Dystopia 2000 A.D.

[Grey Wolf]

The interregnum continued. Emperor Paulus II was dead these two months, but still the heir to the throne, the Prince of the Americas remained in a secret Brasilian prison. This had been top secret information, before the untimely death of his father, but now that it was out in the open there still did not seem to be much that the Imperial Government could do about it. The Imperial Prime Minister, the Duke of Quebec, John Wellesley, had been negotiating with the Empire of Brasil non-stop since the crisis first broke, but Pedro VII remained adamant. Prince Victor, Prince of the Americas and rightful ruler of the British Empire was a terrorist and remained in jail as a terrorist. It all went back, of course, to the secessionist movements in Northern Brasil, and the Government of British Guyana's continued backing for such movements. Prince Victor had been leading a raid in the jungle across the border when he had been captured. By Rio de Janeiro's legal. definition he was indeed a terrorist. London had resorted to trying to buy his freedom, offering vast sums or even commercial concessions to the Brasilians, but Emperor Pedro VII had summed his situation up concisely - all threats to the territorial integrity of Brasil, from whatever quarter they came, must be eliminated. So Prince Victor, de jure Emperor, remained incarcerated and his brother, the Duke of Jamaica ruled as Regent. But Prince Julian was almost universally hated. There had been moves in the past to bar him from the succession, but his father had always shied away from such conflict. Julian had killed one of his own slaves in a fit of rage - that was established fact. Whether he was responsible for the death of others, both in Jamaica and back in Britain, was a subject of rumour but many believed the worsrt of him. Now, there was even talk, at first whispered but later shouted in the taverns, that Prince Martinus, youngest son of the late Emperor and a full two decades junior to the captive Victor, should take over. Martinus, Prince of Ghana, was seen as young and dynamic, untainted by personal or political controversy. Of course, his relative youth and obscurity and the fact that he spent most of his time in the Malay Straits Colonies meant that people simply had not yet had the chance to discover much about him. But he remained the popular - even populist - choice, and the fact of his presence in London could only raise tensions that bit higher than they already were.

Grey Wolf

 

[Grey Wolf]

The Royal Palace at Asuncion was a heaving mass of colourful life. After two weeks in the Paraguayan capital, Sir James Monroe was used to this now. He scarcely noticed the scarlet-jacketed soldiers who thronged the hallways, or the white-tuniced nobles who walked as if they owned the place, a strut setting off their discomfort at being in the lair of the wolf, as King Enrique II was lovingly known to his people, and less lovingly to his enemies.
He moved confidently through into an ornately-panelled office, and closed the door behind him. Inside, a man hidden from view from those outside rose to greet him.
"Sir James", it was an unexpected voice, a heavy Germanic accent. Its owner was a heavy-sat man wth bushy sideburns and whitening hair, a strong grip in his hand as he shook Sir James' proferred hand.
"Herr Schmitt", Sir James laughed at the name, "Has there been any reply ?"
"Of sorts", Schmitt sat back down as the other man took his seat beside the desk, "General Dos Santos is acting as intermediary between our interests and the Prince Imperial."
"Dos Santos ? He must be eighty if he's a day."
"He still weilds considerable power at court."
"Enough for our purposes ?", Sir James poured two measures of whisky into a pair of cut glass tumblers, "I had hoped we could get one of the powerful aristocrats on our side."
"With the factionism rife in Rio, coming out too clearly could be an invitation to get themselves locked up."
"Hmm", Sir James handed him a glass, "What does Dos Santos offer us ?"
"His offer ?", Schmitt sipped at the viscous liquid, "Or his qualities ?"
"Ah", Sir James smiled at the misunderstanding, "I meant more the latter."
"Of course", Schmitt nodded slowly, "He was the Prince Imperial's commanding officer in the war against the Kingdom of Peru. They have remained in touch since. He lives at court since his retirement, and is much looked up to by younger officers. His family own substantial estates in the South, some thousands of slaves, but the general himself lives less ostentatiously in the capital."
"Connections", Sir James leant back and snipped the end off a cigar, "But do they add up?"
Schmitt shrugged and sipped again at his whisky,
"As yet our progress is shrouded in darkness. We await a response in detail. We have only had confirmation that that Dos Santos will act for us."
"I understand. Is there a timeframe ?"
"I see none.", Schmitt waved an arm in the air, "I do not believe it will be long, but the exact timing is in the Hands of Fate."
"Indeed. What will you do immediately ?", Sir James set his glass down and rose to his feet.
Schmitt understood it in the manner in which it was asked, as a dismissal. He rose also to his feet,
"Tonight is the soiree at the Bavarian Embassy. Naturally, I shall attend."
"Naturally", Sir James opened the door, "Until we hear more."
"Indeed", Schmitt took his hat from the hatstand and placed it back upon his head, "Good day, Sir James."
"Good day, Herr Schmitt."

Grey Wolf

 

[Archangel Michael]

I thought it was inapproraite to call someone who was knighted just Sir James or Sir James Monroe, unless of course he's a baronet. Other than that, good writing.

 

[Grey Wolf]

I thought it was inapproraite to call someone who was knighted just Sir James or Sir James Monroe, unless of course he's a baronet. Other than that, good writing.

Is it ?

What would you call them ? James ? Seems far too familiar and Mr Monroe is not correct

Grey Wolf

 

[Grey Wolf]

It would be inappropriate as in wrong to call him Sir Monroe of course

Grey Wolf

 

[Michael Canaris]

Depends on his Order (from my G&S, I recall the following lines of HMS Pinafore: "O'er the bright blue sea / Comes Sir Joseph Porter, KCB.")

 

[Archangel Michael]

Is it ?

What would you call them ? James ? Seems far too familiar and Mr Monroe is not correct

Grey Wolf

You coudl call him Sir James. You just can't call him Sir Monroe. Sorry 'bout that.

 

[Landshark]

Oi Wolf!

Paragraphs would be nice.

 

[Grey Wolf]

Oi Wolf!

Paragraphs would be nice.

You mean fake spacings with blank lines ? It is paragraphed if you note where the lines end otherwise

Grey Wolf

 

[Grey Wolf]

Part 3 (with some attempt at paragraph spacing)

There was increased security around the Dragon's Mouth, a name the entrance to the London Palace of Government had adopted from the unofficial to the formal. Gold-helmeted Imperial Guards stood at the head of the giant rampway leading down into the underground complex. A small queue of staff stood waiting for their identity cards to be scanned; it was early yet, if the guards intended to keep up this practice throughout the day the queues would be horrendous by mid-morning.
Lancelot Hetherington stood and waited. It was a pleasant June day, the sky was blue, the flags on their staffs flapping gently in an early morning breeze. The rampant unicorn of the empire seemed almost to fly above their heads as they waited.

"Next", the guard's tone was gruff, businesslike.
Unconcerned, Lancelot handed over his black and gold card. The guard placed it inside a snap-shut reader, and reviewed the screen on the surface.
"Hmmm" he said.
Lancelot did not like the sound of that,
"Is there a problem ?" he asked, surprised.
Usually the identity cards were not called into use. By law he had to update it from his workplace databank once a month, and he clearly remembered having done so in mid-May. There ought not to be a problem with the up-to-date nature of his data. Perhaps the card had malfunctioned ?
"Please stand over here", the guard motioned him aside.
"Over here ?", Lancelot looked across towards a small hut he had been vaguely aware of before, but would probably have forgotten had anyone ever asked him to describe the entrance in detail.
"If you would."
There was no hostility in the guard's voice, so Lancelot moved to where he had been requested to stand. A colleague in the queue behind him studiously avoided meeting his eyes. What was going on ?

A few minutes later, a Guards Officer, red-plumed helmet under a brawny arm, came across to him.
"This should only take a few minutes." he informed him.
Lancelot nodded and allowed himself to be led to where a black-and-gold command car was parked just out of sight, behind the rampway's curving wall.
"Take a seat"
He sat, looking around the deserted vehicle with interest. High-specification electronics buzzed and flashed around him, all apparently monitoring itself, unless the officer had cleared out the crew just for him.
"Lancelot Gaius Hetherington ?"
"Yes"
"I am Strike Commander Paulus O'Leary."
"Aha", Lancelot was not sure what to say to that, but viewed it as a hopeful sign that the officer was no longer an anonymous character.
"You have interests in the Penang Transit Company ?"
The question came out of the blue. Lancelot frowned, then nodded,
"I have five percent share-holding."
"You have interests in the Malay Rubber Company ?"
"Yes, maybe two percent, it is a much bigger..."
The officer cut him off,
"You have interests in the Malay-Johore Railway Company, the Malay-Siam Railway Company and the Malay-Sumatra Steamship Company ?"
"Small interests, yes."
Lancelot couldn't imagine why his business interests were of interest to the Imperial Guard, but decided that raising that issue might not be the best option at the present moment.
"Other than the Malay Straits Colonies, where-else do you have interests ?"
"The Kingdom of Paraguay, Spanish La Plata, and the Kingdom of Madagscar."
"What percentage of your business interests is represented by your holdings in Malay Straits companies ?"
"Er", Lancelot did a quick calculation in his head, "About sixty percent."
"Hmmm" said O'Leary.
There was a momentary silence, unnerving to Lancelot, then the Guard officer asked, unexpectedly,
"Are you aware of who is the main share-holder in the Penang Transit Company, the Malay Rubber Company and the three aforementioned Railway Companies ?"
"I know that Prince Martinus holds fifty percent of Penang Transit."
"Correct", O'Leary looked hard at him, "Prince Martinus is the main share-holder of all five companies."
"Aha", Lancelot could not think of any other, more intelligent, comment to make.
"Please wait here"
Lancelot considered asking why, but before he could garner the courage the Guards Officer was gone, jumping down from the command car to the concrete outside.

Lancelot looked around him. Several of the screens, flat plasma-screens he noted, showed surveillance camera footage of the rampway, and several service entrances to the Palace of Government. At each one, a growing queue was lined up, waiting for gold-helmeted guards to view their identity cards and pass them on. Lancelot noted that at each entrance there was now a small body of men and women standing aside, looking confused and nervous as the rest of their colleagues were admitted into the underground complex. What was going on ?

After a space of five minutes or so, Strike Leader O'Leary returned, this time in the company of a blue-plumed officer, an older man with a stern and chiselled face.
"Guard Commander Horatio Mann", O'Leary introduced his superior, then departed.
The new arrival looked across at Lancelot, and harumphed,
"Read this"
He thrust a digital tablet into his hand. Lancelot activated its backlight, and read the text upon the screen.
"Is this serious ?!" he asked, incredulously.
"Very serious", the Guard Commander at last sat down opposite Lancelot, "By order of the Regent."
"I see", Lancelot was indeed beginning to understand, "What am I to do in order to comply ?"
"Use the touchpad, button 3"
Lancelot did so. Another page of text appeared. He read with a growing sense of alarm,
"Sixty percent of my wealth is tied up in Malay Straits companies !" he protested.
"You have managed your business affairs with alacrity", Mann replied, "The residual value of your estate remains high."
Lancelot was numb. Surely, the government could not simply do this, without recourse to the body of law...
"You would be highly advised to sign the Agreement." Mann said levelly.
His hands shaking, Lancelot took the stylus from its holder and scribbled his signature across the tablet.
"Thank you", the Guard Commander checked the scrawl against that on the card-reader, nodded and handed Lancelot back his identity card.
"I will escort you to the entrance. You are free to enter."
"Thank you"
Lancelot noted that his voice was little more than a high-pitched squeak.
The Guard Commander either did not notice, or expected no less. He jumped down from the command car and walked swiftly towards the Dragon's Mouth. Lancelot hurried to keep up with him, his heart still fluttering from having signed away the majority of his personal fortune...

Grey Wolf

 

[Grey Wolf]

Part 4

The gold command car, rampant unicorn resplendant on its side, made an incongruous sight in this part of downtown London. Headed by a duo-cycle, its twin riders vigilant of both traffic and passers-by, and tailed by a small haulage vehicle, the command car turned into a housing estate, and pulled up on a grassy verge. With a hiss of hydraulics the side-door hissed open. No ramp descended, and the two men who exited jumped down the couple of feet to the ground.
"Is this location secure ?", the younger man asked, looking around him with vague interest.
"I believe so, your highness", one of the duo-cycle riders had dismounted and was scanning the area with an instrument from his belt.
"Get the equipment from the h-v", the younger man commanded.
His companion, the other man from the command car, barked a command, and the vehicle at the rear of the small group opened up. He trotted across the grass and began organising the half-dozen men who emerged from it.
The younger man turned and climbed back up into the golden vehicle.

Inside, an electronic hum pulsed gently, a half dozen men and women sitting at monitors, watching carefully a variety of images and code roll across the screen.
"You will stop running ?"
The speaker was a young woman, perhaps not much more than a girl, who sat half-naked upon a plush cushion over to one side. She sipped at a glass of reddish liquid held in one delicate hand, her oriental features caught in the light of the monitors making her look even more exotic.
"There is nowhere left to run", the young man told it as it was.
He poured himself a glass of the liquid, and took a long sharp draught,
"Ah...", he exhaled, "A taste of home."
"May we live to see it again."
He looked across at her, then bit back the retort that was on the tip of her tongue. After all, she was right.

The array was now being set-up on the grass, a handful of interested children having been driven off by the duo-cycle riders waving their weapons at them. They still watched, but at a distance, curious but not too interested just yet.
"Sir", one of the men from the haulage vehicle banged out a salute, fist against his chest, "The array is functional."
"Good", the older man nodded, "Link it up to the command car."
He turned towards the other men, now standing around idle, their task completed,
"Shoulder arms and set up a defensive perimeter."
"Yes sir", they chorussed, trotting back to the haulage vehicle to fetch their rifles.
He nodded. They would do...

"Your highness, we have a live feed."
The female technician swivelled in her chair and awaited the next command.
"Good", the younger man stood up, disengaging himself from an embrace with the oriental woman, "Is this passive ?"
"At the moment, your highness. As soon as we go live, they will know where we are."
"I understand that, Suzette."
"Of course, your highness."
They turned as the older man climbed back inside the command car.
"We have a perimeter", he reported, "It should give us a few minutes. I would advise you to suit up now, your highness. We only need your face on the active feed."
"When is the optimum moment to go live ?"
"In about five minutes", the other man glanced at the old-fashioned clock above the hatchway leading to the driver's cab, "We will interrupt the 09:00 update."
"I will dress", the younger man decided.

Outside, the children had been joined by a number of adults, holding back in the face of the duo-cycle riders' weapons.
The two black-suited men stood legs apart, weapons drawn but held across their body, a silent menace but not a very subtle one.
As yet the small convoy was simply a curious sight. In a few minutes that would change, and they would have to be ready.

Himself now dressed in a plain black riding suit, the younger man embraced the girl,
"Take care" he whispered into her jet black hair.
"You are the one who needs that", she said, defiance in her voice.
"That, perhaps is true. But you will be in more danger in the immediate term."
"Your highness, it is time to go live." Suzette reported.
"Sit here, your highness" the older man motioned him to a plinth-seat facing a camera.
He did so,
"Ready ?"
"Go live, your highness" Suzette gave the instruction.
"This is Prince Martinus, Duke of Ghana...", he began his broadcast.

Grey Wolf

 

[Grey Wolf]

Part 5

"Sir James !"
He turned, surprise on his face. Striding urgently across the floor of one of the royal palace's sumptious art galleries was the British Ambassador. He didn't know whether to smile or frown at that. Lord Graham Poynton usually had as little as possible to do with the Specialist, whom he viewed as an interloper into his domain.
"I trust you are well, my lord ?"
"Never mind about that", Lord Graham smoothed down his oiled black hair, "We need to talk - now."
"As you wish. My office is not far away."
"Lead on"
There was little courtesy, and much haste in the other man's voice. Sir James attempted to analyse the possibilities as they made their way at some pace through the halls of the royal palace. White-tuniced nobles made way for them, red-jacketed guards watched with curiosity as the Britishers walked swiftly in their midst. Anything different was interesting, and this was very different - Britishers losing their formality in public.
Sir James closed the door behind them, and motioned the Ambassador to a chair in front of the fireplace.
"Whisky ?" he asked.
"Never mind about that", Lord Graham pulled a digital tablet out of his pocket, "Read this."
Sir James completed pouring himself a whisky, then took the proferred device. He operated the backlight and read it. His face darkened,
"I do not understand." he said.
"Understanding is not necessary", Lord Graham was to the point, "It is an order of the Regent. It has ultimate authority."
"I understand that.", Sir James would not allow himself to be patronised, "Are you going to comply ?"
The ambassador was quiet a moment, then he looked pointedly at the small table,
"I think I will have that whisky, after all."

Sir James waited until he had poured it and handed it to his guest.
Lord Graham took down a healthy draught, and breathed out a fiery breath,
"I am ordered to comply."
"I would imagine that you are."
"London does not understand the complexities."
"That is for sure", Sir James added more whisky to his own glass, "I can assure you that I will not sign over my Penang Transit shares."
"I did not think that you would.", Lord Graham sighed, "There will be others like you."
"It is an order of tyranny", Sir James pointed out.
"I think that is rather harsh.", but there was little confidence in the ambassador's voice. Backing up the orders of the Regent had been hard work since the Interregnum began. Now it threatened to be impossible.
"I have the share certificates here, in a bank vault. Whilst they remain in my possession, they remain legally mine, order of the Regent or not."
"I know that," Sir Graham emptied his glass, "I do not think that this is understood in London, however. Stockholdings there are largely digital."
"One learns when that is not a good idea", Sir James said grimly, "As legal owner of the shares I can sell them to whomsoever I please, subject to no controls."
"Is that a way out of the impasse ?", Lord Graham looked both hopeful and worried at the same time.
"I think Panchito would take them."
"All of them ? My secretary believes that there are over a dozen individuals in Asuncion alone to whom this order applies."
"Panchito's wealth has few boundaries."
"And his interest ?"
"Ah", Sir James laughed there, "One could make it worth his while."
"I am not authorised to enter into commercial transactions without the express permission of the Regent."
"Would you prefer trying to forcibly remove stock certificates from the British community ?"
Lord Graham was silent for a moment, then rose to his feet,
"I most certainly would not. Where is Prince Francisco ? Do you know"
"I believe he is upon the river.", Sir James referred to the heir to the Paraguayan throne, known popularly as Panchito, but formally as Francisco.
"You will meet with him."
It was a statement, not a question. For a moment Sir James considered objecting to that - he was not at the beck and call of the Ambassador. He had extra-jurisdictional presence in his role as Specialist in the crisis. But, it was true - he would speak to Panchito.
"I will report progress by lunchtime", he promised.
Lord Graham nodded, made to say something, thought better of it and let himself out of the room.
Sir James watched him go, then made his way across to the old-fashioned black telephone upon its stand. He dialled a four-digit number.
"Schmitt", said a voice, simply.
"Meet me at the Fourth Ferry Terminal."
Sir James put down the receiver, and walked towards the door.

The riverside was heaving. Come to mention it, all Paraguay was heaving. King Enrique II's government had implemented several much-needed reforms, overturning the incompetent corruption of his predecessor, replacing it, some would say, with a far more workable version.
Barges, ferries and cargo ships passed each other, a large group of smaller vessels milling around where a white and red steamship was lazily churning the waters, the sound of a brass band upon her decks audible from the shore.
"Herr Schmitt"
"Sir James"
They stood under a sign, in Paraguay's peculiar dialect of Spanish, anouncing the Fourth Ferry Terminal. Crowds of women were boarding the boats, children milling around in holiday fashion - little caring where they were, running as wild as their mothers or aunts or governesses would allow.
Sir James looked the other in the eye,
"London throws a spanner in the works."
"Ah", the German nodded, "A colloquialism, but its meaning is clear."
"Can you get me onboard the royal yacht ?"
The German laughed, then nodded,
"It can be done. Do you require access immediately ?"
"Unfortunately so."
"I hope you have a bulging wallet upon your person."
"Naturally"
The German led him through the crowd to where a small Police cutter was tied alongside, its crew enjoying an early lunch.

Aboard the yacht, a lazy afternoon ball was in progress. It was Autumn in this hemisphere, and the dancers wore what for Paraguay was a lot of clothes.
As the police cutter pulled up alongside, several red-jacketed soldiers detached themselves from the Heir's party and moved menacingly to the side. The police had strict orders not to interfere with the yacht, or anything that went on aboard her.
A hurried conversation, the passing of a package in a brown envelope and all was smiles again. Two men walked back towards Prince Francisco in the company of the soldiers.

Panchito looked up from the dancers, an enquisitive look crossing the mask of his face.
"Sir James Monroe" he recognised the Britisher.
He nodded to the German but did not utter his name.
"Please sit, both of you."
"Thank you, your highness", Sir James looked pointedly at the seat beside the prince. It was occupied by a white-tuniced noble, but on a sharp nod from the heir the man hastily vacated it and moved off to find a less intrusive perch. Sir James sat in his stead.
"I see that this is business, not pleasure." Panchito spoke in a low voice."
"I am afraid so, your highness."
The Paraguayan prince nodded. He looked at the German who was sitting, seemingly watching the dancers with a rapt expression. Then he looked at the other nobles seated around him, all of whom were studiously ignoring the Britisher and his intrusion.
"You can speak here."
"Thank you", Sir James took a glass of wine from the Prince's own hand, "The British community is going to need to dispose of a large number of stock certificates in a very short space of time."
"This is unconnected with your mission ?", Panchito expressed a degree of surprise.
"By order of the Regent all publically quoted companies in the Malay Straits Colonies will have their assets sequestered to the Crown."
"I see that it is indeed unconnected to your mission."
"Where these assets are held digitally they can simply be acquired without the holder's permission. But foreign communities such as ours prefer to hold the actual certificate. Legally the shares are ours whilst the certificate remains in our hands."
"I am sure", Panchito drained his glass and looked sharply at the British man, "If you have a proposition, come out and state it. We can leave the details to the accountants."
"Yes of course, your highness.", Sir James took a deep breath, "I have advised the Ambassador that the British community should offer any such certificates to yourself for purchase."
"Oh ?", Panchito's eyes shone with amusement, "And I will buy them ?"
"Lord Graham will remove the block on Paraguayans investing in the British Parana and British La Plata Steamship Companies."
"Aha !", Panchito now focused his full attention on the British knight, "Then please convey to the British community my interest in purchasing any surplus stock certificates that they might have."
"It will be a pleasure, your highness."
"Meanwhile, stay and enjoy the dancing. We will dock in an hour."
"Of course, your highness"
Sir James hoped that they had an hour...

Grey Wolf

 

[Grey Wolf]

Part 6

The bar was all but deserted at this hour. Normally he would not have drunk alcohol so early in the morning, but it had been a hectic couple of hours since he had finally made his way down the rampway into the Palace of Government. He had mixed his normal admiistrative duties with urgent telephone calls to his brokers and his bankers. A search of the stock market gazette's files had revealed several other companies, mainly Madagascan but also Spanish La Platan, that Prince Martinus had stockholdings in, whilst not being the major stockholder. To be on the safe side, Lancelot had liquidated these assets and invested in Paraguayan gold. He now needed a break...

The barman stood polishing the marble top, looking curiously at the couple of people sitting alone, drinking a cold glass of beer at this hour of the morning. He could only wonder what was going on. He himself had been stopped at the service entrance and had had to hand over his identity card. Then he had been let in. At that time he had seen nobody told to stand aside, but now stories were circulating that dozens of people had been led off by the Imperial Guards, some of them to reappear with a haggard look upon their faces, others to not descend into the Palace of Government at all.

The television screens were on, rolling news covering the latest in the Guatemala-Spanish wars that seemed interminable upon the Central American isthmus. Ever since the Captain Generalcy had won its independence in a bloody revolt forty years ago it had been the source of trouble in that region, backing rebels in the Spanish-held areas further South, gun-running to the Miskit, and fighting a series of inconclusive wars with the Spanish. A new one had blown up, its cause lost in the details, but the film footage of bombing raids on San Salvador and Belize City still made good ratings on the television stations.
09:00 was approaching, the hourly update no doubt being prepared in the newsroom. One could imagine the anchors getting their hair-pieces ready, the cameramen barking instructions, the make-up artists doing last minute brush-ups before the 'On' light went up.
One could also imagine their stunned faces as a high-powered transmitter cut across all broadcast channels...

This is Prince Martinus, Duke of Ghana announced a young and pleasant-looking man, clearly seated in some kind of vehicle, perhaps a mobile broadcast studio.
Lancelot looked up in surprise and alarm. What was this ?
At 05:00 this morning, the Regent, my brother, sent a death squad to my Hamstead palace. My chamberlain and valet were killed, but due to the loyal service of my guards I was able to escape. The Regent has begun filling the airwaves with lies, and with deceit, slandering my name and...
For a moment the broadcast went down, replaced by a surge of static. Lancelot noticed vaguely that the bar was suddenly filling up, people drifting in from the concourse to see what was going on. The signal returned, flickering slightly, and with the voice of technicians audible behind that of the prince,
For the past two months the Regent has governed with increasing tyranny. This morning he makes his move to seize complete power. The Imperial Senate is to be prorogued...
"Get a check on that !", somebody in the bar behind him yelled, drowning out the latter part of the prince's sentence.
"Turn it up !" a woman demanded of the barman as the prince's signal flickered again, and returned even fainter than before.
...to sequestrate the entire stock of all Malay Straits Colonies companies in the hope that it will destroy any financial base that I might have. These are acts of tyranny, I say again, and I call upon the people of the British Empire to..."
With that the signal at last went down, the static suddenly replaced by the imperial rampant unicorn upon a black field, the holding signal by order of the Imperial Palace, usually reserved for occasions such as the death of the monarch.
The bar erupted into noise.

Grey Wolf

 

[Grey Wolf]

Doh !

Of course, I realise there is a slight problem of continuity as what is 09:00 in London is very early in the morning in Paraguay. I could either set back the London time and make it an early morning party, or rewrite the Paraguayan piece to set it in the early hours of the morning. It appears that Midnight is a common time to START going out there, so a party aboard a royal yacht still going on at say 3 a.m. would not be too much of a surprise

Grey Wolf

 

[Grey Wolf]

Part 5 (amended)

"Sir James !"
He looked up in surprise from where he sat in one of the royal palace's sumptious art galleries, listening to a performance by a string quartet on tour from Fance. Striding urgently across the floor was the British Ambassador. He didn't know whether to smile or frown at that. Lord Graham Poynton usually had as little as possible to do with the Specialist, whom he viewed as an interloper into his domain. Sir James excused himself and edged away from the crowd.
"I trust you are well, my lord ?"
"Never mind about that", Lord Graham smoothed down his oiled black hair, "We need to talk - now."
"As you wish. My office is not far away."
"Lead on"
There was little courtesy, and much haste in the other man's voice. Sir James attempted to analyse the possibilities as they made their way at some pace through the halls of the royal palace. White-tuniced nobles made way for them, red-jacketed guards watched with curiosity as the Britishers walked swiftly in their midst. Anything different was interesting, and this was very different - Britishers losing their formality in public.
Sir James closed the door behind them, and motioned the Ambassador to a chair in front of the fireplace.
"Whisky ?" he asked.
"Never mind about that", Lord Graham pulled a digital tablet out of his pocket, "Read this."
Sir James completed pouring himself a whisky, then took the proferred device. He operated the backlight and read it. His face darkened,
"I do not understand." he said.
"Understanding is not necessary", Lord Graham was to the point, "It is an order of the Regent. It has ultimate authority."
"I understand that.", Sir James would not allow himself to be patronised, "Are you going to comply ?"
The ambassador was quiet a moment, then he looked pointedly at the small table,
"I think I will have that whisky, after all."

Sir James waited until he had poured it and handed it to his guest.
Lord Graham took down a healthy draught, and breathed out a fiery breath,
"I am ordered to comply."
"I would imagine that you are."
"London does not understand the complexities."
"That is for sure", Sir James added more whisky to his own glass, "I can assure you that I will not sign over my Penang Transit shares."
"I did not think that you would.", Lord Graham sighed, "There will be others like you."
"It is an order of tyranny", Sir James pointed out.
"I think that is rather harsh.", but there was little confidence in the ambassador's voice. Backing up the orders of the Regent had been hard work since the Interregnum began. Now it threatened to be impossible.
"I have the share certificates here, in a bank vault. Whilst they remain in my possession, they remain legally mine, order of the Regent or not."
"I know that," Sir Graham emptied his glass, "I do not think that this is understood in London, however. Stockholdings there are largely digital."
"One learns when that is not a good idea", Sir James said grimly, "As legal owner of the shares I can sell them to whomsoever I please, subject to no controls."
"Is that a way out of the impasse ?", Lord Graham looked both hopeful and worried at the same time.
"I think Panchito would take them."
"All of them ? My secretary believes that there are over a dozen individuals in Asuncion alone to whom this order applies."
"Panchito's wealth has few boundaries."
"And his interest ?"
"Ah", Sir James laughed there, "One could make it worth his while."
"I am not authorised to enter into commercial transactions without the express permission of the Regent."
"Would you prefer trying to forcibly remove stock certificates from the British community ?"
Lord Graham was silent for a moment, then rose to his feet,
"I most certainly would not. Where is Prince Francisco ? Do you know"
"I believe he is hosting a late-night party upon the river.", Sir James referred to the heir to the Paraguayan throne, known popularly as Panchito, but formally as Francisco.
"You will meet with him."
It was a statement, not a question. For a moment Sir James considered objecting to that - he was not at the beck and call of the Ambassador. He had extra-jurisdictional presence in his role as Specialist in the crisis. But, it was true - he would speak to Panchito.
"I will report progress by lunchtime", he promised.
Lord Graham nodded, made to say something, thought better of it and let himself out of the room.
Sir James watched him go, then made his way across to the old-fashioned black telephone upon its stand. He dialled a four-digit number.
"Schmitt", said a voice, simply.
"Meet me at the Fourth Ferry Terminal."
Sir James put down the receiver, and walked towards the door.

The riverside was heaving. Come to mention it, all Paraguay was heaving. King Enrique II's government had implemented several much-needed reforms, overturning the incompetent corruption of his predecessor, replacing it, some would say, with a far more workable version.
Barges, ferries and cargo ships passed each other, all lit up brghtly with a variety of lights. A large group of smaller vessels milled around where a white and red steamship was lazily churning the waters, the sound of a brass band upon her decks audible from the shore.
"Herr Schmitt"
"Sir James"
They stood under a sign, in Paraguay's peculiar dialect of Spanish, anouncing the Fourth Ferry Terminal. Late-night crowds surged around; lovers, families at the end of a night out upon the river, businessmen - and there were many of those in Paraguay - returning from entertainment no doubt paid for by their companies, or their governments, no questioned asked about what the floating pleasure barges actually contained.
Sir James looked the other in the eye,
"London throws a spanner in the works."
"Ah", the German nodded, "A colloquialism, but its meaning is clear."
"Can you get me onboard the royal yacht ?"
The German laughed, then nodded,
"It can be done. Do you require access immediately ?"
"Unfortunately so."
"I hope you have a bulging wallet upon your person."
"Naturally"
The German led him through the crowd to where a small Police cutter was tied alongside, its crew enjoying a late supper.

Aboard the yacht, a lazy late night ball was in progress. It was Autumn in this hemisphere, and the dancers wore what for Paraguay was a lot of clothes.
As the police cutter pulled up alongside, several red-jacketed soldiers detached themselves from the Heir's party and moved menacingly to the side. The police had strict orders not to interfere with the yacht, or anything that went on aboard her.
A hurried conversation, the passing of a package in a brown envelope and all was smiles again. Two men walked back towards Prince Francisco in the company of the soldiers.

Panchito looked up from the dancers, an enquisitive look crossing the mask of his face.
"Sir James Monroe" he recognised the Britisher.
He nodded to the German but did not utter his name.
"Please sit, both of you."
"Thank you, your highness", Sir James looked pointedly at the seat beside the prince. It was occupied by a white-tuniced noble, but on a sharp nod from the heir the man hastily vacated it and moved off to find a less intrusive perch. Sir James sat in his stead.
"I see that this is business, not pleasure." Panchito spoke in a low voice."
"I am afraid so, your highness."
The Paraguayan prince nodded. He looked at the German who was sitting, seemingly watching the dancers with a rapt expression. Then he looked at the other nobles seated around him, all of whom were studiously ignoring the Britisher and his intrusion.
"You can speak here."
"Thank you", Sir James took a glass of wine from the Prince's own hand, "The British community is going to need to dispose of a large number of stock certificates in a very short space of time."
"This is unconnected with your mission ?", Panchito expressed a degree of surprise.
"By order of the Regent all publically quoted companies in the Malay Straits Colonies will have their assets sequestered to the Crown."
"I see that it is indeed unconnected to your mission."
"Where these assets are held digitally they can simply be acquired without the holder's permission. But foreign communities such as ours prefer to hold the actual certificate. Legally the shares are ours whilst the certificate remains in our hands."
"I am sure", Panchito drained his glass and looked sharply at the British man, "If you have a proposition, come out and state it. We can leave the details to the accountants."
"Yes of course, your highness.", Sir James took a deep breath, "I have advised the Ambassador that the British community should offer any such certificates to yourself for purchase."
"Oh ?", Panchito's eyes shone with amusement, "And I will buy them ?"
"Lord Graham will remove the block on Paraguayans investing in the British Parana and British La Plata Steamship Companies."
"Aha !", Panchito now focused his full attention on the British knight, "Then please convey to the British community my interest in purchasing any surplus stock certificates that they might have."
"It will be a pleasure, your highness."
"Meanwhile, stay and enjoy the dancing. We will dock in an hour."
"Of course, your highness"
Sir James hoped that they had an hour...

Grey Wolf

 

[Grey Wolf]

Part 7

The missile caught the haulage vehicle just as the last of the men reached it, blowing him backwards whilst incinerating everyone else who was already inside.
Charles Nansen looked away from the scene of carnage,
"Move out !" he yelled into the driver's compartment.
The gold command car juddered into motion, swerving off the grass and picking up speed upon the narrow roadway, even as the ornithopter came in for another pass. The driver swore, swerving to avoid a civilian omnibus, its passengers gazing out in terror at the large vehicle barelling past them.
"Get onto the main highway.", Charles gave an unnecessary instruction.
With the duo-cycle detached and sticking to the back-roads of the interwoven housing estates, it was the duty of his party to lead the pursuit in the opposite direction.
He became aware of a figure at his elbow.
"Puteri.", he acknowledged her presence.
"Are we going to make it ?", the girl asked.
As if to emphasise the point, a missile exploded next to them, demolishing the house of some poor innocent but doing no more than scratch the paintwork of the command car.
"Suzette !", he snapped, "Have you got their frequency yet ?"
"Just on it......now", she sounded satisfied, "I should be able to prevent another lock"
"Until they cycle it", another technician felt that he had to point out.
"I am well aware of that", Charles snapped, the tension getting to him.

Several ornithopters buzzed in the distance, circling like the birds of prey that they resembled, looking up and down the estate's streets for any sign that part of the prince's party had escaped.
Prince Martinus removed his helmet, and hung it upon the hook on the side of the passenger body of the duo-cycle.
"We won't get much further on this", he commented.
His driver nodded,
"Shall I draw them off ? They will have received reports that such a vehicle was in the vicinity of the command car."
"Take no risks", the prince did not want the man making himself into bait, "Head for the downs if you can. If not, leave the duo-cycle somewhere it will be found, but somewhere neither of us will be."
"I can do that, your highness"
"Good", Prince Martinus divested himself of the rest of the riding suit and stowed them in the passenger body's internal compartment, "Do it."
With a nod, the driver took his vehicle back onto the roadway and roared up the hill.
The prince looked around the deserted row of garages that he found himself in, and rubbed his chin. Now, what to do ?

Traffic upon the highway parted like waters round a rock as the command car thundered down the central lane at maximum speed. As well as the ornithopters in pursuit, they now had a traffic police duo-cycle and behind that, hastening to catch up, a traffic police utilities truck, which was not good news.
"If we keep on going straight, they can hit us, lock or no lock...sir", the driver called back from his compartment.
The same thought had occurred to Charles. Speed was all very well, and the greatest speed could be attained on the straightest road, but this was getting stupid. As yet the ornithopters had not fired on the highway. Suzette had speculated that a sudden burst of encoded traffic was their pilots' requesting permission to do so. None of them doubted what the answer would be.
"Turning to the right", Puteri jabbed a slender arm towards the viewing portal.
"Take it !", Charles made a sudden decision.
"Encoded traffic !" Suzette yelled as a burst in her told her that the ornithopters had got their reply.
"Missile launched !" yelped another technician.
The driver slewed the command car across the oncoming lane, side-swiping a heavy goods vehicle which went into a skid, collecting several other vehicles as it did so. The military issue braking system on the command car controlled its own skid, turning the vehicle straight onto the side-road, just as the missile landed, striking the heavy goods vehicle broadside, and sending up a column of flame into the sky. Chaos erupted in the roadway, tying up the police utilities vehicle, but the duo-cycle had made it through the carnage and was still on their tail.
As, of course, were the ornithopters...

The youth did not expect anybody to be around. As he unbuttoned his trousers, and began urinating up against the derelict garage's wall, he left the engine on his motorcycle running, and the machine pointing towards the road.
Prince Martinus ducked out from inside another of the ruined buildings, broke from cover and sprinted across the pitted concrete ground. As the youth sighed happily and made to button up his trousers, he heard the roar of his own engine, and turned in shock just in time to see the prince disappearing in a haze of dust.
"Come back you bastard !"
The yell died in the air, as Prince Martinus went to full throttle and hurtled up the hillside, as anonymous as any other now, he hoped.

"I'm monitoring radio traffic in the clear between the traffic police and the Security Ministry", the male technician, whose name was Kyle, spoke again, "They are trying to co-ordinate roadblocks across all likely routes ahead of us."
"We could hit a roadblock full speed and get through", Charles pondered aloud.
"They've raised that point. The Security Ministry is talking about deploying self-propelled guns..."
There was a moment of silence on that point, then Charles made a decision,
"We have to lose the vehicle....lose this vehicle. We have achieved our primary objective in leading the chase in the wrong direction, now we must turn to our secondary objective."
"To survive ?" asked Puteri.
He looked at the young Malay girl and nodded,
"Indeed. Driver !"
"Sir ?"
"Find somewhere we can lose the vehicle, preferably with enough cover we can disperse into."
"They can hunt us down" Puteri pointed out, a worried pout on her pretty face.
"With luck they do not know what we look like", Charles replied.
"They will know what I look like" she said sharply.
"Hmmm, there is that... Let me think."
The command car slammed into a sharp left turn, skidded almost three hundred and sixty degrees and came to a stop up against the side of an abandoned warehouse. A missile slammed into the hillside above them, another into the roadway behind them.
"Let us think about it while we run !" he barked.
None of the occupants of the vehicle needed any further encouragement, jumping down from the side-door and breaking for the woodland behind the warehouse.
Charles kept close to Puteri, his mind racing. She was right - her photograph had been in all the newspapers when she had arrived in Britain with the prince. She was the one risk factor he had not thought about in this. It was going to be tricky...

He had lost the ornithopters now. For a while he had been worried, as two of the birdlike aerial vehicles had picked up his trail as he crossed the main highway. Now, he was safe, and now was the time to obey the prince's last instruction. Removing his suit and helmet, he parked the duo-cycle in the rear carpark of a nightclub. Hopefully it would not be noticed until that evening, or if it were noticed, nobody would think to look more closely at it until it began to get in the way of customers' parking rights.
Brushing down his blue and brown casuals, he stopped being the prince's pathfinder, and became simple Joseph Mitchell, out for a stroll in the mid-morning sun...

Grey Wolf

 

[Archangel Michael]

This is very intreguing and interesting. Sorry I haven't replied. I've been very busy.

 

[Grey Wolf]

Part 8

At the lowest level of the Palace of Government, underneath bomb-proof reinforced concrete, and behind blastproof steel doors was a small suite of rooms. Originally designed to be used only in an emergency, a series of national crises over the last couple of decades had gradually made it habitual. These were the home of the Imperial Government's cabinet offices. Down here, hundreds of metres below the surface of London, the government for the entire British Empire met when in full session, and when cabinet decisions were required of it. Today's meeting, however, was far from ordinary, and although the literal repercussions could not actually be felt in the administrative floors above, the blowback from the storm below would be very really felt on a good many levels.

It was a tornado, a hurricaine, a tsunami all rolled into one. The storm blew back and forth across the Cabinet Room, accusations, counter-accusations, standing arguments, pointing, threatening. The Imperial Government had seen nothing like it since the Rocky Mountain Crisis with the Russians a full twenty years before.
"How in blazes could you accede to such a request ?!", Paulus Knyvette was on his feet, jabbing a hand across the table at his long-term friend and compatriot, Aaron McManus.
"Do not patronise me Pauli !" Aaron was fighting to retain his temper, "The Security Ministry received the urgent request from the Grand Commander of the Imperial Guard himself !"
"Judicial murder ?! Execution by ornithopter ?!"
"Do not judge me." Aaron was now on his feet, "Ask what your men were doing first thing this morning, Pauli, hey ?!"
"I was requested and required to put the Interior Ministry forces at the disposal of the Prime Minister !"
"Bollocks !" Aaron spat across the width of the table, its six foot of oak all that was keeping the two former friends from physically grappling with each other, "Where is the precedent for that ? We were all acting without precedent today !"
"There is no precedent.", the voice of the calm, collected woman, seated at Paulus' elbow cut in.
"I bloody know that", the Interior Minister snapped at her.
Jessica Jenkinson, the Attorney General raised her well-trimmed eyebrows,
"Perhaps a degree of decorum would befit us."
Paulus ignored her and returned to his colleague across the table,
"I acquiesced in the participation of Interior Ministry forces apprehending Prince Martinus on suspicion of High Treason", he snapped, "They did not have orders to kill him, or anyone."
"The death toll stands at fourteen.", the gruff voice of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, the Earl of Northolt, cut across them from down the table, "Somebody clearly had orders to open fire."
"Well, it wasn't my men !" Paulus growled.
"No, it was probably the Imperial Guard."
The comment cut across the argument, silencing everyone momentarily. All eyes turned towards the speaker. Simon De Vere, Duke of Vermont, and Secretary of State for the Colonies sat towards the bottom of the table, a pile of unopened dossiers in front of him, his cold black eyes challenging anyone to gainsay him.
"Well...", Jessica managed, "I am certain that there is no precedent for that, either."
"It depends on how you view it.", the Chancellor barked back at her, "Royal tyranny has a long history all of its own."
"I would thank you not to use such terms in a recorded session."
The voice belonged to John Wellesley, Imperial Prime Minister and the man theoretically in charge of this meeting.
"The Regent will see the minutes.", the Attorney General agreed, "It is his perogative."
"He seems to have acquired several more.", the Earl of Northolt snorted, "And that is before we even come to issue one on the agenda."
"Which is unthinkable" drawled Augustus Lake, the septagenarian Trade Minister, and a native of New England.
"It has clearly been thought by the Regent.", the Earl of Northolt put in.
Conversation had gradually returned to a more normal level. Both the Security and Interior Ministers retook their seats, avoiding eye contact with each other, instead directing their questioning gazes at the Imperial Prime Minister.
"I have two files", the Duke of Quebec said slowly, lifting both up from where they lay in leather cases, embossed 'Critical Secret' in sharp red and gold lettering, "One is the case for High Treason against the Duke of Ghana. The other is the case for the proroguing of the Imperial Senate."
"Neither of which is worth the paper it is written on", opined the Chancellor.
Wellesley gave him a sharp frown, then opened the topmost folder,
"Events this morning have superceded the evidence laid out in here, for the mostpart, but the circumstantial evidence clearly indicates a plot around the prince's person to usurp the Regency."
He passed around a dozen photocopied sheets, witness statements, investigators reports and the like.
Paulus Knyvette looked through his copy with a critical eye.
"Most of this is hearsay", he commented.
"Hearsay is admissable in High Treason cases", the Attorney General reminded him, "Due to the paucity of other evidence usually available."
"How lucky", the Chancellor cast his copy down onto the table in disgust, "We agreed to apprehend the prince based on this ?"
"The witness statements were most persuasive", the Duke of Quebec defended his decision, "Besides, Prince Martinus would have been offered the opportunity to rebut them in a pre-trial hearing..."
"Except that the Imperial Guards had orders to kill him."
It was de Vere who spoke again, belabouring the point.
"We do not know for sure who opened fire first", the Prime Minister pointed out.
"I do not believe that is the issue", the Duke of Vermont eased a slimline tobacco pipe from out of its case and tapped its base upon the tabletop, "If Prince Martinus' Guard opened fire first it can only have been because they had reason to fear for his life."
"Or that they knew he was guilty", the Prime Minister looked round the assembled group, the ten men and two women who sat at the highest seats of government in the British Empire. "There is a duty of trust between the Imperial Government and the Monarch."
"Bollocks !", Paulus unconsciously used the same term his friend had earlier used against him, "Prince Julian is no more the Monarch than Prince Martinus is. That is the nature of the Regency. The monarch is absent."
"I have to differ", the Attorney General raised her eyes at the Interior Minister once again, "In the absence of the Monarch, the Regent has all the powers of the Monarch, until such time as he hands them over."
"This is not a legal conundrum, Jessica", de Vere spoke from down the table, "The duty of trust owing to the Regent cannot by its nature be the same as that owing to the Monarch. Whilst the Regent is de facto head of state, we cannot simply ignore the fact that we owe fealty to the Emperor, and that as members of the Imperial Government we must act to protect the interests of the Emperor, first and foremost."
"Legal opinion would dispute that" Jessica stated.
"Legal opinion go hang" de Vere snapped at her.
"I concur", the Chancellor of the Exchequer nodded at the Duke of Vermont down the table, "If the Regent is not acting in accordance with the best interests of the Emperor and the Empire then we do owe him a duty of trust."
"This discussion is irrelevant to the matter in hand", the Duke of Quebec hefted the first of the leatherbound files, "Regardless of any of what has been said up to this point, Prince Martinus did openly and expressly commit High Treason this morning."
"After the event !" protested Paulus.
"It was under those conditions that I gave permission for Security Ministry forces to be engaged in the operation against him.", Aaron McManus used the opportunity to make a further point in his disagreement with his old friend across the table from him.
"All of this should have been submitted to cabinet before any action was taken.", the Trade Minister took a sip from the tumbler of water in front of him, "These arguments should have been discussed carefully and in a composed manner yesterday."
"The request from the Regent came at Midnight.", the Prime Minister pointed out.
"Then you should have refused it !"
"Could he have ?" Paulus jumped in and looked at the Attorney General.
Jessica sighed and shrugged, her low bob of brown hair bouncing with the action,
"If the Prime Minister had reason to believe the Regent's request frivolous or partisan, then he could have refused it."
"It was a question of High Treason.", the Duke of Quebec pointed out, "There was no question of ignoring the request. Prince Martinus was to be apprehended..."
"He was to be shot dead resisting arrest...", de Vere interrupted from the bottom of the table, "Legal niceties aside, that is the truth of the matter."
"Not by my men !" growled Paulus.
"No" de Vere pushed down on the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe, "Your men were there to give the operation a velour of legal respectability."
"They..."
"Enough !", the speaker leant forward in his chair, ponderous belly colliding with the edge of the table, his thickset jowls swaying with the effort, "Anybody would think we were a school debating society ! We need decisions not recriminations."
The Duke of Quebec nodded at his unexpected ally,
"What would you suggest, Lord Robert ?"
Lord Robert Carradine, Minister of State for Industry, Education and the Arts, and Deputy Prime Minister with special responsibility for Great Britain, snorted.
"Are we not agreed that whatever the circumstance and causes, Prince Martinus in his 09:00 broadcast committed an act of High Treason ?"
"That is certainly the case", argued Jessica.
"Without a doubt", the Prime Minister agreed.
"With reservations", Aaron McManus said slowly, "But in essence, I have to concur."
He didn't look at his friend, across the table.
"Anybody not agreed on this had better have a very good explanation." Carradine warned.
"You can have my resignation before you have my explanation", de Vere looked at the fat man in contempt.
"I accept."
"Now wait here....!" de Vere rose from his chair, pipe in hand, thrust out before him.
"What the Hell...?", Paulus was also on his feet again.
"Sit down gentlemen", the Imperial Prime Minister stared at them.
"I bloody will not" de Vere growled, "Not until that fat bastard withdraws that."
"Your resignation is accepted", Lord Robert laughed to himself, "Goodbye."
"Bollocks !" Paulus turned angrily towards the Duke of Quebec, "He does not have the authority to do that!"
"I accept the resignation of the Duke of Vermont.", the Imperial Prime Minister seemed to come to a decision inside.
"Fuck you !", de Vere slammed his hand down upon the table.
"Please leave the Cabinet Room, or I will have to have you forcibly removed", the Duke of Quebec was looking straight ahead as he spoke.
"Damn it, John !", the Chancellor was now also on his feet, "Are you going to carry out some sort of purge?!"
"Those who cannot accept that the actions of the Duke of Ghana from 09:00 onwards constiutute High Treason have no place in the Imperial Government", Lord Robert Carradine stared him in the face.
"Then you can have my resignation, also" the Chancellor made no move to follow his statement up with departure.
"And mine" Paulus was unsure of where the courage to voice those words came from but found himself saying them.
"I cannot work in the midst of this farce", the Trade Minister got creakingly to his feet, "If they are gone, then so am I."
"Anybody else ?", Lord Robert snorted looking around the table.
Nobody would meet his eye.
"Then I suggest that you gentlemen remove yourselves before the Prime Minister is forced to act upon his threat to forcibly eject you."
Simon de Vere lit his pipe with a hand shaking not in fear but in fury. He cast the spent match down upon the table,
"I will see you in Hell for this" he snapped, and turned on his heel.
One by one the other ministers followed him out of the Cabinet Room.
The Duke of Quebec sighed, and looked round at those who remain,
"I trust we can get on with the business of government now that that is over ?"
No one gainsayed him...

Grey Wolf

 

[Grey Wolf]

This is very intreguing and interesting. Sorry I haven't replied. I've been very busy.

Thank you for noticing it

I'm not sure how Part 8 will be received, but I felt that there were definite constitutional issues which needed to be addressed and couldn't wait...although I waited 14 hours before starting the chapter in my head and beginning to type it up

Best Regards
Grey Wolf

 

[Grey Wolf]

Part 9

It had had to be a late lunch. After the events of the morning, and the lively chatter in the office that had followed the Duke of Ghana's broadcast, it had been difficult to get back to focusing on his work. Eventually, he had managed to blank out the remaining conversation that swelled around him and concentrate on the tasks in hand. A request from a Yorkshire church for patronage in order to repair a hole in the roof. A request for an introduction from a young inventor from Dublin. Several applications for jobs that he knew did not exist, screening the candidates against stated criteria and passing their files on to the Security Ministry. And, of course, his ever-present bugbear, the Guyana Highlands Railway. Quite how he had come to be landed with this, Lancelot had no memory, but the bankrupt company had somehow come within the purview of the Administration Department of the Palace of Government and every day he would sit for an hour or so trying to make some headway on the issue. It did not help that its principal chairman was languishing in a Brasilian prison, or that the proposed extension into New Granada depended on the good will of a Spain now less than well-disposed towards the British Empire since the Regent had come out in favour of Guatemala in the renewed war in Central America.

After having made zero progress, once again, Lancelot finally headed into the main concourse at 14:00, finding the place scarcely populated at that hour. A few of the restaurants and bars had closed their shutters, but most remained open on the off-chance of a late customer or two. He entered a Paraguayan-themed bar, vaguely remembering that his office had celebrated New Year there a couple of years back. He had not been there since, but apart from a few new photographs of King Enrique II and Prince Francisco upon the walls, it did not seem to have changed at all.
"A glass of beer, and the fish of the day", he asked upon reaching the polished wooden counter.
The barman, perhaps a real Paraguayan, perhaps simply someone dressed up in the national costume, poured a cold Paraguayan beer and shouted his order through to the kitchen.
Lancelot took his beer and wended his way between the tables to a seat near to the door. Sipping at the cool, refreshing liquid he watched the few other people about at this time move around the concourse.

A young woman was walking determinedly past. He had a vague sense of recognition, had probably clocked her somewhere before, but had no idea who she was. Long dark hair loose around her shoulders, and a tight-fitting black suit over what looked to be an athletic body. It was a pleasant sight, and he watched as she headed into a gift shop across from him. Though his view was blocked by the racks of trinkets and toys, he could still make out her figure as she wandered around, engaged in a discussion with the proprietor and then made a purchase. Clutching a brown plastic bag, she exited the shop back onto the concourse, and froze.

Lancelot frowned, then looked to his left in alarm. A man was running down the concourse, a black coat trailing in the air behind him, blood dripping from a wound to the arm.
"Stop that saboteur !"
Two gold-helmeted Imperial Guards emerged from a side-entrance, rushing after the man, their weapons drawn.
One knelt and let off a shot. The bullet skimmed the head of the fleeing man and splintered the window of the gift shop, spraying glass inside the small structure. The woman yelped and crouched down, trying to make herself small.
The man was almost upon the rampway now, weaving crazily as the second guard let off a shot. It ricocheted off the marbled walls, and flew away harmlessly. The two Imperial Guards raced after their prey.
The man stopped; ahead of him two more gold-helmeted guards had appeared, blocking his progress. He looked left, then right, and dove into a service elevator. Both his pursuers let off a shot, one bringing a cry of pain from the man, but the elevator doors closed and the whir of machinery could be heard.
"Up or down ?!" barked one of the two guards descending towards the scene.
The guards below consulted the display,
"Fuck, he's going up ! Where does it lead ?"
"How the Hell should I know. This isn't the Imperial Palace."
All four guards raced up the rampway, weapons drawn.

Below, in the concourse a stunned silence reigned, then suddenly shouts and calls broke out everywhere. Lancelot put down his beer and ran across to where the young woman still crouched outside the gift shop.
"Are you hurt ?", he asked her.
She looked up, then around in some confusion before shaking her head,
"No" she wheezed, then coughed, "I'll be alright in a moment."
Lancelot led her across to the Paraguayan bar, and seated her at his table. Unbidden the barman came across with a glass of lemon water, chilled and fresh and set it beside her,
"On the house." he said.
The woman gulped at the sharp cold liquid and set her empty glass down. She took a deep breath,
"Elisa Trevithick"
"Lancelot Hetherington. How do you feel ?"
She smiled and nodded,
"Who was that man ? He looked vaguely familiar."
Lancelot shook his head,
"I fear I did not get a good enough view."
"I did...", Elisa sounded pensive, "I could have sworn I have seen him at one of my father's parties ?"
"Your father ?", Lancelot suddenly realised what she had said her surname was, "The Earl of Camborne, the railway magnate ?"
"The same", she grinned.
"I am honoured."
"You really do not have to be.", she looked around the bar, "Can one get decent food here ?"
"I hope so", Lancelot laughed, "I've ordered the fish of the day."
"Barman !", her voice was suddenly one used to commanding servants at need. He came over quickly, "A fish of the day, to be served at the same time as this gentlemen's."
"Of course, senorita.", he smiled apparently genuinely and returned to the bar, yelling another order into the kitchen.
"It is not good to eat alone." she explained to him.
"Indeed not"
Lancelot's mind was racing with many thoughts, and whilst no doubt that was one it ws far from the one at the top of the list.
"So, tell me", he asked as matter-of-factedly as he could manage, "Has your father got any railway interests in Guyana ?"

Grey Wolf