Prologue

Prologue

Standard Year 2815

Snow covered the ground on 31. Frost, the Standard Year 2815, on the mountains of Chorus. During the seasons before the cold, the Jotunheim Ranges was an Earthly paradise, covered in mountain ranges and lakes, but when the cold seasons arrived, it was no doubt the entire world would quake and shiver at the very temperatures.

Base-0082 was a massive military base on the planet, once created by the Republican Federation to repel incursions into the planet’s centre, but foolishly, it was also used as the base for the 10th, 11th, 12th, and 13th Armies. It was hard as stone. Now, it was the Internationale’s, used against the rebels. The military base spanned ten hectares across territory terraformed by the previous government several centuries ago, and it was placed in an impenetrable high-ground position, atop a cliff.

It was a vital point that protected the central mountains of the planet’s largest continent. To get into that central point would have meant the collapse of the Internationale’s Army Front North, and the surrounding of Army Front Centre. It was an essential mountain range. However, at that point in time, nobody knew yet what they had in store. Talks of large-scale revolution were considered laughable jokes, and they remained that way. Who would revolt against the bastion of freedom? That was, of course, until that fateful night of 1. Snow, 2815, when it began.

General Vladislav was the fresh and young leader of the Second Army Group of Army Front Centre, barely thirty-five when he received the honour two years ago. A strict man, with a palpable sense of authority. He was originally an Internationale Earth Sectoral Governor, ruling over the East from the cold north, but was removed because of his growing disdain and authoritarian methods. His epicanthic-folded, small eyes were dark, deep, and deadly. His thin eyebrows were an extension of his nose’s bridge, which was thin. His nose was, in fact, thin and aquiline, like his lips. Vladislav’s face was well-defined, rectangular, with a sturdy jaw. He was tall and buff, but his brawn does not outshine his intelligence at all. He stood at 6’3”. His jet black hair, padded with pomade and swept backwards, was covered by his peaked cap with a ‘2’ insignia on it. He always wore his double-breasted uniform with six buttons. Black-painted brass buttons. The uniform’s lapels were black and peaked, but it was trimmed with a grey line along the lapel to signify his dishonourable discharge from his previous position. 

However, his rank of field marshal could not be outshone by this dishonour. His rank was shown by the red gorget patch on his collar, containing five diamonds coloured gold on both patches. As he stood, he held his face forward, his eyes shifting, overseeing the events unfolding in front of him. He stood at an at ease position, with both hands behind him. As he stood, he held a baton in his gloved right hand. He stood over a balcony as he observed the troops boldly, with no fear of death or assassination, as they formed their columns. Would they dare rebel against him? No, they would not dare raising a pistol against their general. He pulled out a big cigar, and bit onto one end of it. He then casually pulled out a lighter, opened it, then placed his thumb over the wheel. When he pulled down, the flame was sparked, hitting the fuel-covered wick. The flame licked the other end of the cigar, and when the brown paper was lit, Vladislav casually closed the top of the lighter, putting out the flame.

Eventually, there came a knock on his door. “Kershev,” said Vladislav. “Answer the door.”

His adjutant, Kershev, was a young thirty-five-year-old general who was severely wounded in fighting and was reassigned to serve Vladislav, usually serving as the divisional commander of the Florian Geyer Division when needed, or generally just assisting Vladislav. He stood smaller and less buff than Vladislav, but his stature has fooled many before, for his capabilities as a general were undeniably great for such a young man. Vladislav saw in this young man himself. He had a military cut and retained it, his hair a light brown. He had a triangular face, angular cheekbones, a pointed chin. He had small, round eyes that were a deep green in colour, a thick pair of eyebrows above them. His nose was a bit more round than his general’s, and was slightly broad. His lips were full, but dark. “Yes, general,” the man saluted.

Kershev walked to the door. Vladislav heard only the creaking of the door, and whispering. The door eventually slammed behind Vladislav. “Sir, the Generalissimus has arrived,” Kershev announced.

“Acknowledged,” was all Vladislav said.

When they descended to meet the Generalissimus, Vladislav was quite anxious, but he simply kept his calm, keeping both hands behind him. His left hand held the baton this time as he prepared his right hand to shake the Generalissimus'. His palm was sweating, but luckily, his leather gloves did not make that obvious. He was shaking a bit. To meet the Generalissimus was one thing, to speak with him in lengthy periods of time was another. The Generalissimus was the most powerful man on the planet in all practicality, but not in technicality. In technicality, the governor still held the highest position.

The Generalissimus, however, was considered unstable by some, going into random fits of rage, or occasionally having a breakdown. How he wasn’t removed from power by the governor was quite odd, indeed. Corruption would be a culprit, Vladislav thought, but for now, he simply needed to follow along until he gets removed from power. It had to happen eventually.

The west-facing gates of the base opened. From the cold mist rolled in a convoy of five military trucks, all coloured grey and white. At the end of the convoy was a small jeep in a white and grey camouflage pattern. It stopped in front of Vladislav and his officers, who were all formed up in a row. From the back of the jeep rose the Generalissimus and his adjutant. The Generalissimus got down. He was a very thin man with an odd round face. His hair was white and his head was balding. It had already done a great deal to his head. His face was very wrinkled, but according to reports, he wasn’t too old, only forty years old, but he already looked like a withering old man. He moved like one, too. He shook hands with each and every officer, simply nodding and mumbling unintelligible words quietly.

When the Generalissimus reached Vladislav, he saw that the Generalissimus was small, frail, and weak. The two shook hands, and when the Generalissimus went past Vladislav, he attempted to shake hands with air. His adjutant took his attention. “Oh!” he exclaimed in a weak, raspy voice. He extended his hand towards Vladislav again. “Nice to meet you, Field Marshal.” He was twitching.

“Good day, Generalissimus,” replied Vladislav strongly, a sharp contrast to the diseased Generalissimus' speech.

“Good day? This is not a good day, Marshal, there’s a rebellion afoot!” the Generalissimus said.

“A rebellion? Sir, I find that an unlikely prospect. Who would dare rebel against the Internationale? Who would dare rebel against your… greatness?”

The Generalissimus' tiny eyes exploded, and his face began to twitch as he looked deep into Vladislav’s eyes. “Condescending rapscallion! You’re the rebel, aren’t you? I can hear the tone of superiority in your voice!” he accused.

“No, sir!” replied Vladislav fearfully. Though he was more able of a commander, the Generalissimus with his insanity could deal some very significant damage, and could even get Vladislav killed. “The idea of a rebellion amongst my soldiers is completely insane!”

“You’re calling me insane?” the Generalissimus asked, exploding in absolute rage.

“Never!” Vladislav replied.

The Generalissimus eyes Vladislav from head to toe, mumbling incoherency and curses as he went on to observe the rest of the base. Vladislav sighed, but a soldier soon came up to Vladislav. He must have been part of a bodyguard unit, because he wore completely black armour from head to toe with no skin exposed at all. He had a red gorget patch on the tiny piece of kevlar around his neck, however. That was what confirmed his suspicions about a bodyguard unit. The Generalissimus was, indeed, truly insane.

“Never insult the Generalissimus, Field Marshal,” the guard spat, pointing his finger at Vladislav. “You disgraced fascist,” he spat as he continued to walk along.

“Sir, aren’t you going to retort?” asked Kershev.

“No, dear Kershev,” Vladislav responded. “Even the bodyguards have more authority than one like me. If I retort, that guard can get me arrested.”

“Then what do we do?” asked Kershev.

“Field Marshal!” called the Generalissimus.

Vladislav looked towards the Generalissimus, who had fallen to the ground and was sitting just there, his adjutant helping him up. “Come here!”

Vladislav jogged towards the Generalissimus with Kershev, and saw that one bodyguard was pointing his gun at one of Vladislav’s junior officers, who seemed to be a captain. “Field Marshal, your Captain tried to attack me!”

Vladislav faced the young captain. “Explain what’s happening here, Captain,” Vladislav asked of him, putting on an inquisitive face.

“Sir, I haven’t done anything, I saluted and tried to shake hands with him, but…” the Captain attempted to explain.

“Why are you trying to shake hands with the Generalissimus, Captain?”

“Sir, I thought it was a sign of respect.”

“And it is, but not to the Generalissimus.”

“Shoot him! Shoot him now!” the Generalissimus ordered.

The bodyguard raised his rifle, but Vladislav could not allow this treachery to happen. He grabbed the bodyguard’s rifle, and pointed it upward as the man in black pulled the trigger. The gun fired upward into the night air. “You!” the Generalissimus shouted, pointing with a shaking finger. “You’re the traitor!”

“Generalissimus, I beg you to hear his side of the story! He was only trying to shake hands with you!”

“No, did you not see the knife on him? He had a knife!”

“Kershev, inspect the captain.”

Kershev went ahead and searched. “There’s no knife, Sir,” Kershev said.

“He has no knife, Generalissimus,” Vladislav relayed.

“You’re only saying that because you’re in cahoots with this rebel!”

“I would never betray my people!” Vladislav shouted, face red with rage. How dare he?

“Bodyguard, execute the Field Marshal in front of his troops!” the Generalissimus ordered.

“No! Please, sir, I have served the people of the Internationale for years!”

“You’re a former governor! A fascist! You deserve to be executed!”

The bodyguard took the field marshal by his arms, binding both of them as the Generalissimus was helped up by his adjutant. They walked to a wooden platform. The Generalissimus stood over him as the field marshal was kicked down. The Field Marshal’s soldiers were clearly alarmed, but they didn’t move. They were in a column. “Traitors!” the Generalissimus shouted. “Watch your leader die in front of your very eyes!” He was growing hysterical. He then began to laugh out loud. The Field Marshal closed his eyes, prepared to be executed.

Then, he nearly jumped up when, all of a sudden, there came a sharp crack, followed by a bang. Then, a thump right beside him. All of those sounds blocked out the Generalissimus' laughter. The laughter stopped. Vladislav opened his eyes slowly. He looked beside him, and saw the bodyguard slumped down beside him, a pool of blood gathering underneath him. The Field Marshal then began screaming in a fit of fear and rage. The rest of the bodyguard unit was confused, and one by one, the mysterious shooter took them out one by one, and they fell one by one. “Soldiers, look for that man!” Vladislav shouted at the top of his lungs. He got out, and began to take the Generalissimus. “Where are you taking me!? Guards! Guards!” he shouted.

“Field Marshal, I advise you to stop,” the Generalissimus’ adjutant said.

“Stop? And let the Generalissimus die?” asked Vladislav.

“I’m taking you to the bunker, Sir!” Vladislav shouted, the fear of getting shot rising. Revolution had, indeed, gripped the heart of his soldiers. How?

Suddenly, the adjutant raised his pistol, but the Captain Vladislav previously saved suddenly came up behind him, and slit his throat open with the knife Kershev had found and refused to acknowledge. Blood began to gush out, pooling to the floor, and the Captain looked at Vladislav straight in the eye. Then, he nodded. Nobody else saw it. Not even the Generalissimus, whose eyes were closed.

Vladislav smiled, and nodded back.

Vladislav took the Generalissimus, who was in a fit of rage and fear. Vladislav brought him to the bunker, where a few bodyguards took refuge. A few from Vladislav’s own guard was there, also wearing black. When they got to the bunkers, one of the bodyguards in black locked the doors.

“Field Marshal?” the Generalissimus. “Are we safe?”

“You’re in good hands, Sir,” Vladislav replied, as he unbuttoned his thick leather coat.

“Thank you, Sir,” one of the bodyguards said, removing his black helmet. “You saved my father!”

“The pleasure is mine,” Vladislav said with a nod.

“I will make sure that you get a reward for this!” he said.

“No! He will not get any rewards!” the Generalissimus hissed. “He is a traitor! He didn’t root out the rebels from his army! He didn’t try!”

“Don’t be so rash, father,” the bodyguard said, kneeling. 

Vladislav observed. All the bodyguards were facing towards the iron door. Vladislav then slid his hand into his coat, and grabbed hold of a grip. He looked at the Captain of the Guard, who was the person with the red epaulettes on his armour. The Captain looked back. Vladislav nodded. All of his guards pulled out golden cloth from their packs, and attached them to their arms. After that, they reached for their charging handles, and Vladislav pulled out the grip from his coat. He had pulled out a pistol, and pointed it at the back of the Generalissimus’ head without hesitation. He smiled as his thumb reached for the pistol’s hammer. He had put them in a trap. Indeed, he would never betray his people. He would never leave them in the hands of the Internationale. Revolution had gripped the hearts of his soldiers because he had spread the illegal theory of the Iota-Chi amongst all of his soldiers, and when he had announced his plans for a coup, they were all swayed to his side. He then cocked the hammer. His soldiers pulled their charging handles. “Goodbye, Generalissimus,” Vladislav said. His guard opened fire on the bodyguards, spraying them with bullets, filling them with metal as they all fell dead on the ground.

Kershev pulled out his own pistol and shot the Generalissimus’ son in the head. “No!” the Generalissimus said, kneeling over the corpse of his dead son. He began to sob. How pathetic. Vladislav kicked the Generalissimus in the face with all his force, his boot striking heavily. He was pushed back, bleeding from his nose and the cut across his face inflicted by the iron-laced boot.

Vladislav then pulled out a folded piece of paper from his pocket. Of course, the first thing he did was unfold it. Then, he read its contents aloud. “Generalissimus Santos,” he began, “for your crimes against the people of the Internationale, the Military Tribunal of the Federal Army of Chorus has sentenced you to death. Any last words?”

“I’ve done no crimes!” objected the Generalissimus.

“Oh, but you have,” replied Vladislav. “You may not be the governor, but you’re the one approving of everything coming from the Internationale. You sent your soldiers to shoot down every single baker in Hetanos who protested because they got nothing from their work. You have contributed to the fall of society. You have shot down countless men and women in your career because they dared speak out against the Internationale’s ineffectiveness. Are those not crimes?”

“They are the will of the Internationale! I’m promoting freedom!”

“And we promote liberty. Liberty from anarchy. Liberty from vice,” Vladislav hissed.

“There are thousands more like me!” shouted the Generalissimus. “You can never quell freedom!”

“We will liberate everybody, whether you believe us or not,” Vladislav replied. “From Earth all the way to Profestia.”

“An impossible feat!”

Vladislav laughed. “What makes you think that’s impossible?”

The Generalissimus kept silent. “You are right, Generalissimus,” Vladislav said. “I am a fascist. But you fools… all of you don’t understand what we fight for.”

He then pulled the trigger. It happened quickly. Vladislav walked towards the metal door, and unlocked it. He pushed it open, and arrived. He saw all of his men standing in line, some bleeding, some bruised, some being dragged to the medical centre. Everyone was looking at him.

“Comrades!” he shouted. “The first phase of the coup has been a success! Hail to victory!”

All of his soldiers cheered, saluting, raising their rifles in victory, some doing the Roman salute. The coup had begun, indeed, but it was far from over.