Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ An Ancient War Renewed ❯ Chapter 9 and 10 ( Chapter 5 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

9

Rashid wanted to act. Quatre wanted to act. Everyone wanted to act. But no one could act; no one dared defy the decision of the Emir. Emir al-Winner called his son and Rashid to him. First he spoke to Rashid, “Protect him. The Emirate can only be reborn in him.” As Rashid left under those orders, Quatre was pulled close.

“My son, do not fear for me or the city. The Westland Alliance cannot honestly desire to do us harm.”

“Father, the Alliance is not the same as it was when you were young. They have been imbued with a sick sense of nationhood that allows little concern for others. You cannot stay here.”

“I must. I must trust Allah and the goodness in the souls of our conquerors. You must leave, however. You must be ready to take over, in case my faith is misplaced.”

“Father, I can’t…”

“You must. You are the hope of the Emirate. Remember this, son: This Emirate was founded in the bloody crucible of war once, and Allah repays it now. What will become of the Emirate formed again from war? Will Allah be more merciful unto you? Or more harsh?”

“I understand, Father.”

“Quatre, before you go, please remove your helmet.”

He did as commanded, and the elder al-Winner embraced him around the neck. Holding Quatre’s head against his shoulder, the Emir rocked back and forth for about half a minute, whispering a prayer for his safety. Quatre rose after that episode, put his helmet back on, and bowed his head to show respect. Before he turned and left, his father imparted a final word.

“Son, that armor is older than the Emirate itself. It was born in battle, and will be finished in battle. By Allah, don’t be in it when that day comes.”

Quatre marched out as ordered, meeting with Rashid and the Maganac line on the outskirts of town. No one showed their displeasure, but only because of their masks. Otherwise, the line would be grimaces, gritted teeth, or even sorrowful frowns lined in rivulets of tears. That last order was the one they did not wish to hear, but even now the Emir’s word stood as absolute. The loyalty to the Emir never allowed the Maganac line to defy a direct order, save the one to disband so long ago. If the Emir honestly thought that the people of the Emirate would be best protected by offering no resistance, then no resistance would be offered. The order to retreat sounded, and the line marched silently into the desert, disappearing in its winds.

The mood of the sky-base commander fell dour as the report fell upon his ears. He knew that the Maganac line, if not actively defending the city, would be hiding in the insufferable deserts. His orders had been expanded rather suddenly, demanding that he not only take all prisoners to the internment sky-base, but take down the true armor and recover the remnant for study. Now, the commander dealt with the reality of trying to pack off an entire metropolis of prisoners to a base that could not hold them all anyway plus the absence of that true armor in the city. He did what little he could do, sending a streak-pod with the report and waited for a reply. The streak-pod, called so due to its flight creating a visible yellow plume streak in the sky, consisted of a hollow porcelain shell and rocket array powered by a flux quartz sliver. The shell held important documents and reports that would survive the journey due to the porcelain and the impact due to the steel casing all such reports were sealed in. The scientists, essentially artillery experts, would calculate the shot precisely, and the high quality of the streak-pods insured that the calculations would be realized perfectly.

His reply came within the hour, in another streak-pod hurtling into the landing field at the rear end of the base. The pod cut a channel into the field, but it was crushed shale and therefore designed to be easily repaired with a rake. The report casing was warm, but the commander handled it easily, scooping it up personally so as to keep its contents confidential. The orders from Supreme Commander Krushrenada, however, caused the commander to visibly balk, alerting the nearby troops that the answer was not a satisfactory one.




Commander,

This surrender is not satisfactory; obviously the Emir does not believe in “total” surrender. Give one warning to the Emir: “Surrender only occurs when all civilian and military units are in the arrest of the victor.” Until this requirement is met, shell the city as if hostile. Do not fail, commander, or you will be worst off.

The commander shuddered at the thought of shelling a city already prostrate, but his fear overwhelmed his morality, and the warning was sent by streak-pod into the palace courtyard. Not unfamiliar with, but still averse to, the Westland communication system, the Emir flustered a bit, reminding himself that streak-pods were not shells. He opened the casing and read the message, notably falling into a deep despair. This had never been a common interpretation of surrender, and shelling a prostrate city was not usually an option employed by civilized nations. He hoped that the Alliance was bluffing.

His hopes exploded, as well as a section of the palace wall. The shelling began as a surgical attack upon the palace with full intention of not hurting the Emir himself. After thirty shells hit the palace and collapsed the east wing, another streak-pod hit the palace courtyard. He read it, but this message actually gave him hope.

Emir,

Please comply with the Supreme Commander’s request! I’m begging you; if you can find a way to get the Maganac line and that armor back here, I won’t have to do this. I don’t want to carry out this order, no one does. Please find a way.

The Emir at least knew that this soldier felt his actions to be unjust, but how could he be asked to hand over his own son? He could give the order, and Quatre would obey, but how could any father hand over his only son and the future of the Emirate to someone who obviously would seek to do the Emirate harm? His personal turmoil only intensified when Commander Warzimir felt obligated to shell the residences west of the palace. The shells impacted the street, but not the residences. Obviously, Commander Warzimir was missing intentionally in order to buy the Emir more time.

The Emir waved to the sky-base, trying to get Warzimir’s attention. The shelling stopped, with the Emir waving and shouting his hopes to speak to the commander directly. Although he was clearly exceeding his orders by this point, Commander Warzimir clambered down a lowering ladder to meet the Emir. After two full minutes of clambering down from ridiculous height, the commander finally touched down and paid a courtesy to the Emir. The two could not be more different, the tanned, shorter Warzimir across from the tall, pale Emir al-Winner. Emerald green eyes locked upon azure blue, the dull stare of a wizened ruler locking with the gleam of a novice commander. The only reality that they held in common was the mutual desire to not be in this situation.

After a moment’s pause, the Emir spoke first, “Commander, I cannot give you the Maganac line or that armor. Personal reasons.”

“Great Emir,” the reply in a distinctly Slavic accent, “my commander will not accept this. I fear that he has ‘rewritten’ the rules of combat to suit himself.”

“His superiors will not enjoy this ‘rewrite,’ I am sure.”

“They are snakes. He is condemned much, but never removed.”

“He wants to annihilate the Emirate, does he not?”

“No. He wants that armor. Obsessed over it, Great Emir, and would probably burn your city to nothing to get it.”

“That is odd, commander. Does he know of the World Sweep?”

“When the Sixth Force was born?” now speaking in fearful whispers, “Perhaps. Even the godless Westlander peoples have knowledge of that, I believe.”

“But the only reason that anyone would want a true armor delivered to them is to copy it, or to create one of his own. He knows that five of the six armors still exist, yes?”

“Yes. Perhaps we could find a way to spare us all of this suffering.”

“Yes? How?”

“If I brought back the destroyed armor, then he could build his own, but only five exist. Then, all will remain as it was before. Nothing changes.”

“Even if you manage that, Commander Warzimir, nothing will be as it were. The world has already changed for the worse, and Allah may come to judge us soon enough.”

Chapter 10

As far as Jinghuan was concerned, the Emirate was a world away and little concern. The attempts to employ the newest conscription laws had only met with angry mobs of fathers and mothers trying to save their sons from the hordes of criminals looking for bounties. Thugs roving the streets was bad enough in the capital, but that these men were given warrants by the government was too great to bear. Never had the People’s Republic been so despicable in the eyes of its own. Many would have volunteered for the defense, but the only news of troop movements suggested a massive retaliatory strike on Chai’dou. The mood of the capital streets was rage, highlighted by the street fights occurring at every street corner. Advisor Une could not have asked for a more appropriate response; her commanders had already been notified and were sending the 1st Alliance Army to crush the city and enslave the remnant population, which was decided to be only one per ten. The city was presently at three million, so 300,000 would be in a sky-base concentration camp. Why the commanders wished to be so bloody minded about this was beyond Lady Une’s comprehension, but Supreme Commander Krushrenada had already assured her that this was best.

All she needed to do now was personally insure the annihilation of the entire People’s Senate, which would not be difficult. Spies from the Westland Alliance Special Forces- known as the Umbrum Sanctum, had already prepared a flux quartz bomb that would go off as the Senate met in full assembly for the no-confidence vote Councilor Dorliand had called two days earlier. All she had to do was not be in the blast zone and mop up the survivors. Without miraculous luck to the contrary, the Jinghuan Kingdom would be no more inside the next forty-eight hours.

Without Advisor Une, the faltering High Councilor seemed lost, unable to form a cogent defense even as Councilor Dorliand dissembled his every thought. Dorliand never raised his voice, which took a level of discipline few could match, even as the High Councilor simply mumbled without speaking as if totally witless. Step by step, the younger Dorliand lectured the elder High Councilor through the process that led to this point, punctuating Lady Une’s name at every turn. Now, with the evidence that she had been receiving communications from a foreign power brought before him by a member of the Jinghuan Internal Security Division, he could confidently call her a traitor and demand that the government be taken back before Westland Alliance troops finished what she started.

The Councilors met in the Assembly Square in the center of Jinghuan, in full view of the people traversing the market. This level of transparency struck the people with a measure of shock; never before had the People’s Assembly of Councilors actually been held before the people. Furthermore, Councilor Dorliand called all the people, even the still rioting, unto him to hear the good news. Many were at first skeptical, but as the whispers of a full retreat from all fronts to defend Jinghuan coupled with the good news of the conscription efforts being ended right then and there broke the cynicism from the hearts of the masses. But Councilor Dorliand and his good news would not be enough to turn around the apathy, grief, frustration, and hate that the people developed for the Assembly as of late. Even with the overture of this public meeting, all the Assembly received was the complaints they were insulated from for the past decade or so.

“Why do our children have to die for your colonies? We could care less is Jinghuan holds the Free City of Chai’dou or not.”

“How could the convicts and foreign rabble have been released to seize the good people of Jinghuan. Who would allow us to suffer such indignity?”

“Why were we promised leadership, but given a bureaucracy instead,” this dissident spat upon Councilor Dorliand himself, “Why do we have to threaten you to receive your care?”

The Councilors were now openly flustered by the ill will they were receiving. Although many were considering calling out the army to quell the uprising, the agreement was to not do so unless the situation was absolutely dire. All had agreed with Councilor Dorliand that violence would only breed more violence, so calling forth the army would be a dangerous gesture, especially at this point. Even as the rage flew to a cacophony of fevered rants, the Councilors held their calm and remained silent until the roar exhausted itself to a whisper. The Councilors, finally given a satisfactory environment, began the vote of no-confidence that was scheduled for two days hence. Advisor Une did not rally to the High Councilor’s aid, so his defense rolled off his tongue as incoherent babble. As the people witnessed the idiot perform, the Councilors felt it appropriate to hold the vote, which was unanimously against the High Councilor, as well as try Lady Une in absentia, who was found guilty of high treason with little fanfare. Within the crowd, however, were three members of the Umbrum Sanctum lurked, noting the new developments with a little dismay but no panic.

“I must go to the East, to remind the sun to hurry to its setting.”

“I must go to the West, to remind the end to consume its beginning.”

“I shall remain here, to remind the seasons to cycle without stalling.”

All chanted softly, in unison, “Present to past, future in our image, this is our hope.”