumbled between their fingers.
Much of that loss had to do with the Americans, but it also involved the Chinese approach of establishing themselves as conquerors, not liberators. As such, the island colonies welcomed the Americans with open arms. But Del
un would not allow history to repeat itself.
While the Australians weren’t cruel in their governance, they lacked resources to truly build the islands out to their potential. Both the people and the land remained mostly uncultivated, and Delun planned to change that.
Delun made his way to the docks where his soldiers had been unloading provisions from their ships night and day since their arrival. Engineers consulted with locals to help streamline the efficiency of goods arriving into port. Healers met with the sick. Carpenters helped rebuild homes destroyed during the battles. The humanitarian effort was equally as important as the war. He needed these people to trust him, to respect him. It was the only way to sustainability. And it was working.
The tent where the bulk of the healers worked was filled with hundreds of women, clutching their sick children, praying for help. Whispers of thanks and blessing filled the air as Delun walked past. Each syllable of acceptance permeated him into their lives.
Delun marched out the other end of the medical station, where educators began their lesson with children. His soldiers offered food and provisions to those with nothing. Whatever resistance the colony thought of producing was vanishing with every new Chinese ship that came into port. Now, instead of warships, they saw food, medicine, relief.
The promising sight was suddenly upended by a commotion near one of the unloading docks. A Filipino man was fighting with two soldiers, screaming at them to leave. Every head in the port turned to the commotion, and Delun marched over, his guards staying close to his side.
A rusted, bent sword lay on the ground next to the rebel as one of the soldiers bound his wrists then knocked him to his knees. The soldier that tied him up sported a bruise on his right cheek. The moment the Chinese sailors saw their emperor, they dropped to their knees and flattened the Filipino man onto his stomach.
“What happened here?” Delun’s voice was neither concerned nor forgiving at the sight. He’d instructed his men to only engage in physicality if they were greeted with force. Not only did it offer the colonies a gentle hand to hold onto, it also rested his soldiers for the fight to come with the Australians and Americans.
“This man drew his weapon and started slicing open our bags of grains.” The soldier kept his head down, pointing behind him to the spilled food on the dock.
Delun lifted the soldier’s chin, examining the lump under the man’s eye. “And he struck you?” The soldier nodded, and Delun grabbed the hilt of the prisoner’s rusty sword. He ran his thumb against the dull blade, surprised the weapon could have sliced through the coarse fabric holding the grains.
The rest of the dock had gone quiet, and Delun noticed that the local population had mimicked his own soldiers in kneeling. “We have come here to give you something that you have never had for yourselves.” Delun’s voice echoed across the open air, the sound of waves splashing between his words against the docks and ship hulls. “The Australians conquered you but never accepted you as one of their own. I come to do neither.”
A few of the Filipinos that hadn’t knelt stepped forward, eager to hear Delun’s words, eager to feel a control they’d never felt before, one that was placed in their own hands.
“The Chinese have been under the thumb of the west for too long. As have you!” The sword in Delun’s hand moved effortlessly in rhythm with his words. “I can offer you a better world, one within your control. All that I ask is your fealty. I promise you that I will be just, and I will be fair. But know that my generosity has limits.”
Delun motioned for the soldier to bring the Filipino man forward and rest his head on top of a crate. The man jerked and fidgeted but immediately stopped once Delun gently placed the edge of the rusty steel against his sweating neck. The man trembled at the touch, his defiance dripping from him with every tear.
The crowd watching drew in a collective breath, every eye watching Delun. He had them in the palm of his hand. “But I am not without mercy.” He removed the blade from the man’s neck. “Swear to me your loyalty, and I will have you live out your days in servitude.”
The man looked up; the lack of rod had resurrected the man’s courage. “You come here as a chameleon. You offer your food, your medicine, but it costs blood. Blood that my people will spill in the name of your war. If I do not die today, your men will die tomorrow.” He spit on the ground in his last act of defiance.
“Very well.” Delun brought the blade high above his head and swung down with a powerful force that wedged the rusting steel into the spine of his neck. Jagged pieces of flesh hung loosely from the gash, and blood splashed onto the dock. The man convulsed and bled out, half his head still hanging onto his body, the blade wedged in the wound. Delun turned to address the crowd. “That was the fate he chose.” Blood stained his hands and splattered his shirt. He pointed back to the body, still spasming, being carried away. “But that does not have to be yours!”
Then, slowly, one by one, what Filipinos remained standing bent their knees and lowered their heads. This was the first brick in the foundation of Delun’s empire. And if he needed to, he would layer it with the corpses of one rebellious villager at a time.
Chapter 6
A continual patrol of palace guards walked the high walls of the compound, and neither Ambassador Fung nor President Ruiz left their chambers without an armed escort. A shield of guns and bodies surrounded them, ready to die to protect the politicians if need be.
Since Jason Mars’s escape, Ruiz had spent most of his time reading reports from his scouts sent to find him, all of which were short and disappointing. The interrogation of the governor’s crew had been equally fruitless, every man refusing to betray their leader and their honor. Ruiz’s guards were still cleaning the blood from the deck of the ship.
The bounty Ruiz placed on Mars’s head had only brought imposters claiming they captured him, but none of the prisoners brought forth were the fugitive.
Worry grew in the back of Ruiz’s mind, festering into all of his thoughts and actions. It wouldn’t be long until Delun requested a status on the Mars governor, and he knew that the second Mars Governor would be sailing soon to wage his conquest in freeing his brother. Ruiz just hoped that Dean Mars stayed in the dark about his youngest brother’s predicament. The deceit that Ruiz held Jason Mars captive was a very important piece of information he wanted Dean to believe.
Ruiz leaned back on the plush cushions in his study and glanced up at a painting on the far wall. It showed a young couple lying underneath the shade of a tree on top of a hill overlooking a small town. The scenery was a far cry from the Brazilian landscape of mountains covered in thick patches of jungle, or the coast where the waves of the Atlantic beat against Rio’s shores.
The artist that created that piece of work had been a refugee from Europe. The man had painted it nearly forty years ago. He had said the picture reminded him of the woman he loved before the Great War. The old man was one of the last surviving members of that generation that had fled to South America after the bombs fell.
The course of history was altered all those years ago and was the main reason Ruiz had landed into power in the first place. The presidency of the wealthiest country in the world merely whetted his appetite for authority, and the alliance with the Chinese was nurtured for the sole purpose of expanding his reach beyond his own continent.
“Señor Presidente.” Ambassador Fung stood at the doorway to Ruiz’s study, bowing his head in a show of respect. “I have word from Emperor Delun about the advances in the Pacific.”
Ruiz scoffed. “Emperor.” He would let Delun operate under the illusion of his own importance for a while longer. “Delun can only call himself that because of the resources I provided him.” All of the materials he funneled to the Chinese were for the sole purpose of establishing a foothold in the east. As the central hub of global trade, he’d established relationships with many leaders.
Every conversation was a seed planted in the minds of Ruiz’s adversaries. And over time, those seeds
would blossom into new riches and power that he would harvest. But after his conversation with Governor Mars, he knew they would not bend willingly. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
Ambassador Fung inclined his head slightly. “Taking a lesson in studies of history from Delun, Señor Presidente?”
Ruiz couldn’t help but notice that Fung had dropped the “emperor” title behind closed doors. The man was cunningly perceptive, something that Ruiz both admired and found concerning. “Delun would do well to take a few lessons from me.” The letter Fung brought was nothing more than the news of the Australian fleet reaching Sydney, ending the blockade and siege against the only port yet to fall on the Australian coast.
“And what lessons would you impart to Delun, Presidente?” Fung laced his words with enough curiosity and intrigue that Ruiz almost believed the question was genuine. But such were the words of snakes in the viper pit.
Ruiz made his way over to the painting, examining it at a different angle. “Delun believes that he is a better solution than the Australians, and the Australians believe they are a better solution than the Chinese. Yet neither the Chinese nor the Australians can support themselves. The only common link between the two is me.” Ruiz grazed the painting with his fingertip. Tiny bumps from the grooves of the brush and oil pressed against him, and he saw the smudge of his print where he’d touched it.
“Your contributions to Delun will not go unnoticed,” Fung said.
“No,” Ruiz replied, still staring at the painting, “but that’s because he won’t have a choice in the matter.” He turned back around to Fung. “Do you know the history of the atomic bomb, Ambassador?” Fung shook his head. “It’s quite an interesting one. The scientists and engineers that constructed the weapon wanted to save lives, not end them. They’d justified the death the weapon created in the name of protecting the living from those that wished to murder the masses. And it wasn’t long before every nation in the world tried replicating what the first creators had done, and they succeeded. For years, the great nations produced these weapons in an arms race unlike anything seen before. But despite the end of traditional warfare, and the disarmament of much of the original nuclear arsenal they’d created, the very weapons designed to protect them became their undoing. And do you know why?”