Look to the West Volume V: To Dream Again
- Thread starter Thande
- Start date
Finally caught up, and this really is a masterpiece of alternate history. Russia sounds like they're going to be in trouble: Ottomans, Germany, and Danubia against them. And I can't wait to see the Societist Revolution, with all the hints of how horrifying it's going to be (chemical weapons, oh boy).
Thande
Donor
Apologies if you thought this was an update--I hope to do one soon, I have just been engaged with another project instead ("The Surly Bonds of Earth", see signature), but I am pleased to announce that at long last, the third volume of Look to the West, now titled Equal and Opposite Reactions (to avoid confusion with another book which already used my original title), is now on sale at Amazon!
Featuring another excellent cover by @Lord Roem ! Includes some more fine original greyscale maps by @Alex Richards , flag plates by moi (best viewed in colour on a Kindle Viewer app) and a fully updated version of the Chronology and Lists of Rulers appendices.
Thanks to all my readers over the years for their feedback and suggestions which went into this revised and improved edition.
Featuring another excellent cover by @Lord Roem ! Includes some more fine original greyscale maps by @Alex Richards , flag plates by moi (best viewed in colour on a Kindle Viewer app) and a fully updated version of the Chronology and Lists of Rulers appendices.
Thanks to all my readers over the years for their feedback and suggestions which went into this revised and improved edition.
Admiral Matt
Gone Fishin'
Apologies if you thought this was an update--I hope to do one soon, I have just been engaged with another project instead ("The Surly Bonds of Earth", see signature), but I am pleased to announce that at long last, the third volume of Look to the West, now titled Equal and Opposite Reactions (to avoid confusion with another book which already used my original title), is now on sale at Amazon!
Featuring another excellent cover by @Lord Roem ! Includes some more fine original greyscale maps by @Alex Richards , flag plates by moi (best viewed in colour on a Kindle Viewer app) and a fully updated version of the Chronology and Lists of Rulers appendices.
Thanks to all my readers over the years for their feedback and suggestions which went into this revised and improved edition.
Congratulations.
Apologies if you thought this was an update--I hope to do one soon, I have just been engaged with another project instead ("The Surly Bonds of Earth", see signature), but I am pleased to announce that at long last, the third volume of Look to the West, now titled Equal and Opposite Reactions (to avoid confusion with another book which already used my original title), is now on sale at Amazon!
Featuring another excellent cover by @Lord Roem ! Includes some more fine original greyscale maps by @Alex Richards , flag plates by moi (best viewed in colour on a Kindle Viewer app) and a fully updated version of the Chronology and Lists of Rulers appendices.
Thanks to all my readers over the years for their feedback and suggestions which went into this revised and improved edition.
Congratulations. I’ll be sure to buy the next volume in your saga.
Last edited:
Apologies if you thought this was an update--I hope to do one soon, I have just been engaged with another project instead ("The Surly Bonds of Earth", see signature), but I am pleased to announce that at long last, the third volume of Look to the West, now titled Equal and Opposite Reactions (to avoid confusion with another book which already used my original title), is now on sale at Amazon!
Featuring another excellent cover by @Lord Roem ! Includes some more fine original greyscale maps by @Alex Richards , flag plates by moi (best viewed in colour on a Kindle Viewer app) and a fully updated version of the Chronology and Lists of Rulers appendices.
Thanks to all my readers over the years for their feedback and suggestions which went into this revised and improved edition.
Good news!
I will buy it at some point.
In relation to the bold, it make me wonder if there have ever been two novels with the same title by different authors with the same name.
Novels with the same name arent in themselves uncommon (there are I think 6 or so called "Night Watch").
Thande
Donor
This is it on SLP, there just hasn't been an official announcement for all the new books in this tranche yet.
Thande
Donor
Part #243: Choices
The country’s official name is: EMPIRE OF THE GREAT QING (DA QING), almost universally called BEIQING CHINA; occasionally called NORTH CHINA or THE MANCHU REMNANT etc.
The people are known as: BEIQING CHINESE or occasionally North Chinese.
Capital and largest city: Beijing (1.6 million)
Flag: A red disc bearing a blue dragon, surrounded by gold and on a golden horizontal stripe dividing a blue field.
Population: 105,000,000 (estimate)
Land area: ca. 155,000 lcf.
Economic ranking: Difficult to estimate due to its economy generally being closed except to Russia and its allies.
Form of government: Absolute monarchy, though in practice power is often wielded by a military or bureaucratic strongman in the Emperor’s name.
Foreign relations: Since the Second Riverine War ended in 1868, the Beiqing have been fighting a losing battle to retain their independence and isolation, and in practice have become subordinated to Russian interests. Their economy remains largely closed to outsiders other than the Russians (though the French have made attempts to break in by force). As always, they refuse to acknowledge the existence of the Feng dynasty to the south as anything other than an illegitimate rebellion.
Military: The Beiqing military was modernised before and during the Second Riverine War, although it still keeps the old name Green Standard Army. The army is well-equipped but often poorly trained and motivated, in part due to institutional corruption. Since defeats in the Second Riverine War and the increasing role of the Imperial Russian Navy in the region, the Beiqing navy has largely restricted itself to coastal and inland riverine patrols, with only a few oceanic-navy ships.
Current head of state: The Quanyu Emperor (Qing Dynasty) (since 1890); often disparagingly called by his personal name ‘Weili’ by the Feng.
Current head of government: De facto, General Ying Tiansheng (also Viceroy of Zhili) is presently the most powerful member of the Grand Council.
From: The World At War: From The Pages of The Discerner VOLUME IV: ROAD TO RUIN (1986):
Córdoba, Córdoba Province, United Provinces of South America
December 1st 1898
Álvaro Monterroso, President-General of the United Provinces of South America, resisted the urge to hold his head in his hands by a bare fraction of will. His nerves were shot to hell, and the sweltering summer heat did not help. The ashtray on the corner of his desk was overflowing with the stubs of cigars—Royal Portuguese Brazilian tobacco, of course. Cuba, the exporter of Monterroso’s favoured brand, had long since declared for the wrong side after some uncertainty.
That desk had been made, according to questionable legend, from part of a makeshift barricade that the first patriots had raised in the streets of Buenos Aires against the American invaders in 1756. That glorious defence by ordinary citizens had failed in the short term, but it had created an image of defiance that had caught the imagination of what had then been a sleepy backwater of the vast, inefficiently-run Viceroyalty of Peru. Inspired Platinean rebels had formed a ragtag army that had beaten the Yanquis a year later at Rosario, and in the end the war had been won, the Americans so embarrassed that their government had executed their commanding officer. That successful counter-attack, organised when the mother country had failed to send help against the invader, had sown the seeds for the rebellion of a quarter-century later, when Spain had not only failed to send help against the French, but had told the lie that they were coming as allies.[1]
When Monterroso had been elected, more than a hundred years on from that rebellion, the republic it had birthed had seemed stronger than ever before. She had stretched out her wings to dominate all of South America through direct control or influence through the Hermandad, she had pulled even Mexico and Guatemala under the old Bourbon foe into her orbit, she had driven a dagger into the underbelly of the Americans in the shape of Carolina, and then made them live with it. It had been the final revenge for that first attack, the blood of the patriots on the streets of eighteenth-century Buenos Aires: at last the Americans had known fear in turn. Nor had it ended there—the UPSA exerted influence over an informal empire on which the sun never set, from southern Africa to India to China to the Nusantara, working through the old exilic remnants of the Dutch and Portuguese empires before those nations had fallen to conquest and tyranny. What had once been an obscure colonial revolt had transformed into one of the greatest powers the world had ever seen.
Now it was all falling apart. But in his heart, Monterroso did not grieve for the loss of that empire in and of itself. He had never felt that the Hermandad was a true evocation of the Spirit of ’56. It was an invention of the men of small mind and deep pockets who had slowly bought out the country from its true owners, the men who dreamed only of wealth and power and knew nothing of honour or heritage. It had not been the bankers and the businessmen who had died on the barricades in Buenos Aires so many years ago: it had been the ordinary workers who feared the Americans burning their homes and slaying their families. Those first martyrs were the first true Meridians, and if the Republic were to be true to its heritage, it must exemplify their values and their legacy. Not boasting of influence built on the backs of peoples exploited as surely as the old Spanish masters had once exploited the Plate.
This was not to say he did not fear the war being lost. More than anything, he feared the return of that nightmarish image, which all Meridians after Castelli’s failure had sworn would never come again: the image of Americans encamped on the banks of the River Plate, ready to overrun Buenos Aires and threaten Córdoba. If that happened, it would symbolise that all the Republic had achieved since its foundation had been worthless, nullified in a single act. Except it would not even be a return to the dark days of 1756 or 1807, for the actions of international capital and corporate greed had tainted and corrupted even warfare, squeezing any last iota of honour or glory from it. Rather than columns of Americans in colourful red uniforms and white wigs raising their muskets and bayonets against the innocents of Buenos Aires, it would be monstrous steam-belching protguns crushing them beneath their iron wheels, the Starry George flying from their chimneys.
Monterroso would die before he allowed that image to become a reality.
There was a knock at the door of the Blue Office, Monterroso’s official workplace within the bulk of the Casa de Riquelme. “Enter,” he said briefly. For a moment the prospect of assassination flickered through his mind, but he trusted his bodyguards and secretary to do their jobs.
Indeed, the man who entered was the Interior Minister, General Katari Martínez. Historically, the UPSA had frowned on allowing serving military members from holding cabinet office, though it had never been a hard and fast rule. Monterroso, however, had been forced to work within a shrunken pool of talent due to the fact that the bourgeois, corporate-loving parties had been in power for so long. If the price of clearing out all the scum who were on the various boards of directors of half the companies they handed government contracts to, and decided whether or not Meridian armed force should defend, had been that he had to replace them with military men or the politically inexperienced—well, so be it. Victory or defeat, this war would be fought for the Meridian people, not a minority of scroungers atop a huge pile of other people’s money.
“Your Excellency,” Martínez said briefly. As his first name suggested, he was half-Aymara. The Aymara had once expressed solid voter preference for the Adamantine Party due to the latter’s defence of both their own rights and those of their Tahuantinsuya brethren under Peruvian rule, but that had faded as the Adamantines and Unionists became indistinguishable on selling any group of poor people down the river in favour of sucking up to the companies that exploited them. They had been far from the only group to finally turn in desperation to Monterroso’s People’s Party. He only wished fervently that he was not leading them to their destruction as assuredly as the Adamantine-Unionists had their degradation.
“General,” Monterroso replied. He slowly exhaled. “Is the news from Russia…confirmed?”
Martínez gave a brief, tight nod. He had come here straight from the Foreign Ministry, where Jorge Suárez was still preparing for his trip to Santa Fe.[2] “The Lectel message is confirmed by a third party. The Turks invaded the Russian Caucasus a month ago.” With the progression of the war, many of the old Lectel connections that had once been taken for granted had been cut off, and the UPSA now only received news of the Russian front via an awkward workaround in Africa, prone to delays as long as this.
The General hesitated. “Any reports of the aftermath of the immediate clashes have not yet been confirmed, and are likely from Russian sources, but…”
“But?” Monterroso repeated quietly.
Now it was time for Martínez to exhale. “But they suggest that the Russians were caught off-guard by the attack. Their armies are vast, but they are stretched thinly…”
Monterroso nodded slowly. He got up from his desk—feeling his muscles creak as he did so, for it felt as though he had aged a couple of decades in as many years—and went to the large globe in the corner of his office. Meridian-built, it had been designed to put the South Pole at the top, with the still vague and debatable dashed lines of the icebound southern continent of Australia. However, with most land-masses in the northern hemisphere, this bold statement of southern supremacy had been quietly engineered so it was still possible to flip the globe over so the north could be looked at in more detail. Monterroso now did so, turning the globe so that the vast bulk of the Russian Empire filled his view from one limb of the world to the other. “They’ve taken Poland and most of Wallachia, they’re pushing into Hungary and getting close to threatening Dresden itself in Germany,” he said slowly, “they’ve attacked the Yanquis in Noochaland and the Assiniboia Country…”
“They’ve sent forces to help the Beiqing Chinese against the Feng as well,” Martínez said. He hesitated. “Not very successfully, if you read between the lines of the reports.”
The President shook his head. This war was global, like the old Wars of Supremacy, yet in an ever more interconnected world, the fronts had so little to do with each other. He had exchanged cordial telegrams with Chairman Gagarin and even Tsar Peter himself, in which they both extolled each others’ valued friendship—yet what did the UPSA and Russia have to do with one another? Russia was a despotic, aristocratic state of the sort that the UPSA had been founded to break away from. It was all smoke and mirrors, trying to pretend that there was any sort of guiding plan behind alliances of pure convenience. It was, of course, the same on the other side, with the Americans blathering about their brave German allies and vice-versa.
If he could relive his presidency, Monterroso would have tried to avoid this war. At the time, he had thought it would be a sign of weakness to bow down to the Americans, that it would discredit his message, perhaps even that a good war would be exactly what the country needed to clean out the vile corporate scum that had exploited it. But the reality had been far bloodier and more miserable than that hopeful image of purity.
Carolina was lost; well, it had always been a stain on the United Provinces’ reputation that they had ever propped up that rotten fag-end of a country. (Even now he couldn’t stop thinking about tobacco, he reflected with black humour). The Indian possessions were lost—but they had never truly belonged to anyone other than ‘Senhor Oliveira’s Company’, and the craven run to the wings of the French Vulture just showed how hollow the old claims of Meridian supremacy were. Nieuw Holland in Antipodea was lost, again in part to the French scavengers. What was left? The Philippine Republic, the Nusantara (upon which the defeated Siamese, who had gotten the Meridians into this mess in the first place, were now directing avaricious eyes), and a chunk of the Cape, against which the Americans had seen some progress but failed to entirely roll up. The influence on Royal Portuguese Brazil still existed, King João VII with his back to the wall and no options, and through him there were still the ports and the Lectel cables in Angola. What was that worth, at the end of the day? The Kongo Empire, more theoretically influenced by the Royal-Portuguese, had already hastily proclaimed neutrality after the Royal Africa Company decided to pointedly march some jaguns up and down its border. Monterroso wouldn’t be surprised if the Kongolese Emperor Henrique II was sending feelers towards the French and their perfidious ‘Geneva Pact’ of armed neutrality, either.
It was so depressing. If the UPSA lost, well, at least the spider’s web of corrupt corporate control that the two bourgeois parties had fed off had been burned away by the dark fire of the Yanqui onslaught—but the French and their allies were already preparing to create another to take its place. Was there no way out of this endless cycle of destruction?
Monterroso gave a single, harsh bark of laughter, startling Martínez. “Your Excellency?”
“I was just thinking that if one’s not careful, one starts to sound like a Societist fanatic,” Monterroso said baldly. “Forget it. So the Russians have got pushed to the back foot again—that doesn’t mean anything to use really, propaganda aside. It was like when the damn Mauré took Gavaji. All that matters is we keep the United Provinces free and safe, and continue to exert as much influence as we can.”
“We’ve repulsed a Yanqui attack on Venezuela,” Martínez offered.
Monterroso snorted. “Si, like the Americans were ever serious about that. They’re just doing it to assuage Princess Daniele and her exiles, a token gesture. If they try again, we should let them land and then crush them, they won’t have the supplies to make an actual beachhead.”
Martínez shrugged. “Likely. Of course, the next attempt may be more serious…”
“Mexico and Guatemala are the problem,” Monterroso said, dismissing that with a wave of his hand. “It was fool luck that the Yanquis got their hands on Charles VI, not to mention Antonio III. I doubt the folk in the other three kingdoms are exactly going to switch sides on Charles’ word, but I’d feel a lot better if he’d gone to the bottom of the ocean.”
The General nodded, unsurprised at the harsh words. The New Spaniards had always been a tool to be used and discarded; there was even honour or justice in that according to some, for it paid the price for how the Bourbons had once treated the brave Platinean rebel colonists the same way. Now the purpose of the four New Spanish kingdoms to the UPSA was to act as human shields standing in the way of the American advance, seeking to wound and weary the foe before they could reach the Meridians themselves. One of those dominos had already fallen: Mexico.
Mostly. “Though they have the Emperor and the King, the Americans are still having trouble pacifying Mexico,” Martínez said. “They may abandon the attempt and just focus on controlling strategic ports, perhaps.”
“I think not,” Monterroso said slowly. “I am told that our agents in the ENA report that their politicians—and businessmen,” he spat, “have all sorts of inventive schemes for carving up the kingdom.”
“Then we can encourage kleinkrieger groups with stories of those Yanqui plans?” Martínez suggested.
“Yes, indeed,” Monterroso said. “Perhaps one of them might even take a shot at the monarchs and end that problem…” He hesitated. “What do you think about the idea of overthrowing the monarchies of the remaining three kingdoms and installing republics? That would give the people there a real cause to fight for, to fight for the right to rule themselves, rather than us trying to tell them to fight for their monarch while that same monarch is saying the opposite.”
“You’ve suggested this before,” Martínez said unnecessarily. Indeed, it had been a talking point of Monterroso’s for many years, part of his railing against the hypocrisy of the supposed glories of the UPSA and Hermandad under the bourgeois parties. It had taken Suárez quite a lot to persuade the New Spanish at the start of the war that Monterroso did not intend to carry out some of his fierier rhetoric; indeed, perhaps the Meridians should count themselves lucky that Mexico had not joined the Americans from the start.
“I have,” Monterroso agreed, “but the situation has changed, and now may be the time. What do you think?”
Martínez shrugged. “You know that I of all people would not shed a tear to know that the descendants of those who conquered and oppressed my people and their kind were finally overthrown and burned from the Earth.” It had, of course, been Spanish Hapsburgs rather than Bourbons who had first been responsible for the conquest of South America, but Monterroso did not correct such a nicety. “However, I see three objections.” He counted on his fingers. “One: we are in the middle of a war, and chaos in those states may do more harm than good—there are certainly plenty of loyalists who would fight against a republic. Two: the people may not trust that they would truly rule themselves, given the existence of republics like Pernambuco.”
Monterroso nodded reluctantly at this: Pernambuco and its continued mistreatment of parts of its population as cheap labour for the pseudopuissant corporations (though slavery had been formally illegal there for decades, banned at the same time as in Carolina and the rest of the Hermandad) had been another matter he had railed at in his fiery campaign speeches. “And the third point?”
“Peru is helpful and its people are genuinely loyal to Gabriel II, for the most part,” Martínez said. “Toppling him would do more harm than good, yet we cannot remove the weaker regimes in Guatemala and New Granada without threatening him and driving him from our orbit. The same is likely true of João in Brazil.”
Monterroso gritted his teeth, one hand absently playing with a fragment of cigar from his ashtray. “Dammit. You’re right.” He sighed. “I suppose we can only deal with one matter at a time.” He hesitated. “Speaking of which—” he lowered his voice, “how go the plans for Operation Víbora?”
The name meant viper in Spanish. A spy might imagine Monterroso was talking of a military operation, a counter-strike aimed at the Americans, but he or she would be wrong. It was Monterroso’s firm belief that the UPSA must be finally, totally secured against internal stabs in the back before confronting her foes outside. The Meridian people must take on those who had sabotaged and damaged their war effort from the start…Monterroso unconsciously took out a notepad and began to make notes for his next speech, which would be circulated throughout the country via Lectel and read out by the local provincial Intendants and their representatives.
Ignoring Monterroso’s frantic scribbling, Martínez cleared his throat and reported. “It goes well. We still have not found Carlos Priestley, but Roberto is in charge in his absence, and remains convinced that he has collaborated with us sufficiently to escape. The same is true of what’s left of American Fruit, Acero Cruz del Sur and FrancoNavarro, as well as the other names on your list. We have sufficient troops and militia to do the job—ironically, a lot of the latter are from Peru, New Granada and Guyana,” he added, quirking an eyebrow.
Monterroso laughed harshly. “I suppose it would be a tad chaotic if we were to change their regimes in the middle of this. Very well: Víbora is more important.” He slammed a fist onto his alleged-barricade desk, passion flaring in his heart. “Those companies will be nationalised, their assets seized, their directors put on trial for their failure to support the national cause to the best of their ability.” He paused, a vein pulsing in his forehead. “We do have evidence that they have continued attempting to trade with our enemies behind our backs?”
“Some,” Martínez said coolly. “We have…supplemented it, of course.”
Monterroso nodded. “If we invent things, we are only inventing things they would do if given the chance,” he said, his conscience clear. “If they stick out, it is only because our imaginations are too pure to imagine the depths of filth to which these traitors will sink.”
“Agreed!” Martínez said sharply. “Then we move ahead on the current timetable?”
“By Sun and Torch, yes,” Monterroso said, his eyes shining. “By the new year, regardless of what happens in Mexico, one country at least will be cleansed of Yanqui-loving traitors.”
After Martínez had left, Monterroso looked around the office. He caught a glimpse of his face in a decorative mirror that General Flores had brought back from a Virginian town that had been ‘requisitioned’ during the Great American War. Seeing that mirror usually cheered him up, reminding him of the time of his father, when Meridian forces had threatened the Americans in their capital. Now, though, all he could see was the face of a man aged before his time, his hairline receding.
He turned away and noted the two paintings facing one another over his desk. One was President Riquelme, the first President Riquelme, the first of all Presidents-General of the UPSA. Riquelme had been an admirable figure, undoubtedly, but Monterroso had always found it misguided that he was elevated to being such a superhuman giant. Riquelme had been a man of the old days, when equality of Casta was itself a new idea, but Enlightenment views of the aristocracy and bourgeoisie leading the ‘inferior’ proletariat had still been well in force. His were not the core values of the UPSA to which Monterroso sought to return.
No; Monterroso turned to the other painting, a landscape rather than a portrait. Parra, the great artist of the Valdivia School of realism, had achieved a triumph in depicting El Espíritu del ’56. The scene had naturally required the application of considerable imagination given the lack of detailed eyewitness accounts, but Parra had nonetheless reached into the soul of every Meridian patriot and somehow realised in oils the scene that they all pictured when they thought of the defiant patriots on the barricades. There they were, before the Golden Sun, before the Silver Torch, before the UPSA itself: the ordinary people of the Plate, fighting to defend what was theirs, dying on the bayonets of Americans in coats as blood-red as the stains. Outnumbered, outgunned, doomed to defeat. Yet refusing to submit to the foe, standing up for their beliefs, in the knowledge that they would inspire others to the ending of the world.
Monterroso could not fail them now.
*
Brussels, Kingdom of the Reunited Netherlands [a.k.a. Belgium]
January 17th 1899
“Frankly, I am surprised that you even asked,” said Burggraaf Lodewijk de Spoelberch, Foreign Minister of the Kingdom of the Reunited Netherlands. He steepled his fingers, frowning at the two people sitting across the desk from him. He frowned rather more at the second rather than the first.
Héloïse Rouvier glared back at him as defiantly as she dared. Despite her determination to stick up for Cythereans everywhere against this man, evidently an unreconstructed Areian-supremacist, she had to fight hard to suppress her urge to gawk at the magnificence of his office. The Belgian Foreign Ministry had once been a palace built by the aristocratic Dukes de Bouillon, who had probably thanked their lucky stars they had escaped being phlogisticated by Lisieux like their French cousins, only to then be turfed out as part of the Route des Larmes a generation later.[3] The La Tour d’Auvergne family, who had possessed the dukedom, had clearly not dreamed that they would become persona non grata and be ejected from Brussels. They had invested hugely in this gorgeous palace in the Early Orientalist style that the people of the Watchful Peace period had been so enamoured by.
Héloïse had seen similar architecture in France, of course, but usually in museums and older houses open to the public. Seeing it as a living structure was unusual, especially given the palace’s purpose. Orientalism had been too avant-garde for public opinion at the time to incorporate into the design of any French government buildings. De Spoelberch’s office seemed to be an exemplar and macrocosm of the palace as a whole, incorporating elaborate Annamese silk hangings and Cochinchinese carvings alongside the more commonplace Bisnaga statues. The only thing that spoilt it was the presence of more new-fangled (ironically) ancient Babylonian-inspired art that clashed horribly with the rest. Clearly de Spoelberch had no taste...unless, of course, that was exactly what he wanted his guests to think, to make them underestimate him.
Wait, merde, did this mean he wasn’t actually a boorish Areian as well?
Diplomacy was hard.
“We have to ask,” said Robert Mercier smoothly, “because every nation should have a chance to participate in the new world order we are creating. A new world, a better world, shall arise upon the ashes of the old: that is obvious. All that is left to determine is what place every nation shall find itself in.”
“Hmmmmm,” de Spoelberch said sceptically. “You are confident, of course. But confidence can be misplaced.” He spoke diplomatic French excellently, Héloïse reluctantly admitted; she wondered how he could reconcile speaking the language here with his government’s brutal suppression of its use as a first language by the remaining Walloons groaning under Belgian law. Indeed, she hated the idea of even offering an olive branch to the Belgians given what they had done over the years, but Leclerc’s argument—in Mercier’s mouth—had justice nonetheless.
“I daresay les américains et les méridiens were just as confident when they began this war,” de Spoelberch continued. “Both convinced that the other would give way in a matter of months, and then the world would be theirs to dominate.” He placed his hands on his desk and leaned forward slightly. “As I suspect you have noticed, it has not...worked out that way.”
Mercier nodded with a smile. Though he was her ideological opponent, being a Diamantine with overly naïve and dangerous views about all sorts of things, Héloïse had found herself reluctantly admiring him on this trip. Mercier could evoke a relaxed, almost lackadaisical, attitude that made you assume he was not paying attention to a question of great moment—then he would suddenly, casually hit you with a razor-sharp argument in your moment of complacency. He had also shown his maturity and patriotism when he had taken the unusual step of agreeing to form a National Government with Leclerc. This was not the true Constitutional Triumvirate that some had called for, for the first time since the Popular Wars, but a more measured setup in recognition that France herself was not at war (despite what people muttered about the rebels in the Île du Dufresne). Besides, there were other reasons to avoid the Triumvirate—nobody particularly wanted to appoint a Dictateur, and they might be unable to avoid bringing in the Noirs and other unpleasant political minorities.
No, Robert Mercier was a good man; it was just a shame he wasn’t a Vert.
“You are correct, of course, in that confidence alone does not imply consequential success,” Mercier said smoothly. “However, I feel we have evidence to support our claims. We know that the ENA and the UPSA had both fatally weakened each other. The Americans will likely come out on top of this struggle, but even they will be badly damaged.” He narrowed his eyes. “And we know what is happening with respect to Great Britain.”
De Spoelberch frowned again. “That is not something I wish to discuss,” he muttered. “Certainly it takes no genius to note that it would be advantageous to—but that is another matter,” he said. Reflexively, he picked up a book from his desk and put it down in another place.
On top of a document, Héloïse realised. Was it really something confidential related to Mercier’s bait that he had hidden, or was it a trap? She guessed the former: de Spoelberch might be good, but he had seemed genuinely distracted and surprised by the point being raised.
Well, then: time to activate Héloïse’s secondary mission, beside being a party-political Vert watchdog while Mercier acted as Foreign Minister, his price for entering the government. The Belgians’ own spies were excellent and feared in the corridors of power in Paris, but France’s Ministère des araignées had been working hard to plant people in Brussels—usually Dutch-Flemings working for money, as using Walloons would be too predictable these days. Héloïse took note of the book and the corner of the paper still exposed, and made a mental note to inform her contact as soon as she could. Perhaps de Spoelberch would remember and lock it away...well, best to distract him now then.
Héloïse crossed her legs and casually pulled up her dress so she could scratch her upper calf. She was no longer wearing the jupe ballon, which was still considered provocative in crusty old Belgium, but a more staid and conservative dress. De Spoelberch’s gaze tracked toward the glimpse of her stocking she had afforded him. She met his shocked eyes and smiled apologetically. “Forgive me, Your Excellency; I have had a rash since arriving in your fair city.”
De Spoelberch blinked in confusion, his emotions visibly warring within him as lust, disgust and outrage all fought for control. “Please...refrain from doing that, miss,” he muttered, barely remembering to be disrespectful to her.
Héloïse kept smiling, only allowing her fury to reach her eyes. She hated this man, hated what she had just had to do, but it had worked: he had most probably forgotten the matter that had led him to hide the paper when Mercier had mentioned Britain. That meant her agent might be able to find the paper and learn of it, which might make all the difference.
All for La France.
Mercier had obviously realised the unexpected trigger too, and hastily changed the subject. “With the Americans and Meridians weakened, the Germans invaded by the Russians, the Russians undercut in China and now attacked by the Turk…the other great powers have fallen, Your Excellency,” he said. “France alone remains, France and her allies. France has the chance to remake the world, to make a new world fit for peace. Despite our past differences, Belgium can be part of that vision.”
“Visions can also be delusions,” de Spoelberch snorted clearly back to his old self. “You confidently predict France’s supremacy, when France is the only one of the so-called great powers not to have fought at all.” He wagged a finger rudely at Mercier. “What makes you think you can intimidate battle-hardened nations with your untried armies?”
Mercier’s smile became fixed. “They are scarcely untried. We have used them to preserve peace in the Goanese hinterland, in northern Antipodea…”
“Where you took rightfully Belgian territory!” de Spoelberch cried.
“The only part of northern Antipodea that was ever controlled by Belgium is now under the control of the Americans,” Mercier pointed out.
“ALL of it belongs to Belgium by right of succession from the former Dutch Republic!” de Spoelberch bit out. Héloïse felt the urge to laugh—was he seriously dredging up that old claim?
“Well,” Mercier said, “that is precisely why you should join the Geneva Pact. As things currently stand, lands you claim such as the Cape Republic will end up going to the Americans, unless we are able to persuade them into a profitable neutral position...”
“A position of profit to you, you mean,” de Spoelberch said dismissively.
“And to you,” Mercier said, allowing a note of anger to enter his voice. “Or is it in Belgium’s interests to allow all these lands you claim to pass from one colonial power to another, while you sit there and continue to proclaim your claim while doing nothing about it? Do you think this will improve Belgium’s credibility in the eyes of the world?”
“You know nothing of Belgium’s policy,” de Spoelberch snapped. “Suffice to say that we know how this war will turn out, and joining the side of a group of opportunistic scavengers will also not reflect well on us.” He sniffed. “Especially opportunistic scavengers who think it proper to bring their mistresses to the diplomatic table. Good day, sir.”
Mercier gave a single, frightened, sideways glance to Héloïse and then loudly replied: “Well, sir, if you have nothing for us save insults both to our nation and to our legislature, then we have nothing more to discuss.” He rose to his feet, Héloïse swiftly joining him. “I bid you farewell, and I suggest that you will come to rue the choices you made this day.”
De Spoelberch also rose. “Is that a threat?”
Mercier managed another, wan smile. “A prediction. Let us go.”
“The nerve of that man,” Héloïse muttered as they left the Palace. Her feelings of rage were real, but she allowed them to show, meaning that any of de Spoelberch’s underlings observing her would paint a picture of her as just another emotional woman, no threat.
“He is a disgrace to the First Sex, if I may say so,” Mercier said. “Would you mind if we gave his observers a little evidence that his barb struck home?”
Héloïse gave him a look. “This being good diplomatic practice, of course, and not merely because you want a kiss.”
Mercier looked slightly outraged. “Well, of course not; you are a wonderful woman, Mam’zelle Rouvier, but you’re not a Diamantine.”
She laughed, and mock-surreptitiously embraced him.
[1] There is quite a lot incorrect here, in particular Monterroso treating a formally British force as ‘the Americans’, but it reflects the version of history presented in the Meridian foundation myth.
[2] I.e. Bogotá.
[3] The original de Bouillon dukedom of the La Tour d’Auvergne family became extinct in 1802 in OTL due to events arising from invasion and annexation by the French Republic, though the title was later awarded to the House of Rohan by the Congress of Vienna. Things are different in TTL due to the Treaty of Liége in 1796, which saw Charles Theodore’s Flanders make a relatively long-lasting peace with France and hold on to relevant territory in question.
The country’s official name is: EMPIRE OF THE GREAT QING (DA QING), almost universally called BEIQING CHINA; occasionally called NORTH CHINA or THE MANCHU REMNANT etc.
The people are known as: BEIQING CHINESE or occasionally North Chinese.
Capital and largest city: Beijing (1.6 million)
Flag: A red disc bearing a blue dragon, surrounded by gold and on a golden horizontal stripe dividing a blue field.
Population: 105,000,000 (estimate)
Land area: ca. 155,000 lcf.
Economic ranking: Difficult to estimate due to its economy generally being closed except to Russia and its allies.
Form of government: Absolute monarchy, though in practice power is often wielded by a military or bureaucratic strongman in the Emperor’s name.
Foreign relations: Since the Second Riverine War ended in 1868, the Beiqing have been fighting a losing battle to retain their independence and isolation, and in practice have become subordinated to Russian interests. Their economy remains largely closed to outsiders other than the Russians (though the French have made attempts to break in by force). As always, they refuse to acknowledge the existence of the Feng dynasty to the south as anything other than an illegitimate rebellion.
Military: The Beiqing military was modernised before and during the Second Riverine War, although it still keeps the old name Green Standard Army. The army is well-equipped but often poorly trained and motivated, in part due to institutional corruption. Since defeats in the Second Riverine War and the increasing role of the Imperial Russian Navy in the region, the Beiqing navy has largely restricted itself to coastal and inland riverine patrols, with only a few oceanic-navy ships.
Current head of state: The Quanyu Emperor (Qing Dynasty) (since 1890); often disparagingly called by his personal name ‘Weili’ by the Feng.
Current head of government: De facto, General Ying Tiansheng (also Viceroy of Zhili) is presently the most powerful member of the Grand Council.
– Taken from APPENDIX: GUIDE TO THE WORLD’S NATIONS AT THE EVE OF THE PANDORIC WAR, OCTOBER 1896, from
The World At War: From The Pages of The Discerner VOLUME I: THE GATHERING STORM (1981)
*The World At War: From The Pages of The Discerner VOLUME I: THE GATHERING STORM (1981)
From: The World At War: From The Pages of The Discerner VOLUME IV: ROAD TO RUIN (1986):
Córdoba, Córdoba Province, United Provinces of South America
December 1st 1898
Álvaro Monterroso, President-General of the United Provinces of South America, resisted the urge to hold his head in his hands by a bare fraction of will. His nerves were shot to hell, and the sweltering summer heat did not help. The ashtray on the corner of his desk was overflowing with the stubs of cigars—Royal Portuguese Brazilian tobacco, of course. Cuba, the exporter of Monterroso’s favoured brand, had long since declared for the wrong side after some uncertainty.
That desk had been made, according to questionable legend, from part of a makeshift barricade that the first patriots had raised in the streets of Buenos Aires against the American invaders in 1756. That glorious defence by ordinary citizens had failed in the short term, but it had created an image of defiance that had caught the imagination of what had then been a sleepy backwater of the vast, inefficiently-run Viceroyalty of Peru. Inspired Platinean rebels had formed a ragtag army that had beaten the Yanquis a year later at Rosario, and in the end the war had been won, the Americans so embarrassed that their government had executed their commanding officer. That successful counter-attack, organised when the mother country had failed to send help against the invader, had sown the seeds for the rebellion of a quarter-century later, when Spain had not only failed to send help against the French, but had told the lie that they were coming as allies.[1]
When Monterroso had been elected, more than a hundred years on from that rebellion, the republic it had birthed had seemed stronger than ever before. She had stretched out her wings to dominate all of South America through direct control or influence through the Hermandad, she had pulled even Mexico and Guatemala under the old Bourbon foe into her orbit, she had driven a dagger into the underbelly of the Americans in the shape of Carolina, and then made them live with it. It had been the final revenge for that first attack, the blood of the patriots on the streets of eighteenth-century Buenos Aires: at last the Americans had known fear in turn. Nor had it ended there—the UPSA exerted influence over an informal empire on which the sun never set, from southern Africa to India to China to the Nusantara, working through the old exilic remnants of the Dutch and Portuguese empires before those nations had fallen to conquest and tyranny. What had once been an obscure colonial revolt had transformed into one of the greatest powers the world had ever seen.
Now it was all falling apart. But in his heart, Monterroso did not grieve for the loss of that empire in and of itself. He had never felt that the Hermandad was a true evocation of the Spirit of ’56. It was an invention of the men of small mind and deep pockets who had slowly bought out the country from its true owners, the men who dreamed only of wealth and power and knew nothing of honour or heritage. It had not been the bankers and the businessmen who had died on the barricades in Buenos Aires so many years ago: it had been the ordinary workers who feared the Americans burning their homes and slaying their families. Those first martyrs were the first true Meridians, and if the Republic were to be true to its heritage, it must exemplify their values and their legacy. Not boasting of influence built on the backs of peoples exploited as surely as the old Spanish masters had once exploited the Plate.
This was not to say he did not fear the war being lost. More than anything, he feared the return of that nightmarish image, which all Meridians after Castelli’s failure had sworn would never come again: the image of Americans encamped on the banks of the River Plate, ready to overrun Buenos Aires and threaten Córdoba. If that happened, it would symbolise that all the Republic had achieved since its foundation had been worthless, nullified in a single act. Except it would not even be a return to the dark days of 1756 or 1807, for the actions of international capital and corporate greed had tainted and corrupted even warfare, squeezing any last iota of honour or glory from it. Rather than columns of Americans in colourful red uniforms and white wigs raising their muskets and bayonets against the innocents of Buenos Aires, it would be monstrous steam-belching protguns crushing them beneath their iron wheels, the Starry George flying from their chimneys.
Monterroso would die before he allowed that image to become a reality.
There was a knock at the door of the Blue Office, Monterroso’s official workplace within the bulk of the Casa de Riquelme. “Enter,” he said briefly. For a moment the prospect of assassination flickered through his mind, but he trusted his bodyguards and secretary to do their jobs.
Indeed, the man who entered was the Interior Minister, General Katari Martínez. Historically, the UPSA had frowned on allowing serving military members from holding cabinet office, though it had never been a hard and fast rule. Monterroso, however, had been forced to work within a shrunken pool of talent due to the fact that the bourgeois, corporate-loving parties had been in power for so long. If the price of clearing out all the scum who were on the various boards of directors of half the companies they handed government contracts to, and decided whether or not Meridian armed force should defend, had been that he had to replace them with military men or the politically inexperienced—well, so be it. Victory or defeat, this war would be fought for the Meridian people, not a minority of scroungers atop a huge pile of other people’s money.
“Your Excellency,” Martínez said briefly. As his first name suggested, he was half-Aymara. The Aymara had once expressed solid voter preference for the Adamantine Party due to the latter’s defence of both their own rights and those of their Tahuantinsuya brethren under Peruvian rule, but that had faded as the Adamantines and Unionists became indistinguishable on selling any group of poor people down the river in favour of sucking up to the companies that exploited them. They had been far from the only group to finally turn in desperation to Monterroso’s People’s Party. He only wished fervently that he was not leading them to their destruction as assuredly as the Adamantine-Unionists had their degradation.
“General,” Monterroso replied. He slowly exhaled. “Is the news from Russia…confirmed?”
Martínez gave a brief, tight nod. He had come here straight from the Foreign Ministry, where Jorge Suárez was still preparing for his trip to Santa Fe.[2] “The Lectel message is confirmed by a third party. The Turks invaded the Russian Caucasus a month ago.” With the progression of the war, many of the old Lectel connections that had once been taken for granted had been cut off, and the UPSA now only received news of the Russian front via an awkward workaround in Africa, prone to delays as long as this.
The General hesitated. “Any reports of the aftermath of the immediate clashes have not yet been confirmed, and are likely from Russian sources, but…”
“But?” Monterroso repeated quietly.
Now it was time for Martínez to exhale. “But they suggest that the Russians were caught off-guard by the attack. Their armies are vast, but they are stretched thinly…”
Monterroso nodded slowly. He got up from his desk—feeling his muscles creak as he did so, for it felt as though he had aged a couple of decades in as many years—and went to the large globe in the corner of his office. Meridian-built, it had been designed to put the South Pole at the top, with the still vague and debatable dashed lines of the icebound southern continent of Australia. However, with most land-masses in the northern hemisphere, this bold statement of southern supremacy had been quietly engineered so it was still possible to flip the globe over so the north could be looked at in more detail. Monterroso now did so, turning the globe so that the vast bulk of the Russian Empire filled his view from one limb of the world to the other. “They’ve taken Poland and most of Wallachia, they’re pushing into Hungary and getting close to threatening Dresden itself in Germany,” he said slowly, “they’ve attacked the Yanquis in Noochaland and the Assiniboia Country…”
“They’ve sent forces to help the Beiqing Chinese against the Feng as well,” Martínez said. He hesitated. “Not very successfully, if you read between the lines of the reports.”
The President shook his head. This war was global, like the old Wars of Supremacy, yet in an ever more interconnected world, the fronts had so little to do with each other. He had exchanged cordial telegrams with Chairman Gagarin and even Tsar Peter himself, in which they both extolled each others’ valued friendship—yet what did the UPSA and Russia have to do with one another? Russia was a despotic, aristocratic state of the sort that the UPSA had been founded to break away from. It was all smoke and mirrors, trying to pretend that there was any sort of guiding plan behind alliances of pure convenience. It was, of course, the same on the other side, with the Americans blathering about their brave German allies and vice-versa.
If he could relive his presidency, Monterroso would have tried to avoid this war. At the time, he had thought it would be a sign of weakness to bow down to the Americans, that it would discredit his message, perhaps even that a good war would be exactly what the country needed to clean out the vile corporate scum that had exploited it. But the reality had been far bloodier and more miserable than that hopeful image of purity.
Carolina was lost; well, it had always been a stain on the United Provinces’ reputation that they had ever propped up that rotten fag-end of a country. (Even now he couldn’t stop thinking about tobacco, he reflected with black humour). The Indian possessions were lost—but they had never truly belonged to anyone other than ‘Senhor Oliveira’s Company’, and the craven run to the wings of the French Vulture just showed how hollow the old claims of Meridian supremacy were. Nieuw Holland in Antipodea was lost, again in part to the French scavengers. What was left? The Philippine Republic, the Nusantara (upon which the defeated Siamese, who had gotten the Meridians into this mess in the first place, were now directing avaricious eyes), and a chunk of the Cape, against which the Americans had seen some progress but failed to entirely roll up. The influence on Royal Portuguese Brazil still existed, King João VII with his back to the wall and no options, and through him there were still the ports and the Lectel cables in Angola. What was that worth, at the end of the day? The Kongo Empire, more theoretically influenced by the Royal-Portuguese, had already hastily proclaimed neutrality after the Royal Africa Company decided to pointedly march some jaguns up and down its border. Monterroso wouldn’t be surprised if the Kongolese Emperor Henrique II was sending feelers towards the French and their perfidious ‘Geneva Pact’ of armed neutrality, either.
It was so depressing. If the UPSA lost, well, at least the spider’s web of corrupt corporate control that the two bourgeois parties had fed off had been burned away by the dark fire of the Yanqui onslaught—but the French and their allies were already preparing to create another to take its place. Was there no way out of this endless cycle of destruction?
Monterroso gave a single, harsh bark of laughter, startling Martínez. “Your Excellency?”
“I was just thinking that if one’s not careful, one starts to sound like a Societist fanatic,” Monterroso said baldly. “Forget it. So the Russians have got pushed to the back foot again—that doesn’t mean anything to use really, propaganda aside. It was like when the damn Mauré took Gavaji. All that matters is we keep the United Provinces free and safe, and continue to exert as much influence as we can.”
“We’ve repulsed a Yanqui attack on Venezuela,” Martínez offered.
Monterroso snorted. “Si, like the Americans were ever serious about that. They’re just doing it to assuage Princess Daniele and her exiles, a token gesture. If they try again, we should let them land and then crush them, they won’t have the supplies to make an actual beachhead.”
Martínez shrugged. “Likely. Of course, the next attempt may be more serious…”
“Mexico and Guatemala are the problem,” Monterroso said, dismissing that with a wave of his hand. “It was fool luck that the Yanquis got their hands on Charles VI, not to mention Antonio III. I doubt the folk in the other three kingdoms are exactly going to switch sides on Charles’ word, but I’d feel a lot better if he’d gone to the bottom of the ocean.”
The General nodded, unsurprised at the harsh words. The New Spaniards had always been a tool to be used and discarded; there was even honour or justice in that according to some, for it paid the price for how the Bourbons had once treated the brave Platinean rebel colonists the same way. Now the purpose of the four New Spanish kingdoms to the UPSA was to act as human shields standing in the way of the American advance, seeking to wound and weary the foe before they could reach the Meridians themselves. One of those dominos had already fallen: Mexico.
Mostly. “Though they have the Emperor and the King, the Americans are still having trouble pacifying Mexico,” Martínez said. “They may abandon the attempt and just focus on controlling strategic ports, perhaps.”
“I think not,” Monterroso said slowly. “I am told that our agents in the ENA report that their politicians—and businessmen,” he spat, “have all sorts of inventive schemes for carving up the kingdom.”
“Then we can encourage kleinkrieger groups with stories of those Yanqui plans?” Martínez suggested.
“Yes, indeed,” Monterroso said. “Perhaps one of them might even take a shot at the monarchs and end that problem…” He hesitated. “What do you think about the idea of overthrowing the monarchies of the remaining three kingdoms and installing republics? That would give the people there a real cause to fight for, to fight for the right to rule themselves, rather than us trying to tell them to fight for their monarch while that same monarch is saying the opposite.”
“You’ve suggested this before,” Martínez said unnecessarily. Indeed, it had been a talking point of Monterroso’s for many years, part of his railing against the hypocrisy of the supposed glories of the UPSA and Hermandad under the bourgeois parties. It had taken Suárez quite a lot to persuade the New Spanish at the start of the war that Monterroso did not intend to carry out some of his fierier rhetoric; indeed, perhaps the Meridians should count themselves lucky that Mexico had not joined the Americans from the start.
“I have,” Monterroso agreed, “but the situation has changed, and now may be the time. What do you think?”
Martínez shrugged. “You know that I of all people would not shed a tear to know that the descendants of those who conquered and oppressed my people and their kind were finally overthrown and burned from the Earth.” It had, of course, been Spanish Hapsburgs rather than Bourbons who had first been responsible for the conquest of South America, but Monterroso did not correct such a nicety. “However, I see three objections.” He counted on his fingers. “One: we are in the middle of a war, and chaos in those states may do more harm than good—there are certainly plenty of loyalists who would fight against a republic. Two: the people may not trust that they would truly rule themselves, given the existence of republics like Pernambuco.”
Monterroso nodded reluctantly at this: Pernambuco and its continued mistreatment of parts of its population as cheap labour for the pseudopuissant corporations (though slavery had been formally illegal there for decades, banned at the same time as in Carolina and the rest of the Hermandad) had been another matter he had railed at in his fiery campaign speeches. “And the third point?”
“Peru is helpful and its people are genuinely loyal to Gabriel II, for the most part,” Martínez said. “Toppling him would do more harm than good, yet we cannot remove the weaker regimes in Guatemala and New Granada without threatening him and driving him from our orbit. The same is likely true of João in Brazil.”
Monterroso gritted his teeth, one hand absently playing with a fragment of cigar from his ashtray. “Dammit. You’re right.” He sighed. “I suppose we can only deal with one matter at a time.” He hesitated. “Speaking of which—” he lowered his voice, “how go the plans for Operation Víbora?”
The name meant viper in Spanish. A spy might imagine Monterroso was talking of a military operation, a counter-strike aimed at the Americans, but he or she would be wrong. It was Monterroso’s firm belief that the UPSA must be finally, totally secured against internal stabs in the back before confronting her foes outside. The Meridian people must take on those who had sabotaged and damaged their war effort from the start…Monterroso unconsciously took out a notepad and began to make notes for his next speech, which would be circulated throughout the country via Lectel and read out by the local provincial Intendants and their representatives.
Ignoring Monterroso’s frantic scribbling, Martínez cleared his throat and reported. “It goes well. We still have not found Carlos Priestley, but Roberto is in charge in his absence, and remains convinced that he has collaborated with us sufficiently to escape. The same is true of what’s left of American Fruit, Acero Cruz del Sur and FrancoNavarro, as well as the other names on your list. We have sufficient troops and militia to do the job—ironically, a lot of the latter are from Peru, New Granada and Guyana,” he added, quirking an eyebrow.
Monterroso laughed harshly. “I suppose it would be a tad chaotic if we were to change their regimes in the middle of this. Very well: Víbora is more important.” He slammed a fist onto his alleged-barricade desk, passion flaring in his heart. “Those companies will be nationalised, their assets seized, their directors put on trial for their failure to support the national cause to the best of their ability.” He paused, a vein pulsing in his forehead. “We do have evidence that they have continued attempting to trade with our enemies behind our backs?”
“Some,” Martínez said coolly. “We have…supplemented it, of course.”
Monterroso nodded. “If we invent things, we are only inventing things they would do if given the chance,” he said, his conscience clear. “If they stick out, it is only because our imaginations are too pure to imagine the depths of filth to which these traitors will sink.”
“Agreed!” Martínez said sharply. “Then we move ahead on the current timetable?”
“By Sun and Torch, yes,” Monterroso said, his eyes shining. “By the new year, regardless of what happens in Mexico, one country at least will be cleansed of Yanqui-loving traitors.”
After Martínez had left, Monterroso looked around the office. He caught a glimpse of his face in a decorative mirror that General Flores had brought back from a Virginian town that had been ‘requisitioned’ during the Great American War. Seeing that mirror usually cheered him up, reminding him of the time of his father, when Meridian forces had threatened the Americans in their capital. Now, though, all he could see was the face of a man aged before his time, his hairline receding.
He turned away and noted the two paintings facing one another over his desk. One was President Riquelme, the first President Riquelme, the first of all Presidents-General of the UPSA. Riquelme had been an admirable figure, undoubtedly, but Monterroso had always found it misguided that he was elevated to being such a superhuman giant. Riquelme had been a man of the old days, when equality of Casta was itself a new idea, but Enlightenment views of the aristocracy and bourgeoisie leading the ‘inferior’ proletariat had still been well in force. His were not the core values of the UPSA to which Monterroso sought to return.
No; Monterroso turned to the other painting, a landscape rather than a portrait. Parra, the great artist of the Valdivia School of realism, had achieved a triumph in depicting El Espíritu del ’56. The scene had naturally required the application of considerable imagination given the lack of detailed eyewitness accounts, but Parra had nonetheless reached into the soul of every Meridian patriot and somehow realised in oils the scene that they all pictured when they thought of the defiant patriots on the barricades. There they were, before the Golden Sun, before the Silver Torch, before the UPSA itself: the ordinary people of the Plate, fighting to defend what was theirs, dying on the bayonets of Americans in coats as blood-red as the stains. Outnumbered, outgunned, doomed to defeat. Yet refusing to submit to the foe, standing up for their beliefs, in the knowledge that they would inspire others to the ending of the world.
Monterroso could not fail them now.
*
Brussels, Kingdom of the Reunited Netherlands [a.k.a. Belgium]
January 17th 1899
“Frankly, I am surprised that you even asked,” said Burggraaf Lodewijk de Spoelberch, Foreign Minister of the Kingdom of the Reunited Netherlands. He steepled his fingers, frowning at the two people sitting across the desk from him. He frowned rather more at the second rather than the first.
Héloïse Rouvier glared back at him as defiantly as she dared. Despite her determination to stick up for Cythereans everywhere against this man, evidently an unreconstructed Areian-supremacist, she had to fight hard to suppress her urge to gawk at the magnificence of his office. The Belgian Foreign Ministry had once been a palace built by the aristocratic Dukes de Bouillon, who had probably thanked their lucky stars they had escaped being phlogisticated by Lisieux like their French cousins, only to then be turfed out as part of the Route des Larmes a generation later.[3] The La Tour d’Auvergne family, who had possessed the dukedom, had clearly not dreamed that they would become persona non grata and be ejected from Brussels. They had invested hugely in this gorgeous palace in the Early Orientalist style that the people of the Watchful Peace period had been so enamoured by.
Héloïse had seen similar architecture in France, of course, but usually in museums and older houses open to the public. Seeing it as a living structure was unusual, especially given the palace’s purpose. Orientalism had been too avant-garde for public opinion at the time to incorporate into the design of any French government buildings. De Spoelberch’s office seemed to be an exemplar and macrocosm of the palace as a whole, incorporating elaborate Annamese silk hangings and Cochinchinese carvings alongside the more commonplace Bisnaga statues. The only thing that spoilt it was the presence of more new-fangled (ironically) ancient Babylonian-inspired art that clashed horribly with the rest. Clearly de Spoelberch had no taste...unless, of course, that was exactly what he wanted his guests to think, to make them underestimate him.
Wait, merde, did this mean he wasn’t actually a boorish Areian as well?
Diplomacy was hard.
“We have to ask,” said Robert Mercier smoothly, “because every nation should have a chance to participate in the new world order we are creating. A new world, a better world, shall arise upon the ashes of the old: that is obvious. All that is left to determine is what place every nation shall find itself in.”
“Hmmmmm,” de Spoelberch said sceptically. “You are confident, of course. But confidence can be misplaced.” He spoke diplomatic French excellently, Héloïse reluctantly admitted; she wondered how he could reconcile speaking the language here with his government’s brutal suppression of its use as a first language by the remaining Walloons groaning under Belgian law. Indeed, she hated the idea of even offering an olive branch to the Belgians given what they had done over the years, but Leclerc’s argument—in Mercier’s mouth—had justice nonetheless.
“I daresay les américains et les méridiens were just as confident when they began this war,” de Spoelberch continued. “Both convinced that the other would give way in a matter of months, and then the world would be theirs to dominate.” He placed his hands on his desk and leaned forward slightly. “As I suspect you have noticed, it has not...worked out that way.”
Mercier nodded with a smile. Though he was her ideological opponent, being a Diamantine with overly naïve and dangerous views about all sorts of things, Héloïse had found herself reluctantly admiring him on this trip. Mercier could evoke a relaxed, almost lackadaisical, attitude that made you assume he was not paying attention to a question of great moment—then he would suddenly, casually hit you with a razor-sharp argument in your moment of complacency. He had also shown his maturity and patriotism when he had taken the unusual step of agreeing to form a National Government with Leclerc. This was not the true Constitutional Triumvirate that some had called for, for the first time since the Popular Wars, but a more measured setup in recognition that France herself was not at war (despite what people muttered about the rebels in the Île du Dufresne). Besides, there were other reasons to avoid the Triumvirate—nobody particularly wanted to appoint a Dictateur, and they might be unable to avoid bringing in the Noirs and other unpleasant political minorities.
No, Robert Mercier was a good man; it was just a shame he wasn’t a Vert.
“You are correct, of course, in that confidence alone does not imply consequential success,” Mercier said smoothly. “However, I feel we have evidence to support our claims. We know that the ENA and the UPSA had both fatally weakened each other. The Americans will likely come out on top of this struggle, but even they will be badly damaged.” He narrowed his eyes. “And we know what is happening with respect to Great Britain.”
De Spoelberch frowned again. “That is not something I wish to discuss,” he muttered. “Certainly it takes no genius to note that it would be advantageous to—but that is another matter,” he said. Reflexively, he picked up a book from his desk and put it down in another place.
On top of a document, Héloïse realised. Was it really something confidential related to Mercier’s bait that he had hidden, or was it a trap? She guessed the former: de Spoelberch might be good, but he had seemed genuinely distracted and surprised by the point being raised.
Well, then: time to activate Héloïse’s secondary mission, beside being a party-political Vert watchdog while Mercier acted as Foreign Minister, his price for entering the government. The Belgians’ own spies were excellent and feared in the corridors of power in Paris, but France’s Ministère des araignées had been working hard to plant people in Brussels—usually Dutch-Flemings working for money, as using Walloons would be too predictable these days. Héloïse took note of the book and the corner of the paper still exposed, and made a mental note to inform her contact as soon as she could. Perhaps de Spoelberch would remember and lock it away...well, best to distract him now then.
Héloïse crossed her legs and casually pulled up her dress so she could scratch her upper calf. She was no longer wearing the jupe ballon, which was still considered provocative in crusty old Belgium, but a more staid and conservative dress. De Spoelberch’s gaze tracked toward the glimpse of her stocking she had afforded him. She met his shocked eyes and smiled apologetically. “Forgive me, Your Excellency; I have had a rash since arriving in your fair city.”
De Spoelberch blinked in confusion, his emotions visibly warring within him as lust, disgust and outrage all fought for control. “Please...refrain from doing that, miss,” he muttered, barely remembering to be disrespectful to her.
Héloïse kept smiling, only allowing her fury to reach her eyes. She hated this man, hated what she had just had to do, but it had worked: he had most probably forgotten the matter that had led him to hide the paper when Mercier had mentioned Britain. That meant her agent might be able to find the paper and learn of it, which might make all the difference.
All for La France.
Mercier had obviously realised the unexpected trigger too, and hastily changed the subject. “With the Americans and Meridians weakened, the Germans invaded by the Russians, the Russians undercut in China and now attacked by the Turk…the other great powers have fallen, Your Excellency,” he said. “France alone remains, France and her allies. France has the chance to remake the world, to make a new world fit for peace. Despite our past differences, Belgium can be part of that vision.”
“Visions can also be delusions,” de Spoelberch snorted clearly back to his old self. “You confidently predict France’s supremacy, when France is the only one of the so-called great powers not to have fought at all.” He wagged a finger rudely at Mercier. “What makes you think you can intimidate battle-hardened nations with your untried armies?”
Mercier’s smile became fixed. “They are scarcely untried. We have used them to preserve peace in the Goanese hinterland, in northern Antipodea…”
“Where you took rightfully Belgian territory!” de Spoelberch cried.
“The only part of northern Antipodea that was ever controlled by Belgium is now under the control of the Americans,” Mercier pointed out.
“ALL of it belongs to Belgium by right of succession from the former Dutch Republic!” de Spoelberch bit out. Héloïse felt the urge to laugh—was he seriously dredging up that old claim?
“Well,” Mercier said, “that is precisely why you should join the Geneva Pact. As things currently stand, lands you claim such as the Cape Republic will end up going to the Americans, unless we are able to persuade them into a profitable neutral position...”
“A position of profit to you, you mean,” de Spoelberch said dismissively.
“And to you,” Mercier said, allowing a note of anger to enter his voice. “Or is it in Belgium’s interests to allow all these lands you claim to pass from one colonial power to another, while you sit there and continue to proclaim your claim while doing nothing about it? Do you think this will improve Belgium’s credibility in the eyes of the world?”
“You know nothing of Belgium’s policy,” de Spoelberch snapped. “Suffice to say that we know how this war will turn out, and joining the side of a group of opportunistic scavengers will also not reflect well on us.” He sniffed. “Especially opportunistic scavengers who think it proper to bring their mistresses to the diplomatic table. Good day, sir.”
Mercier gave a single, frightened, sideways glance to Héloïse and then loudly replied: “Well, sir, if you have nothing for us save insults both to our nation and to our legislature, then we have nothing more to discuss.” He rose to his feet, Héloïse swiftly joining him. “I bid you farewell, and I suggest that you will come to rue the choices you made this day.”
De Spoelberch also rose. “Is that a threat?”
Mercier managed another, wan smile. “A prediction. Let us go.”
“The nerve of that man,” Héloïse muttered as they left the Palace. Her feelings of rage were real, but she allowed them to show, meaning that any of de Spoelberch’s underlings observing her would paint a picture of her as just another emotional woman, no threat.
“He is a disgrace to the First Sex, if I may say so,” Mercier said. “Would you mind if we gave his observers a little evidence that his barb struck home?”
Héloïse gave him a look. “This being good diplomatic practice, of course, and not merely because you want a kiss.”
Mercier looked slightly outraged. “Well, of course not; you are a wonderful woman, Mam’zelle Rouvier, but you’re not a Diamantine.”
She laughed, and mock-surreptitiously embraced him.
[1] There is quite a lot incorrect here, in particular Monterroso treating a formally British force as ‘the Americans’, but it reflects the version of history presented in the Meridian foundation myth.
[2] I.e. Bogotá.
[3] The original de Bouillon dukedom of the La Tour d’Auvergne family became extinct in 1802 in OTL due to events arising from invasion and annexation by the French Republic, though the title was later awarded to the House of Rohan by the Congress of Vienna. Things are different in TTL due to the Treaty of Liége in 1796, which saw Charles Theodore’s Flanders make a relatively long-lasting peace with France and hold on to relevant territory in question.
Last edited:
Thande
Donor
While I've been focusing on my novel (see sig) I didn't want to leave LTTW hanging for too long, so I've just cranked out this update.
I have since decided that for publication I'm going to split this volume, so it will be Volume V: To Dream Again for the first 25 chapters (the lead-up to the prose beginning) and then the prose Pandoric War stuff will be Volume VI. Not sure what to call Volume VI, maybe just subtitle it "The Pandoric War"? I'll see if I can come up with a better title.
I have since decided that for publication I'm going to split this volume, so it will be Volume V: To Dream Again for the first 25 chapters (the lead-up to the prose beginning) and then the prose Pandoric War stuff will be Volume VI. Not sure what to call Volume VI, maybe just subtitle it "The Pandoric War"? I'll see if I can come up with a better title.
Thande
Donor
That's probably unlikely unless the muse gets me--these updates are looooong to write and I want to plan it so it comes out right rather than done quickly. You never know, though.
Redcoat
Banned
Hmmmmmmm. I'd make the name of the volume a reference to the fall of the UPSA to Societism. Maybe "The Dragon Unleashed" or something.
How about the "Bellum Pandorica"? Or the "Prose Pandorica", as a nod to the Prose Edda? Or even, "Now for something a little different".
I'm really sympathizing with Monterroso here. He seems to me like a genuine believer in Meridian values, like being an anti-imperialist and breaking the backs of the corporations. It's just unfortunate he's a wartime leader, because if not for that he could have gone down as a great reformer (like William Jennings Bryan if he won in 1896). Instead, he's just the prelude to the rise of Societism.